The Reverend Mr. Baxter pointed, with a grin; and grinning, Hi and Jim rode forward to inspect. Davy went, too; he was certain that a couple of buffalo had fallen to his revolver, and as there were only three on this end of the wagon, he did not see where Left-over’s seven could be.
Hi and Jim were gazing down upon a huge buffalo bull, who lay with his nose touching the fore wheel of the wagon. He made a great pool of blood, which flowed from wounds in his head and his shoulders and back and legs and everywhere, apparently.
“You certainly peppered him, Left-over,” assured Hi. “I reckon he’s dead.”
“Did I do all that?” queried Left-over. And he began to strut. “Well, I think that’s pretty good. If I hadn’t been here he’d have run right over the wagon. I picked him out on purpose. But I must have killed a lot more.” And chattering and strutting he roamed about, every few seconds returning to examine the holes that he had made or to thrust the carcass with his toes or to proclaim how large it was.
“You surely made your mark. Now you can rest a while,” chuckled Jim. “What’s your count, Billy?”
“Two at my end,” reported Billy, who had shot and killed, and had reloaded like lightning and shot and killed again.
“And two for Davy, and another who’s dropped yonder; and those that Jim and I got. That makes a mess,” said Hi. “Wall, reckon we’d better butcher ’fore the wolves spoil the meat. You fellows go ahead here, and Jim and I’ll fetch in the rest.”
“Davy didn’t do so bad, himself; did he?” remarked Mr. Baxter, climbing out of the wagon. “Did you aim, Davy?”
“No,” confessed Davy; “not after the first shot. My eyes were full of buffalo.”
“Mine’s the biggest, anyhow,” boasted Left-over. “If I hadn’t shot him so much he’d have got away.”