Thus they all proceeded across the rolling prairie. The scene resembled a picnic more than ever.
Buffalo Bill, the talk said, was riding Brigham, his favorite buffalo runner—and a scrubby looking horse Brigham was, too, for a hunter and a racer. Billy’s gun was a heavy, long-barrelled single-shot—a breech-loading Springfield army gun of fifty calibre.
Will Comstock was apparently much better mounted and better armed. His horse was a strong, active, spirited black, and his gun was a Henry repeating carbine. He himself seemed a young fellow to be chief of scouts at Fort Wallace; his face was smooth and fair, his eyes roundly blue, and his waist was as small as a girl’s.
Suddenly Buffalo Bill raised his hand; and at the instant a hum of excitement welled from the crowd. There were some buffalo—there, about a mile ahead on the right, a good-sized herd, peacefully grazing. Away sped Buffalo Bill and Scout Comstock and two other horsemen, to get to the windward. The two other horsemen were the referees, one to accompany each hunter and keep tab on him.
The rest of the crowd followed slowly, so as to give the hunters plenty of time to begin.
On and on spurred the group of four. They swerved for the buffalo herd; and separating, as if by agreement, into pairs, dashed into the herd that way—Buffalo Bill and his referee on the right, Scout Comstock and his referee on the left. As soon as the first shot echoed back across the prairie, the cry went up: “They’re in! They’re in!” and wildly excited, straight for the field broke the eager spectators.
The wagons jounced and bounded, the horses and mules snorted, women screamed, men shouted—and better equipped than those other excursionists, on horseback amidst his army friends Davy forged to the front.
When they arrived the contest was well under way. Scout Comstock had ridden almost out of sight, pelting along and shooting into the rear of his bunch. He had left a trail of dead buffalo, as if he had made every shot count. Buffalo Bill, however, was right here, working by a different system. Evidently he had hastened to the head of his bunch first, and turned them—until now he had them all actually running in a small circle. He was riding around the outside at an easy lope on Brigham, and steadily firing, oftentimes without raising his gun from across the saddle horn.
Brigham’s bridle lines were hanging loose. He needed no guiding. He knew just what was to be done. He loped to the side of a buffalo and stayed there a moment until the gun went “Bang!” Then, even before the buffalo had fallen, he loped on to another, put his master in good position, and at the report of the rifle continued to the next!
“A wonderful horse! A wonderful horse!” ejaculated General Brown. “Why, teach that horse to shoot and he wouldn’t need a rider. Bill could sit and look on!”