“He nurses the buffalo together and all Bill has to do is to load and fire. He scarcely needs to aim,” said another officer.
Presently Buffalo Bill had shot down every buffalo in the bunch; there were thirty-eight, dead as doornails. When Bill Comstock returned, his horse blown, from chasing his bunch as far as he could, his referee reported twenty-three as that count.
The horses were rested until another herd appeared. Out of this Buffalo Bill killed eighteen with the help of old Brigham, and Billy Comstock killed fourteen. So at noon the score stood: Buffalo Bill (and Brigham), fifty-six; Billy Comstock only thirty-seven.
Luncheon was spread out on the prairie by the excursionists and everybody ate. The opinion was that Buffalo Bill had won; Billy Comstock never could catch up—not even if they traded horses!
After luncheon Buffalo Bill suddenly stood, and, going to Brigham, quickly stripped him of saddle and bridle.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” announced Billy, “in order to give my friend Comstock a chance I’m going to finish my hunt without saddle and bridle—and even then I’ll wager I’ll down more buffalo than he will.”
“Oh, Mr. Cody! Please don’t!” begged one of the women excursionists, who had been nervous all along. “You’ll certainly be hurt.”
Buffalo Bill smiled and shook his head.
“There’s not the slightest cause for alarm,” he said. “I’ve ridden this way many a time. Old Brigham knows as well as I what’s to be done—and sometimes a great deal better.”