Hark! Another shot! Somebody out there had fired—Whang! He ran faster—to the mouth of the basin—into sight of the main valley—and again, hoorah!
The fleeing buffalo had blundered against Baroney. He had been not far outside; he had shot one—it was down, in the snow; not the cow, either, for the cow was down, too—there were the two black spots, motionless, and the little herd were streaming across the valley, for the other slope, with Baroney lumbering after—and yonder, on the slope, the doctor was plunging toward the bottom, to get in a shot also.
Could he do it? Yes! He ran quartering, stumbling and lunging; the leading buffalo sensed him, swerved, they all swerved; he knelt and aimed and fired, quickly—around wheeled the buffalo, again alarmed, and came pelting back for Stub’s side, as if to escape through their basin—but one lagged, wavered, halted, and suddenly collapsed. That made three!
The remainder of the herd were coming straight for Stub. He had no load for his pistol; he could only dance and wave his arms and yell, to stop them. This he did. Once more they tacked; Baroney had lain flat, hoping; foolish things, they tacked almost for him—wait—wait—aha! His gun puffed smoke, the report echoed dully, a buffalo had jumped high and stiff-legged and Baroney was after him, loading on the run. Down pitched the buffalo. That made four!
The doctor was running again, but the rest of the buffalo got away, up the valley. All right; they had left plenty of meat. Hoorah!
Stub hastened forward, wild with joy. The doctor was coming. They met Baroney, where two carcasses—a bull and Stub’s cow—were lying close together.
“Hurrah!” cheered the doctor.
Baroney capered—“Hoozah! Hoozah!”
“Four! One to me, two to you—that’s good. And what about this other? Who killed her?”
“The boy. Oui! I think he killed her, with that pistol,” Baroney jabbered. “I hear one shot—bang! I do not know where. Then the buffalo come running out. And before I can shoot, I see this cow tumble down, and die. She has a hole in her—a bullet hole.”