By the time night swept over the land the only thing to be seen of Bulon was his grand, huge head and big horns standing out in a bold curve; his shaggy, woolly masses of hair, and his nose and mouth swollen now into an almost shapeless mass. As the night wore on, Bulon's sufferings increased, and his groans were unearthly sounds, echoing and re-echoing through the darkness.
But he grew quieter at last, and towards morning, just as the sun was tinting the sky with glorious colors, Bulon sank a little further into the soft mud he had always loved so well and died.
His own particular herd had forgotten all about him long before this, and had chosen a new leader—a young, strong, vigorous male, who was looked up to and respected far more than Bulon had been during the last few months of his life, for the buffaloes had already begun to realize that Bulon was getting old, and had been losing their respect for him accordingly.
His day had passed. He had guarded his herd carefully and well; led them to the best swamps and pastures, and on hot days picked out the softest and coolest mud for his wives to wallow in, while he had always left the youngest and freshest food for the calves.
So he had fulfilled his duties, and his many children grew up strong and healthy, became fathers and mothers themselves, and did very much the same sort of things that Bulon, the noted leader of buffaloes, had himself done.