He fired, but to his great chagrin did just what he had cautioned the others not to do, broke a fore leg below the knee. This cow commenced to bellow and "buck," and in an instant the whole herd was in commotion.
"Stop her, somebody, stop her, or she'll stampede the hull bizness!" he said, as he pushed another bullet into his muzzle loader. By this time she had stopped broadside, for a moment, at the edge of the herd, and the journalist, at the order of the boss, drew a bead on her. The "spat" of the heavy bullet told of a palpable "hit". She no longer felt like running, but was not yet down and it took two more bullets to lay her out. The next shot was a clean miss, so far as it concerned the animal shot at, but it wounded one somewhere in the herd. Then there was more commotion and it was evident the "stand" was at an end.
"Give it to 'em, everybody," the old hunter now said, and a fusillade followed that soon put them under full speed.
The hunters now mounted their horses and made a "run" on the band that resulted in some very exciting sport and the death of three more buffaloes. This over, they returned to the scene of the first firing and gralloched the seven animals killed "on the stand." Then they mounted their tired beasts again and were on the point of starting for camp when they heard strange noises, and looking toward the west beheld a great black surging mass, waving and rolling up across the prairie, half hidden by great clouds of dust which were only occasionally blown away by the brisk autumn wind. It was the great herd of buffalo, and they had been stampeded by the Indian hunters. The roar of the hoofs upon the dry earth was like the low and sullen thunder. The vanguard of the herd was yet more than a mile away, but the dark line stretched to right and left almost as far as the eye could reach, and our hunters saw that instant and precipitate flight was necessary in order to save their lives. They specially chose the northward as offering the shortest and best direction by which to escape the coming avalanche, and sinking the spurs deep into their terror-stricken beasts, they flew with the velocity of an arrow across the wild prairie. A mile was covered in a few seconds, and yet they were not past the herd, which was rapidly closing in upon them.
THE FIRST RUN.
They turned their horses' heads partly in the direction the buffaloes were going and, urging them to their utmost speed, finally passed the outer line of the herd just as the leaders passed by. Then, having reached a place of safety, they dismounted, and throwing their bridle reins over their arms commenced to load and fire into the herd with all possible rapidity, nearly every shot killing or disabling an animal. It took nearly half an hour for the rolling, surging, angry horde to pass the point where our hunters stood, and as the rear guard came in sight there came a new and still more terrible scene in the great tragedy.
More than a hundred Indians were in hot pursuit of the savage beasts. They were mounted on wild and almost ungovernable bronchos, who were frothing at the mouth, charging and cavorting amongst the fleeing game. The white foam dropped in flakes and bubbles from all parts of their bodies. Their nostrils were distended, their eyes flashed fire, and they seemed as eager as their wild masters to deal death to the buffaloes. The savage riders seemed beside themselves with mad, ungovernable passion.
Their faces were painted in the most glaring colors, their bright and many-colored blankets fluttered in the wind secured to the saddle only by an end or a corner, their long black hair streaming back like the pennant at the mast head of a ship, and their deep black eyes gleamed like coals of fire in a dungeon. Arrow after arrow flew from deep-strung bows and sunk to the feathered tip in the quivering flesh of the shaggy monsters.
Ponderous spears were hurled with the power and precision of giants and struck down the defenceless victims as a sturdy woodman strikes down the frail sapling in his path.