“You wouldn’t be good for much if you didn’t, my boy,” said the frontiersman. “Now then, be ready. Is your rifle all right?”
“Yes.”
“Mind then: ride close up to your bull, and as he gallops off you gallop too, till you reach out with your rifle in one hand and fire.”
“But am I to ride right up to the herd, Joses?”
“To be sure you are, my boy. Don’t you be afraid, I tell you. It’s only getting over it the first time. Just you touch Black Boy with your heels, and he’ll take you right in between a couple of the bulls, so that you can almost reach them on each side. Then you’ll find they’ll begin to edge off on both sides, and get farther and farther away, when, as I told you before, you must stick to one till you’ve got him down.”
“Poor brute!” said Bart, gently.
“Poor stuff!” cried Joses. “We must have meat, mustn’t we? You wouldn’t say poor salmon or poor sheep because it had to be killed. Look out. Here we go.”
For the Beaver had made a quick signal, and in a moment the hunting party began to ascend the slope leading to the ridge, beyond which Bart knew that the bison were feeding, and most probably in a similar depression to the one in which the horsemen had been hidden.
“Look out for yourself,” said Joses, raising his rifle; and nerving himself for the encounter, and wondering whether he really was afraid or no, Bart pressed his little cob’s sides with his heels, making it increase its pace, while he, the rider, determined to dash boldly into the herd just as he had been told.
At that moment Bart’s courage had a severe trial, for it seemed as if by magic that a huge bull suddenly appeared before him, the monster having trotted heavily to the top of the ridge, exactly opposite to Bart, and, not ten yards apart, the latter and the bull stopped short to gaze at each other.