“Waste or not,” said Rolfe, “I have never had a harder battle than I have had with that buffalo, and if it takes every ball I have, I will not leave here until he drops.”
“Then pass me your rifle, for I am tired waiting, and if we have not a steak soon broiling on the coals, from any part of him that you please, my name is not Earthquake.”
Rolfe did as desired, and Earthquake, having thrown up the rifle, before its report was heard, the buffalo had sunk upon the ground, and already lay quivering in the agonies of death.
“Earth, where did you shoot him?”
“In the heart, to be sure.”
“Well, if in the buffalo, that lies in the same place that it does in other animals, I have shot into it half a dozen times.”
“Ah! there is where you have missed it, the heart of a buffalo lies at least six inches lower than it does in any other animal;—you should have shot it just under the fore legs. Now mind this, Rolfe, and it will save you many a ball, which you can stick into an Ingen to much greater advantage.”
Having stripped up the hide, and cut therefrom as much as they wanted; they repaired to their fire, where they supped, and slept away the night.
CHAPTER VII.
“Why art thou thus in beauty cast,
O lonely, loneliest flower!
When the sound of song hath never passed,
From human hearth or bower?
I pity thee for thy wasted bloom,
For thy glory's fleeting hour,
For the desert place, thy living tomb,
O lonely, loneliest flower!”
MRS. HEMANS.