“A buffalo that still kicks,” thought I, as I saw the
mass of dark-brown hair; “he is going to finish him; it is the calf!”
I had scarcely made the observation when the animal reared up on its hind legs, uttering a wild human scream; the shaggy hide was flung off; and a naked savage appeared, holding out his arms in an attitude of supplication.
I could not have saved him. The rifle had cracked, the ball had sped. I saw it piercing his brown breast, as a drop of sleet strikes upon the pane of glass; the red spout gushed forth, and the victim fell forward upon the body of one of the animals.
“Wagh! Rube!” exclaimed one of the men; “why didn’t ye give him time to skin the meat? He mout as well ’a done that when he war about it;” and the man laughed at his savage jest.
“Look ’ee hyur, boyees!” said Rube, pointing to the motte; “if ’ee look sharp, yur mout scare up another calf yander away! I’m a-gwine to see arter this Injun’s har; I am.”
The hunters, at the suggestion, galloped off to surround the motte.
I felt a degree of irresolution and disgust at this cool shedding of blood. I drew my rein almost involuntarily, and moved forward to the spot where the savage had fallen. He lay back uppermost. He was naked to the breech-clout. There was the debouchure of a bullet below the left shoulder, and the black-red stream was trickling down his ribs. The limbs still quivered, but it was in the last spasms of parting life.
The hide in which he had disguised himself lay piled up where it had been flung. Beside it were a bow and several arrows. The latter were crimsoned to the notch, the feathers steeped in blood and clinging to the shafts. They had pierced the huge bodies of the animals, passing through and through. Each arrow had taken many lives! The old trapper rode up to the corpse, and leisurely dismounted from his mare.