In despair the remaining bulls sought the only sure escape open to them, and charged up the hill. Fred, the best mounted of the white men, was soon ahead of the rest, and, deaf to a laughing shout of “Whoa! Don’t be in a hurry,” from Paul Dumont, was soon on the heels of the biggest of the bisons. He had but one barrel loaded; the bullet took the animal in the hindquarters, making him stop and turn. The next thing Fred knew was that he was lying bruised 187 and giddy, on his back, within a very few yards of the maddened brute; for his horse, young and easily confused, had suddenly reared at sight of the monster’s motion towards him and had thrown his rider.
Almost a Tragedy
Fred had fired at the bison, but only hit it in the hind-quarters. It stopped and turned, frightening the horse, which threw its rider within a few yards of the maddened brute. His friends were powerless to help him, but a Pawnee on his wiry little mustang galloped up between them and with a couple of arrows brought the monster down.
Coke had reloaded by this time, but at first his aim was baulked by the prancing horse.
“Shoot the confounded horse; he’ll kick him to death,” yelled George Dumont in his ear, at the same time frantically pushing a cartridge into the empty breech of his own gun; but just then the horse swerved and fled down the hill towards the waggons. The bull, meanwhile, seeing his enemy at his mercy, had paused just for a moment as though to take breath; and now, with his nose to the ground, was making a wild dash towards him.
Coke pulled up, took good aim, and fired; but unluckily, the bullet which was meant for the bison’s shoulder caught him on the frontlet, his most hopelessly invulnerable part. The three younger Dumonts, unaware of the accident, were now over the brow and out of sight. George had almost pulled his trigger, when the Pawnee who had been riding near him galloped between him and the bull. The little Indian horse, more used to climbing than the heavily-built hacks of the white men, shot up the slope like a chamois, and, joining his whinny to the rider’s howl, flew between the prostrate man and the bull.
Fred, who had been too unnerved for the moment to do anything but try feebly to roll away out of danger, was conscious suddenly of a good deal of clattering close to him; then, looking up, he saw that the bull had turned to flee and that the shaft of an arrow was 188 protruding from his ribs. The bull was struggling up the hill, too startled and confused to attempt to battle with his new assailant, who, in hot pursuit, was sending a second arrow after the first.
“No, no; hang it; let the redskin finish him,” said Dumont as Coke made ready to fire again.
The bull did not require much more “finishing.” Already the Indian had wounded him in two places and was getting a third arrow ready for him; and the final rush up-hill, together with loss of blood, was weakening him at every step. The mustang, not to be outraced, was soon abreast of him; and one more arrow from the persevering Indian brought the luckless beast on to his knees.