“He’s been feeding off by himself. He is coming from behind that clump of shrubs. Look at the monster, Dig!”
He handed the glasses quickly to his chum. The latter focused them and almost immediately uttered his favourite ejaculation:
“By the last hoptoad that was chased out of Ireland! That’s an elephant—not a buffalo, Chet.”
“Aren’t you glad you brought that heavy rifle, old man?”
“I wish it were a cannon,” admitted Dig, in amazement at the size of the big buffalo.
He was grazing with his side toward the approaching hunters, and for several minutes Chet and Dig both gazed upon him through the glasses. His hump was enormous, and so shaggy that he looked as big as an overland freight wagon, painted black.
Of course, close to, the buffalo would have been found to be brown—of various shades. The mane is the darker—sometimes almost black, in fact. The bull is much darker than the cow.
The great shoulders, neck and head, covered with thick, matted hair to the eyes, make a threatening front for any unsophisticated hunter to face. Dig admitted his distaste for the prospect.
“I’ll take your word for it, old man,” he said to his chum. “If I get a shot you can bet it will be from the side. I don’t want that battering-ram headed for me when I fire. I certainly should have what old Rafe calls elk fever.”
“Stage fright, I reckon!” agreed his chum.