That second was long enough to put the boy in danger. For the charge of the wounded buffalo meant peril.
Chet yelled and urged Hero after the angry animal. The bull buffalo was not blind with rage, whatever else he was. He turned as nimbly as a cat, in spite of his bulk, and was fairly upon the black horse as the latter wheeled to escape.
“Shoot him, Chet!” begged Dig, dropping his rifle to save himself from a fall as Poke whirled. The mustang leaped away, but the maddened bull was right at his heels. Of course, given a few moments, Poke could have distanced the buffalo; but at the time, the situation was serious.
Chet, on Hero, came thundering along upon the buffalo’s off side. The boy had not raised his rifle to his shoulder, but he was alert.
“Shoot!” again begged Dig, in alarm.
Chet forced the snorting bay up beside the charging buffalo. He leaned over suddenly, clapping the rifle-butt to his shoulder, and looked over the sights directly at a patch behind the fore-shoulder.
When the rifle spoke the huge head of the buffalo was almost under Poke’s belly. The buffalo ran with his nose barely clearing the ground. Now his head dropped, struck into the sod, and so swiftly was he going that the momentum caused the bull to turn a complete somersault.
The ball had gone through the buffalo’s heart, and he was instantly dead. The boys pulled in their horses to blow, and to look at their wonderful quarry.
“Whew!” wheezed Dig, rather shakily, “that was great, old man. I believe he’d have had me and Poke.”
“Oh, Dig! isn’t it a great kill?” gasped Chet, just as excited as he could be. “To think of us killing a big buffalo like this!”