“Well, why shouldn’t I be? I’ve heard tell of buffaloes ever since I was knee-high to a tin whistle, and never a buffalo sign have I seen yet—’cept those mangy old robes father’s got in the barn. I’m beginning to be like the old farmer that went into the menagerie and saw the giraffe. After he’d stared at it for an hour he shook his head, and said, ‘Drat it all! there jest ain’t no such animile!’” and Dig chuckled.
Chet was reflective. “Strange how all those creatures have disappeared from the western plains, where they were once so plentiful,” he said. “Pete was telling me that he was once hired by a government expedition to keep the men supplied with fresh meat, and that he often shot two and three hundred buffaloes in a single day.”
“Whew!”
“And he was only one white hunter who worked at that time on the herds. Some just killed the beasts for their hides—and the hides were as low as a dollar apiece at one time. Then, the Indians slaughtered hundreds of thousands uselessly. Why, Dig! I was reading the other night that when the first Spaniards came up from Mexico across the Great Staked Plains, they had to fairly push their way through the buffalo herds.”
“Whew!” said his chum again. “When was this, Chet?”
“Some time before you were born, boy,” returned Chet, dryly.
“Did you ever see a buffalo?” demanded Dig, suddenly.
“Yes, at Nugget City when Wolfer Ben’s Wild West showed there. He had a bull and three cows; and lots of old plainsmen went to see the show just because of the buffaloes. They hadn’t seen any of the creatures for a couple of decades.”
Dig was still chuckling. “Tell some eastern folks that and they wouldn’t believe you. You know, I’ve a cousin Tom down Boston way, and he’s always writing and saying he wants to come out here.”
“I’ve heard you speak of him.”