also in the confusion.  Believing her to be mortally wounded and unable to keep up with the herd, I checked my horse.  The crowd rushed onward.  The dust and tumult passed away, and on the prairie, far behind the rest, I saw a solitary buffalo galloping heavily.  In a moment I and my victim were running side by side.  My firearms were all empty, and I had in my pouch nothing but rifle bullets, too large for the pistols and too small for the gun.  I loaded the latter, however, but as often as I leveled it to fire, the little bullets would roll out of the muzzle and the gun returned only a faint report like a squib, as the powder harmlessly exploded.  I galloped in front of the buffalo and attempted to turn her back; but her eyes glared, her mane bristled, and lowering her head, she rushed at me with astonishing fierceness and activity.  Again and again I rode before her, and again and again she repeated her furious charge.  But little Pauline was in her element.  She dodged her enemy at every rush, until at length the buffalo stood still, exhausted with her own efforts; she panted, and her tongue hung lolling from her jaws.

Riding to a little distance I alighted, thinking to gather a handful of dry grass to serve the purpose of wadding, and load the gun at my leisure.  No sooner were my feet on the ground than the buffalo came bounding in such a rage toward me that I jumped back again into the saddle with all possible dispatch.  After waiting a few minutes more, I made an attempt to ride up and stab her with my knife; but the experiment proved such as no wise man would repeat.  At length, bethinking me of the fringes at the seams of my buckskin pantaloons, I jerked off a few of them, and reloading my gun, forced them down the barrel to keep the bullet in its place; then approaching, I shot the wounded buffalo through the heart.  Sinking to her knees, she rolled over lifeless on the prairie.  To my astonishment, I found that instead of a fat cow I had been slaughtering a stout yearling bull.  No longer wondering at the fierceness he had shown, I opened his throat and cutting out his tongue, tied it at the back of my saddle.  My mistake was one which a more experienced eye than mine might easily make in the dust and confusion of such a chase.

Then for the first time I had leisure to look at the scene around me.  The prairie in front was darkened with the retreating multitude, and on the other hand the buffalo came filing up in endless unbroken columns from the low plains upon the river.  The Arkansas was three or four miles distant.  I turned and moved slowly toward it.  A long time passed before, far down in the distance, I distinguished the white covering of the cart and the little black specks of horsemen before and behind it.  Drawing near, I recognized Shaw’s elegant tunic, the red flannel shirt, conspicuous far off.  I overtook the party, and asked him what success he had met with.  He had assailed a fat cow, shot her with two bullets, and mortally wounded her.  But neither of us were prepared for the chase that afternoon, and Shaw, like myself, had no spare bullets in his pouch; so he abandoned the disabled animal to Henry Chatillon, who followed, dispatched her with his rifle, and loaded his horse with her meat.