The frequent stupidity and infatuation of the buffalo seems the more remarkable from the contrast it offers to their wildness and wariness at other times.  Henry knew all their peculiarities; he had studied them as a scholar studies his books, and he derived quite as much pleasure from the occupation.  The buffalo were a kind of companions to him, and, as he said, he never felt alone when they were about him.  He took great pride in his skill in hunting.  Henry was one of the most modest of men; yet, in the simplicity and frankness of his character, it was quite clear that he looked upon his pre-eminence in this respect as a thing too palpable and well established ever to be disputed.  But whatever may have been his estimate of his own skill, it was rather below than above that which others placed upon it.  The only time that I ever saw a shade of scorn darken his face was when two volunteer soldiers, who had just killed a buffalo for the first time, undertook to instruct him as to the best method of “approaching.”  To borrow an illustration from an opposite side of life, an Eton boy might as well have sought to enlighten Porson on the formation of a Greek verb, or a Fleet Street shopkeeper to instruct Chesterfield concerning a point of etiquette.  Henry always seemed to think that he had a sort of prescriptive right to the buffalo, and to look upon them as something belonging peculiarly to himself.  Nothing excited his indignation so much as any wanton destruction committed among the cows, and in his view shooting a calf was a cardinal sin.

Henry Chatillon and Tete Rouge were of the same age; that is, about thirty.  Henry was twice as large, and fully six times as strong as Tete Rouge.  Henry’s face was roughened by winds and storms; Tete Rouge’s was bloated by sherry cobblers and brandy toddy.  Henry talked of Indians and buffalo; Tete Rouge of theaters and oyster cellars.  Henry had led a life of hardship and privation; Tete Rouge never had a whim which he would not gratify at the first moment he was able.  Henry moreover was the most disinterested man I ever saw; while Tete Rouge, though equally good-natured in his way, cared for nobody but himself.  Yet we would not have lost him on any account; he admirably served the purpose of a jester in a feudal castle; our camp would have been lifeless without him.  For the past week he had fattened in a most amazing manner; and indeed this was not at all surprising, since his appetite was most inordinate.  He was eating from morning till night; half the time he would be at work cooking some private repast for himself, and he paid a visit to the coffee-pot eight or ten times a day.  His rueful and disconsolate face became jovial and rubicund, his eyes stood out like a lobster’s, and his spirits, which before were sunk to the depths of despondency, were now elated in proportion; all day he was singing, whistling, laughing, and telling stories.  Being mortally afraid of Jim Gurney, he kept close in the