Coming up to the swampy spot, the old bull gave a grunt of satisfaction, and going down on one knee, plunged his short thick horns into the mud, tore it up, and cast it aside.  Having repeated this several times, he plunged his head in, and brought it forth saturated with dirty water and bedaubed with lumps of mud, through which his fierce eyes gazed, with a ludicrous expression of astonishment, straight in the direction of the hunters, as if he meant to say, “I’ve done it that time, and no mistake!” The other buffaloes seemed to think so too, for they came up and looked on with an expression that seemed to say, “Well done, old fellow; try that again!”

The old fellow did try it again, and again, and again, plunging, and ramming, and tearing up the earth, until he formed an excavation large enough to contain his huge body.  In this bath he laid himself comfortably down, and began to roll and wallow about until he mixed up a trough full of thin soft mud, which completely covered him.  When he came out of the hole there was scarcely an atom of his former self visible!

The coat of mud thus put on by bulls is usually permitted by them to dry, and is not finally got rid of until long after, when oft-repeated rollings on the grass and washings by rain at length clear it away.

When the old bull vacated this delectable bath, another bull, scarcely if at all less ferocious-looking, stepped forward to take his turn; but he was interrupted by a volley from the hunters, which scattered the animals right and left, and sent the mighty herds in the distance flying over the prairie in wild terror.  The very turmoil of their own mad flight added to their panic, and the continuous thunder of their hoofs was heard until the last of them disappeared on the horizon.  The family party which had been fired at, however, did not escape so well, Joe’s rifle wounded a fat young cow, and Dick Varley brought it down.  Henri had done his best, but as the animals were too far distant for his limited vision, he missed the cow he fired at, and hit the young bull whose bath had been interrupted.  The others scattered and fled.

“Well done, Dick,” exclaimed Joe Blunt, as they all ran up to the cow that had fallen.  “Your first shot at the buffalo was a good un.  Come, now, an’ I’ll show ye how to cut it up an’ carry off the tit-bits.”

“Ah, mon dear ole bull!” exclaimed Henri, gazing after the animal which he had wounded, and which was now limping slowly away.  “You is not worth goin’ after.  Farewell—­adieu.”

“He’ll be tough enough, I warrant,” said Joe; “an’ we’ve more meat here nor we can lift.”

“But wouldn’t it be as well to put the poor brute out o’ pain?” suggested Dick.

“Oh, he’ll die soon enough,” replied Joe, tucking up his sleeves and drawing his long hunting-knife.

Dick, however, was not satisfied with this way of looking at it.  Saying that he would be back in a few minutes, he reloaded his rifle, and calling Crusoe to his side, walked quickly after the wounded bull, which was now hid from view in a hollow of the plain.