Widely different from this indiscriminate slaughter is the fair hunt on horseback in the great open plains.  The approach, the cautious survey over some hill-top, the wild charge on the herd, the headlong flight, the turn to bay, the flight and fall—­all this contains a large share of that excitement which we call by the much abused term sport.  It is possible, however, that many of those who delight in killing placid pheasants and stoical partridges might enjoy the huge battue of an Indian “pound” in preference to the wild charge over the sky bound prairie, but, for my part, not being of the privileged few who breed pheasants at the expense of peasants (what a difference the “h” makes in Malthusian theories!), I have been compelled to seek my sport in hot climates instead of in hot corners, and in the sandy bluffs of Nebraska and the Missouri have drawn many an hour of keen enjoyment from the long chase of the buffalo.  One evening, shortly before sunset, I was steering my way through the sandy hills of the Platte Valley, in the State of Nebraska, slowly towards Fort Kearney; both horse and rider were tired after a long day over sand-bluff and meadow-land, for buffalo were plenty, and five tongues dangling to the saddle told that horse, man, and rifle had not been idle.  Crossing a grassy ridge, I suddenly came in sight of three buffalo just emerging from the broken bluff.  Tired as was my horse, the sight of one of these three animals urged me to one last chase.  He was a very large bull, whose black shaggy mane and dewlaps nearly brushed the short prairie grass beneath him.  I dismounted behind the hill, tightened the saddle-girths, looked to rifle and cartridge touch, and then remounting rode slowly over the intervening ridge.  As I came in view of the three beasts thus majestically stalking their way towards the Platte for the luxury of an evening drink, the three shaggy heads were thrown up—­one steady look given, then round went the animals and away for the bluffs again.  With a whoop and a cheer I gave chase, and the mustang, answering gamely to my call, launched himself well over the prairie.  Singling out the large bull, I urged the horse with spur and voice, then, rising in the stirrups I took a snap-shot at my quarry.  The bullet struck him in the flanks, and quick as lightning he wheeled down upon me.  It was now my turn to run.  I had urged the horse with voice and spur to close with the buffalo, but still more vigorously did I endeavour, under the altered position of affairs, to make him increase the distance lying between us.  Down the sandy incline thundered the huge beast, gaining on us at every stride.  Looking back over my shoulder, I saw him close to my horse’s tail, with head lowered and eyes flashing furiously-under their shaggy covering.  The horse was tired; the buffalo was fresh, and it seemed as though another instant must bring pursuer and pursued into wild collision.  Throwing back my rifle over the crupper; I laid it at arm’s length, with