Previous to my first experience in “running buffalo” I had entertained a mortal dread of ever being called upon to ride a chase across a prairie-dog town.  The mouth of a prairie-dog’s burrow is amply large to receive the hoof of a horse, and the angle at which the hole descends into the earth makes it just right for the leg of a running horse to plunge into up to the knee and bring down both horse and rider instantly; the former with a broken leg, to say the least of it.  If the rider sits loosely, and promptly resigns his seat, he will go flying forward, as if thrown from a catapult, for 20 feet or so, perhaps to escape with a few broken bones, and perhaps to have his neck broken, or his skull fractured on the hard earth.  If he sticks tightly to his saddle, his horse is almost certain to fall upon him, and perhaps kill him.  Judge, then, my feelings when the first bunch of buffalo we started headed straight across the largest prairie-dog town I had ever seen up to that time.  And not only was the ground honey-combed with gaping round holes, but it was also crossed here and there by treacherous ditch-like gullies, cut straight down into the earth to an uncertain depth, and so narrow as to be invisible until it was almost time to leap across them.

But at such a time, with the game thundering along a few rods in advance, the hunter thinks of little else except getting up to it.  He looks as far ahead as possible, and helps his horse to avoid dangers, but to a great extent the horse must guide himself.  The rider plies his spurs and looks eagerly forward, almost feverish with excitement and eagerness, but at the same time if he is wise he expects a fall, and holds himself in readiness to take the ground with as little damage as he can.

Mr. Catlin gives a most graphic description of a hunting accident, which may fairly be quoted in full as a type of many such.  I must say that I fully sympathize with M. Chardon in his estimate of the hardness of the ground he fell upon, for I have a painful recollection of a fall I had from which I arose with the settled conviction that the ground in Montana is the hardest in the world!  It seemed more like falling upon cast-iron than prairie turf.

“I dashed along through the thundering mass as they swept away over the plain, scarcely able to tell whether I was on a buffalo’s back or my horse, hit and hooked and jostled about, till at length I found myself alongside my game, when I gave him a shot as I passed him.

[Illustration:  THE CHASE ON HORSEBACK.  From a painting in the National Museum by George Catlin.]