As it was, Bulon wandered about for days in a pitiable plight.  The wound in his shoulder, although it still contained the bullet, was not enough to kill him, and, although his blinded eyes and swollen nose caused him intense suffering, there was no likelihood of his dying for some days.  So it was that he wandered on seeking food, and, when it was found, having the greatest difficulty in eating it, owing to his swollen nose and mouth.  He did his best to follow the herd, but, as the days went on, he grew weaker and weaker.  The thorns had caused inflammation now, and the only thing he could do was to sway his huge head from side to side, and totter with short, uneven steps over the heavy, marshy ground.

Then came a day when he struck another treacherous, soft spot, and this time he had neither strength nor will to save himself.  He sank softly and slowly into the liquid mud, which covered him as with a mantle, and soothed him in spite of himself, for, in any case, it saved him from the sharp, stinging bites of the great gadflies, which are able to pierce even the thick skin of the buffalo.

By the time night swept over the land the only thing to be seen of Bulon was his grand, huge head and big horns standing out in a bold curve; his shaggy, woolly masses of hair, and his nose and mouth swollen now into an almost shapeless mass.  As the night wore on, Bulon’s sufferings increased, and his groans were unearthly sounds, echoing and re-echoing through the darkness.

But he grew quieter at last, and towards morning, just as the sun was tinting the sky with glorious colors, Bulon sank a little further into the soft mud he had always loved so well and died.

His own particular herd had forgotten all about him long before this, and had chosen a new leader—­a young, strong, vigorous male, who was looked up to and respected far more than Bulon had been during the last few months of his life, for the buffaloes had already begun to realize that Bulon was getting old, and had been losing their respect for him accordingly.

His day had passed.  He had guarded his herd carefully and well; led them to the best swamps and pastures, and on hot days picked out the softest and coolest mud for his wives to wallow in, while he had always left the youngest and freshest food for the calves.

So he had fulfilled his duties, and his many children grew up strong and healthy, became fathers and mothers themselves, and did very much the same sort of things that Bulon, the noted leader of buffaloes, had himself done.