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‘Twas A Ride For Life.

A Western Man’s Tale of a Buffalo Hunt.

It happened in the winter of 1869-70, began the old hunter and plainsman, when the subject of buffaloes was brought up. It was a bad winter in my country and the mercury was well down on the short-cut to China. The buffaloes had taken refuge in mighty herds in the country around the Porcupine River, which is one of the tributaries of the Yellowstone. One day the word reached our camp that a herd was grazing about two miles distant, and our men got together for a hunt. I knew the country about like a book, and instead of going with the rest of the boys started on a short-cut across a hog back and into the next valley where the buffaloes were said to be. I rode some distance, but did not see the herd. Suddenly I heard shots. A regular chorus of bangs rang out. I turned my horse’s head in the direction of the shooting and made up my mind to ride back and join the crowd. But my plans wouldn’t work. They had fired into the bunch from the other side and had stampeded it. The maddened animals, and there were fully one thousand of them, were tearing over the snow, jumping ravines and dashing towards me at a terrific pace. Behind the herd the cracks of the guns rattled.
The valley was narrow and the sides steep. I did not have time to get out. There was only one thing to do-fly and keep ahead of the herd until I found an opening in the hills. It was a furious ride. The snow here and there had been made soft by the sun and it was very treacherous under the horse’s hoof. Suddenly, when the leaders of the herd were about 200 yards behind, my pony stumbled and turned a somersault and I was thrown a considerable distance into a snowdrift. My rifle was strapped upon the saddle and I had no time to go back and get it, for the herd was upon us. I fired my pistol at the leaders and they slackened their speed a little. But one old bull looked at me a minute and then made a dash. When he ducked to impale me on his horns I dodged and caught his shaggy wool and was soon astride his back. This made him mad and he tried his best to unseat me, but I held on. The pressure of the herd behind him compelled him to run for his life.
I knew my only hope was to stick to that uncomfortable seat until I had ridden the beast to death. By and by the pressure behind began to slacken and my bull wanted to rest, but I spurred him on. It was 3 o’clock when I mounted him. About 2 o’clock the next morning he began to wabble. He lurched a few times and then stumbled to his knees. He rolled over and before I had time to save myself my left leg was under him. At last I got free and managed to cut his throat. I then took my bearings and found I was a hundred miles from camp. I made myself comfortable and feasted on buffalo steak. Before long the boys came up to where I was sitting. They had found the carcass of my horse and had kept on in the hope of finding that of myself. The herd must have turned off through some break in the hills, for my bull was the only one left in sight.

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