MY FIRST FLINTLOCK 19 
tion with his tail standing straight up. He was mad 
and looked it as he came towards us. My pony whirled 
as the buffalo charged and as it went by I presented it 
with the last two bullets in my pistol. 
My pony, with sides heaving, was perfectly willing to 
stop while I reloaded, although his ears were cocked and 
his eyes watched the departing herd. 
Buffalo run at a lumbering looking but really fast 
lope and these were out of sight in the rolling prairie 
before I could reload, although I could hear the shots 
and excited yells of my companions in the distance. 
The chase was most thrilling, but when I rode back 
and looked at the three monsters I had killed, they were 
not especially attractive. It’s no small job to dress and 
skin buffalo. Where large game is generally found, 
there are trees where carcasses of game can be hung up 
and dressed. On the plains this business was done on 
the ground, rolling the animal over, after the hide on 
one side was taken off. It was not a pretty job. The 
hide does not slip off like that of adeer. One man holds 
the hide tight and pulls on it, while another cuts the 
skin from the meat with a sharp knife. 
The hindquarters of the heifer I had killed were 
brought in to supply the camp with meat. That night 
was cold, nearly zero. The buffalo meat froze solid. 
The cook, while the frozen meat lasted, used to call out: 
‘Grub pile ready in fifteen minutes, if you want buffalo 
steaks go and git it.’’ It was no easy job to “‘git it.” 
The meat had to be sawed out in slabs. Well! perhaps 
we were young, but those buffalo steaks were certainly 
the best ever. 
Buffalo are stupid. Shooting them on foot when 
hidden in an old buffalo wallow or behind sagebrush 
was about as sporting a proposition as resting a rifle 
