American Big-Game Hunting 
route. The autumn thus far had been very 
mild. The great migration of the buffalo 
to their winter range in Texas had not yet 
begun, and I had some lingering doubts as to 
whether we might not reach our destination 
before the head of their column would cross 
our road. We had gone only about ten miles 
from camp, however, when I espied a solitary 
old bull, and instantly I was all excitement, 
to the great amusement of my companions. 
Taking an orderly from the ranks, I put spurs 
to my horse, and was soon in hot pursuit of 
this decrepit outcast. This was sport new 
both to my horse and myself. We were both 
excited and equally timid. Ata range of fifty 
yards, or more, I emptied my revolver at the 
poor, tottering, old body, and a chance shot 
hit him and brought him to bay. It was now 
his turn to take up the chase. With some 
difficulty I recharged my weapon, and one or 
two more shots brought my first buffalo to 
earth. He was old and lean and mangy, and 
yet I was loath to allow one pound of his 
flesh to be wasted, and wanted to carry it al/ 
back to camp. The orderly said, with a cyni- 
cal smile, “Lieutenant, he ain’t no good to 
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