In Buffalo Days 
sands. On its skirts hover the active, nim- 
ble horsemen, with twanging bowstrings and 
sharp arrows piercing many fat cows. The 
naked Indians cling to their naked horses as 
if the two were parts of one incomparable 
animal, and swing and yield to every motion 
of their steeds with the grace of perfect horse- 
manship. The ponies, as quick and skilful as 
the men, race up beside the fattest of the herd, 
swing off to avoid the charge of a maddened 
cow, and, returning, dart close to the victim, 
whirling hither and yon, like swallows on the 
wing. And their riders, with the unconscious 
skill, grace, and power of matchless archery, 
are drawing their bows to the arrow’s head, 
and driving the feathered shaft deep through 
the bodies of the buffalo. Returning on their 
tracks, they skin the dead, then load the meat 
and robes on their horses, and with laughter 
and jest ride away. 
After them, on the deserted prairie, come 
the wolves to tear at the carcasses. The rain 
and the snow wash the blood from the bones, 
and fade and bleach the hair. For a few 
months the skeleton holds together; then it 
falls apart, and the fox and the badger pull 
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