American Big-Game Hunting 
the great blue army-wagons, under whose 
white tilts were piled all the comforts that the 
post could furnish—unlimited food and drink, 
and many sacks of forage for the animals. 
Here all was mirth and jest and good-fellow- 
ship, and, except that canvas covered them 
while they slept, the hunters lived in as much 
comfort as when at home. The killing of 
buffalo was to them only an excuse for their 
jolly outing amid novel scenes. 
It was on the plains of Montana, in the 
days when buffalo were still abundant, that I 
had one of my last buffalo-hunts—a hunt 
with a serious purpose. A company of fifty 
or more men, who for weeks had been living 
on bacon and beans, longed for the ‘boss 
ribs” of fat cow, and when we struck the 
buffalo range two of us were deputed to kill 
some meat. My companion was an old 
prairie-man of great experience, and I myself 
was not altogether new to the West, for I 
had hunted in many territories, and had more 
than once been “jumped” by hostile Indians. 
Our horses were not buffalo-runners, yet 
we felt a certain confidence that if we could 
find a bunch and get a good start on them, 
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