THE BUFFALO-RUNNERS 77 



cicnt to set the teeth of the most mendacious northerner 

 chattering. The young buffalo spent the first three 

 days of his life in this gale and was none the worse, 

 which seems to prove that climatic apology, &quot; though 

 it is cold, you don t feel it.&quot; Another spindly-legged, 

 clumsy bundle of fawn and fur in the same herd count 

 ed its natal day from a sweltering afternoon in August. 



Many signs told the buffalo-runners which way to 

 ride for the herd. There was the trail to the watering- 

 place. There were the salt-licks and the wallows and 

 the crushed grass where two young fellows had been 

 smashing each other s horns in a trial of strength. 

 There were the bones of the poor old deposed king, 

 picked clear by the coyotes, or, perhaps, the lonely out 

 cast himself, standing at bay, feeble and frightened, 

 a picture of dumb woe ! To such the hunter s shot 

 was a mercy stroke. Or, most interesting of all signs 

 and surest proof that the herd was near a little bun 

 dle of fawn-coloured fur lying out flat as a door-mat 

 under hiding of sage-brush, or against a clay mound, 

 precisely the colour of its own hide. 



Poke it ! An ear blinks, or a big ox-like eye opens ! 

 It is a buffalo calf left cached by the mother, who has 

 gone to the watering-place or is pasturing with the 

 drove. Lift it up ! It is inert as a sack of wool. Let 

 it go! It drops to earth flat and lifeless as a door 

 mat. The mother has told it how to escape the co 

 yotes and wolverines ; and the little rascal is &quot; playing 

 dead.&quot; But if you fondle it and warm it the Indians 

 say, breathe into its face it forgets all about the 

 mother s warning and follows like a pup. 



At the first signs of the herd s proximity the squaws 



