The Bison or American Buffalo. 253 



glade. Behind them rose the dark pines. At the left of 

 the glade the ground fell away to form the side of a 

 chasm ; down in its depths the cataracts foamed and 

 thundered ; beyond, the huge mountains towered, their 

 crests crimsoned by the sinking sun. Mixed with the 

 easier excitement of the hunter was a certain half mel- 



o 



ancholy feeling as I gazed on these bison, themselves 

 part of the last remnant of a doomed and nearly vanished 

 race. Few, indeed, are the men who now have, or ever- 

 more shall have, the chance of seeing the mightiest of 

 American beasts, in all his wild vigor, surrounded by the 

 tremendous desolation of his far-off mountain home. 



At last, when I had begun to grow very anxious lest 

 the others should take alarm, the bull likewise appeared 

 on the edge of the glade, and stood with outstretched 

 head, scratching his throat against a young tree, which 

 shook violently. I aimed low, behind his shoulder, and 

 pulled trigger. At the crack of the rifle all the bison, 

 without the momentary halt of terror-struck surprise so 

 common among game, turned and raced off at headlong 

 speed. The fringe of young pines beyond and below the 

 glade cracked and swayed as if a whirlwind were passing, 

 and in another moment they reached the top of a very 

 steep incline, thickly strewn with boulders and dead tim- 

 ber. Down this they plunged with reckless speed ; their 

 surefootedness was a marvel in such seemingly unwieldy 

 beasts. A column of dust obscured their passage, and 

 under its cover they disappeared in the forest ; but the 

 trail of the bull was marked by splashes of frothy blood, 

 and we followed it at a trot. Fifty yards beyond the 



