118 LIFE IN THE FAR WEST. 



buck was unable to move, and sinking fast from exhaus- 

 tion. His companion had hunted from morning till night, 

 as well as his failing strength would allow him, but had 

 not seen the traces of any kind of game, with the exception 

 of some old buffalo-tracks, made apparently months before 

 by a band of bulls crossing the mountain. 



The morning of the fourth day, La Bonte as usual rose 

 at daybreak from his blanket, and was proceeding to collect 

 wood for the fire during his absence while hunting, when 

 Killbuck called to him, and in an almost inarticulate voice 

 desired him to seat himself by his side. 



" Boy," he said, " this old hos feels like goin' under, and 

 that afore long. You're stout yet, and if thar was meat 

 handy, you'd come round slick. Now, boy, I'll be under, 

 as I said, afore many hours, and if you don't raise meat 

 you'll be in the same fix. I never eat dead meat * myself, 

 and "wouldn't ask no one to do it neither]; but meat fair 

 killed is meat any way; so, boy, put your knife in this 

 old niggur's lights, and help yourself. It's ' poor bull,' I 

 know, but maybe it'll do to keep life in ; and along the 

 fleece thar's meat yet, and maybe my old hump-ribs has 

 picking on 'em." 



" You're a good old hos," answered La Bonte, " but this 

 child ain't turned niggur yet." 



Killbuck then begged his companion to leave him to his 

 fate, and strive himself to reach game ; but this alternative 

 La Bonte likewise generously refused, and, faintly endeav- 

 ouring to cheer the sick man, left him once again to look 

 for game. He was so weak that he felt difficulty in sup- 

 porting himself; and knowing how futile would be his 

 attempts to hunt, he sallied from the camp, convinced that 

 a few hours more would see the last of him. 



He had scarcely raised his eyes, when, hardly crediting 

 his senses, he saw within a few hundred yards of him an 

 old bull, worn with age, lying on the prairie. Two wolves 

 were seated on their haunches before him, their tongues 

 lolling from their mouths, w r hilst the buffalo was impotently 

 rolling his ponderous head from side to side, his bloodshot 

 * Carrion. 



