The Last Piskun 271 



It was late October and the blue haze of 

 Indian summer was over the land of the 

 Saskatchewan. Nearly all the ducks had 

 winnowed past, as the cold weather comes 

 early in this northland. The muskrat had 

 builded his house and was in readiness 

 for winter. The little herd of buffalo, over 

 which Buck still reigned, for he had still 

 been King all through the troublesome 

 days when they had fled from the United 

 States, was sleek with the good feeding of 

 these rich lands. Their coats were long 

 and glossy and their ribs were covered with 

 fat. 



They wandered about upon the prairies 

 or secreted themselves in the small timber 

 along the affluents of the Saskatchewan. 

 Upon the banks of this broad, picturesque 

 river a large hunting-party of Crees were 

 camped. They had come down two days 

 before to slay this little herd, the last of the 

 American bison. They could not be con- 



