220 THE HIVE OF THE BEE-HUNTER. 

, let it fly. The stick held by ‘“ Breeches” 
leaped from his grasp as if it had been struck by a club; 
another instant, and again the bow was bent; guiding 
his horse with his feet, the Indian came alongside of the 
buffalo, and drove the arrow to the feather into his 
side. . 
A chuckling guttural laugh followed this brilliant 
exploit, and as the animal, after a few desperate leaps, 
fell forward.and vomited blood, again was repeated the 
same joyous whoop that so roused our stagnant blood at 
the beginning of the chase. 
The instant that ‘‘ Breeches ” dropped his stick, his 
horse, probably from habit, stopped; and the one on 
which I rode followed the example. The Indian dis- 
mounted, and stood beside the buffalo the instant he fell. 
The shaggy and rough appearance of the dead animal— 
the healthy-looking and ungroomed horse with his roving 
eye and long mane—and the Indian himself, contem- 
plating his work like some bronze-statue of antique art 
—formed a group, the simplicity and beautiful wildness 
of which would have struck the eye of the most in- 
sensible. 
‘“‘ Breeches,” alike insensible to the charms of the 
tailor’s art, and to the picturesque—handed the Indian 
his first fired arrow, and then stooping down, with a 
gentle pressure, thrust the head of the one in the buf- 
falo through the opposite side from which it entered, 
and handed it to its owner, with disgust marked upon 
