THE BUFFALO. 115 



It is proposed that some of our party should ride round, so as 

 to stampede the herd back towards us, and thus, by dividing 

 them, enable us to get in the centre. We wait for some time, 

 when we see a vast mass of hairy monsters come tearing over 

 a hill towards us. We have shot several of the bulls, but 

 our object is to secure their calves and cows. As the herd 

 approaches us, it swings round its front at right-angles, and 

 makes off westward. We dash forward, and divide it into 

 two parties. We also separate, some of our hunters following 

 one part of the herd, the others the remainder. The en- 

 thusiasm of our horses equals our own. Away we go ; nothing 

 stops us. Now we plunge with headlong bounds down bluffs 

 of caving sands fifty feet high, while the buffaloes, crazy 

 with terror, are scrambling half-way up the opposite side. 

 Now we are on the very haunches of our game ; now before 

 us appears a slippery buffalo wallow. We see it just in time 

 to leap clear, but the next instant we are in the middle of 

 one. Our horses, with frantic plunges, scramble out ; and on 

 we go. We get closer and closer to the buffaloes, when a loud 

 thundering of trampling hoofs sounds behind us. Looking 

 over our shoulders, there, in plain sight, appears another herd, 

 tearing down on our rear. For nearly a mile in width 

 stretches a line of angry faces, a rolling surf of wind-blown 

 hair, a row of quivering lights burning with a reddish-brown 

 hue the eyes of the infuriated animals. Should our horses 

 stumble, our fate will be sealed. It is certain death to be 

 involved in the herd. So is it to turn back. In an instant 

 we should be trampled and gored to death. Our only hope 

 is to ride steadily in the line of the stampede, till we can in- 

 sinuate ourselves laterally, and break out through the side of 

 the herd. Yet the hope of doing so is but small. 



