BUFFALO HUNTING. 65 



rugged old carcasses. No time is now to be lost. These 

 animals, unwieldy as they appear, for a mile or so are 

 wonderfully swift, and if they should gain rough 

 ground will beat an indifferent horse. Sitting well 

 down in their saddles, nags in hand, and gun resting 

 across the tree, at a grass-country pace, both push for 

 the sleekest and squarest looking cows they can mark. 

 The pace commences to tell, the distance that sepa- 

 rates sportsman from quarry is rapidly diminishing, 

 a few strides more and one ranges alongside ; the 

 gun, which has been just taken in the right hand, 

 has its barrel depressed ; low down, and eight or ten 

 inches behind the shoulder, is the spot, if shooting 

 forward. 



A puff of smoke is seen, followed by a report. The 

 coup de grace has been administered by a master-hand, 

 for the huge animal loses the power of its fore-feet, 

 comes down on its shoulders and head, and nought of 

 life is left but a few spasmodic struggles. But where 

 are the hunters? Look well among the retreating 

 herd, and you may occasionally catch a glimpse of 

 their hunting- shirts. A few moments more, and 

 another shot is fired. This time not so successfully. 

 Again the gun speaks ; still the quarry retains her 

 legs, but blood is already pouring from her nose, an 

 indication that surely tells of speedy demise, so stop, 



