194 MY SPORTING HOLIDAYS 



mile desert beyond, and one fine evening pitched our 

 camp at the foot of some hills that our guides in- 

 formed us were the southern spur of the Bighorn 

 Range. Antelope had been everywhere visible since 

 we had left the ranch, and had supplied us daily with 

 fresh meat and the best possible rifle practice. On 

 the Rattlesnake Mountains we had seen our first band 

 of elk, some thousand strong, and had left them 

 severely alone. They would keep, if necessary, until 

 our return. On the edge of the desert we found our 

 first buffalo. Almost every day we amused ourselves 

 by running one or two old bulls, but were content to 

 kill only a couple of the oldest and shaggiest we could 

 find, in order to preserve their heads as trophies. 



This characteristic wild animal of North America, 

 which once roamed the western prairies in millions, and 

 was the mainstay of the Indian tribes for food, robes, 

 and tent-covering, is now, as everyone knows, practi- 

 cally extinct. A few still exist in the National Park, 

 and also here and there in captivity. Every naturalist 

 and sportsman must deeply regret this destruction, 

 and yet it is difficult to imagine how, in a wild and 

 originally somewhat lawless country, it could have 

 been prevented. To a man mounted on a good horse 

 and armed with a breech-loading rifle, this shaggy - 

 fronted, ferocious-looking old impostor was the easiest 

 possible prey ; and his dark body and great size always 

 gave him away to the sharp-eyed hunter in the open 

 ground which he always insisted on frequenting. I 

 have constantly run solitary old bulls on a gray four- 

 teen-hand pony that was my favourite hunting mount, 

 and only once failed in any serious attempt to over- 

 haul the buffalo. Dear old Pinto ! what a free and 

 gallant steed he was ! He even at times bolted with 



