RECORD BUFFALO II FADS. 



107 



mountain. Coming to a greasy spot, in the 

 trail, he would squat down and slide, after 

 the manner of a small boy going down an 

 incline, on a barrel stave. Pete didn't have 

 a stave, but only that with which Dame 

 Nature had provided him. 



We had come to a portion of the trail 

 which was extremely dangerous. It was a 

 heavy down grade, of smooth rock, and a 

 corner had to be turned at a sharp angle. 

 On one side the rock dropped off into the 

 canyon. On the other it rose so steeply 

 that only a mountain sheep could hold on. 

 Pete didn't like it. Neither did I, but we 

 couldn't go around. He hesitated a mo- 

 ment and cautiously started. He went all 

 right a short distance, but I saw he could 

 not hold himself. His shoes were worn 

 smooth, and were almost as good a tobog- 

 gan as the barrel stave. He had, by this 

 time, obtained such headway that I saw he 

 could never turn the corner and that it was 



all day with him. He realized it too, I 

 think; for just before he went over the 

 edge he gave me a backward look that I 

 shall never forget. When I had climbed 



down to where he lay he was dead. 



* * * 



It was noon the following day before I 

 had finished the cairn over him, for I was 

 determined nothing should disturb his body 

 if I could help it. I was only sorry I could 

 not do better by him. 



His memory is green beside that of the 

 homeliest and best dog I ever had, who was 

 cruelly poisoned and who came home to 

 die. I am not bloodthirsty but there are 

 times when one feels murder is justified. 



But why dwell; I know that when the 

 time comes for me to " cash in " and go 

 over the great divide the first being to greet 

 me will be Commodore, his stubby tail 

 wagging merrily; and Pete will be a good 

 second. 



RECORD BUFFALO HEADS. 



The man who first began to judge buf- 

 falo heads by measuring their horns, 

 should have been called down off the lad- 

 der before the silly fashion was set. To 



ignore the bulk of a buffalo head and the 

 hair that adorns it, and to base everything 

 on the measurements of the horns, is sim- 

 ply absurd. If persisted in, it is inexcus- 

 able; and the cut on the cover of May 

 Recreation is all I need in proof of this 

 assertion. The big horns are there, but, 

 heavens! what hair! The head looks as if 

 it had been industriously trimmed, by one 

 of those infernal barbers who insist on cut- 

 ting your hair shorter than you want it- 

 even when you have none to spare. 



The glory of a buffalo head lies in its 

 hair, — the length, the texture, and the color 

 of it. Next in importance is the actual 

 bulk of the head. Nobody, that I ever saw, 

 cares a rap about the horns, so long as they 

 are perfect in shape and symmetry. If the 

 tumble of wavy, chestnut-brown tufts, in 

 the frontlet, is sufficiently luxuriant to half 

 bury the horns, so much the better. The 

 horns of a buffalo are no more an index to 

 his greatness, or his beauty, than are the 

 ears of a Dublin donkey. It would be just 

 as sensible to measure front teeth, to find 

 the prize winner in a beauty show, as to 

 measure horns to find the finest bison head. 



As an illustration of what I consider a 

 superlatively fine buffalo head, and one 

 which I challenge the world to surpass in 

 real magnificence, I will ask the editor of 

 Recreation to reproduce the head of the 

 big bull that forms the principal figure in 

 the group of buffaloes in the National 

 Museum. W. T. H. 



It is shown herewith. — Editor. 



