MY FIRST BUFFALO. 



JOHN LEASURE. 



In the days when the Sioux Indians over- 

 ran the plains from the British possessions 

 to the Platte river, when the hunter and 

 sportsman carried his life in his hands I 

 killed my first buffalo. I had been looking 

 for buffalo for a week when I found him, a 

 solitary wanderer, on the prairie. He was a 

 hoary old patriarch who had in his younger 

 days doubtless been a leader. In his old 

 age an exile, driven from the herd by the 

 fierce young bulls who held command. 

 When first I saw him a wide expanse of the 

 Missouri river separated us. Have him I 

 must, but how to cross the river was the 

 question. Picketing my horse I searched 

 along the river bank till I found a good 

 sized log and slinging my rifle over my 

 shoulders I got astride and pushed out into 

 the stream. It was no easy task to paddle 

 over and when I got across I was not in 

 particularly good form for shooting. 



With head lowered and at a slow gait the 

 buffalo came toward me. Shielded behind 

 some heavy sage brush I anxiously and 

 nervously watched his every movement, and 

 when he was within a hundred yards of me 

 I fired. A little cloud of dust followed the 

 dull thud of the bullet as it struck, showing 

 exactly where he was hit. A second shot 

 rolled him over and with a yell of delight I 

 ran forward to inspect my prize. Let me 

 give a little advice to inexperienced hunters 

 right now. Don't approach game you have 

 knocked over without first reloading your 

 gun. My ignorance nearly cost me my life, 

 for when I reached the old bull and touched 



him with my foot he suddenly raised up and 

 made a vicious pass at me, tearing my shirt 

 across my stomach with his horn. Had I 

 been a few inches nearer I would have been 

 ripped open. Since that time I am careful 

 about reloading, also about approaching too 

 near before I know my game is dead. 



The buffalo ranges in those days were 

 black with roving bands and it is hard for 

 me to believe these noble animals are now 

 wiped off the face of the earth. The settle- 

 ment of the Indian question also sealed the 

 fate of the buffalo. 



In 1881, when it was perfectly safe to go 

 over the prairies, great numbers of hunters 

 flocked to the ranges — some to kill for sport 

 and others for gain. I visited one of the 

 ranges North of Glendive at that time and 

 it made my heart sore to see the wanton de- 

 struction of these harmless beasts. For 

 miles the prairie was dotted with rotting 

 carcasses, the skins only having been taken, 

 while in many instances a knife had never 

 been stuck in any of them. Huge piles of 

 green hides and dry were heaped on the 

 prairie awaiting purchasers. These skins 

 brought the hunter from $1.50 to $2.50 

 each. 



An Indian tanned robe to-day is a rarity 

 and is very valuable. Even the bones have 

 been gathered up and shipped East and 

 made into fertilizer. 



From 1874 to 1884 the buffalo was gradu- 

 ally driven from its Northern ranges to 

 South of the Yellowstone, and from there — 

 where? Alas, they got no farther! 



PHOTO BY L. A. HUFFMAN, MII.ES CITY, MONT. 



A ROUND-UP IN THE YELLOWSTONE COUNTRY. CUTTING OUT THE CALVES. 



(Extinct volcano in the background.) 

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