early over. When
we reached the ground we found it strewn far and near with numberless
black carcasses, while the remnants of the herd, scattered in all
directions, were flying away in terror, and the Indians still rushing in
pursuit. Many of the hunters, however, remained upon the spot, and among
the rest was our yesterday's acquaintance, the chief of the village. He
had alighted by the side of a cow, into which he had shot five or six
arrows, and his squaw, who had followed him on horseback to the hunt,
was giving him a draught of water out of a canteen, purchased or
plundered from some volunteer soldier. Recrossing the river we overtook
the party, who were already on their way.

We had scarcely gone a mile when an imposing spectacle presented itself.
From the river bank on the right, away over the swelling prairie on the
left, and in front as far as we could see, extended one vast host of
buffalo. The outskirts of the herd were within a quarter of a mile. In
many parts they were crowded so densely together that in the distance
their rounded backs presented a surface of uniform blackness; but
elsewhere they were more scattered, and from amid the multitude rose
little columns of dust where the buffalo were rolling on the ground.
Here and there a great confusion was perceptible, where a battle was
going forward among the bulls. We could distinctly see them rushing
against each other, and hear the clattering of their horns and their
hoarse bellowing. Shaw was riding at some distance in advance, with
Henry Chatillon; I saw him stop and draw the leather covering from his
gun. Indeed, with such a sight before us, but one thing could be thought
of. That morning I had used pistols in the chase. I had now a mind to
try the virtue of a gun. Delorier had one, and I rode up to the side of
the cart; there he sat under the white covering, biting his pipe between
his teeth and grinning with excitement.

[Illustration: ONE VAST HOST OF BUFFALO]

"Lend me your gun, Delorier," said I.

"_Oui, monsieur, oui_,"[126-1] said Delorier, tugging with might and
main to stop the mule, which seemed obstinately bent on going forward.
Then everything but his moccasins disappeared as he crawled into the
cart and pulled at the gun to extricate it.

"_Oui, bien charge_;[126-2] you'll kill, _mon bourgeois_;[126-3] yes,
you'll kill--_c'est un bon fusil_."[126-4]

I handed him my rifle and rode forward to Shaw.

"Are you ready?" he asked.

"Co