a sleepy voice growling in your ear that you must get up, to shiver and
freeze for three weary hours at midnight.

"Buffalo! buffalo!" It was but a grim old bull, roaming the prairie by
himself in misanthropic seclusion; but there might be more behind the
hills. Dreading the monotony and languor of the camp, Shaw and I saddled
our horses, buckled our holsters in their places, and set out with Henry
Chatillon in search of the game. Henry, not intending to take part in
the chase, but merely conducting us, carried his rifle with him, while
we left ours behind as incumbrances. We rode for some five or six miles,
and saw no living thing but wolves, snakes, and prairie dogs.

"This won't do at all," said Shaw.

"What won't do?"

"There's no wood about here to make a litter for the wounded man; I have
an idea that one of us will need something of the sort before the day is
over."

There was some foundation for such an apprehension, for the ground was
none of the best for a race, and grew worse continually as we proceeded;
indeed it soon became desperately bad, consisting of abrupt hills and
deep hollows, cut by frequent ravines not easy to pass. At length, a
mile in advance, we saw a band of bulls. Some were scattered grazing
over a green declivity, while the rest were crowded more densely
together in the wide hollow below. Making a circuit to keep out of
sight, we rode toward them until we ascended a hill within a furlong of
them, beyond which nothing intervened that could possibly screen us from
their view. We dismounted behind the ridge just out of sight, drew our