We approached within a short distance. They were more scattered upon the outside, and with a little trouble the trapper managed to insinuate himself among them. His object was to drive off a cow which had a couple of half-grown calves by her side, but they took the alarm too soon, and rushed off into the drove. We then prepared to bring down one apiece. I selected an enormous bull, and sighted for his head. I approached nigh enough to make my aim sure, and fired. The animal raised his head, his mouth full of grass, and glaring at me a moment, gave a snort of alarm and plunged headlong away into the droves. At the same instant I heard Nat’s rifle beside me, and a moment after that of the trapper. This gave the alarm to the herd. Those near us uttered a series of snorts, and dropping their bushy heads, bowled off at a terrific rate. The motion was rapidly communicated to the others, and in a few seconds the whole eastern side was rolling simultaneously onward, like the violent countercurrent of the sea. The air was filled with such a vast cloud of dust that the sun’s light was darkened, and for a time it seemed we should suffocate. We remained in our places for over an hour, when the last of these prairie monsters thundered by. A strong wind carried the dust off to the west, and we were at last in clear air again. Yet our appearance was materially changed, for a thin veil of yellow dust had settled over and completely enveloped us, and we were like walking figures of clay. [Illustration: “Gave a snort of alarm and plunged headlong away into the droves.”] I looked away in the direction of the herd, expecting to see my buffalo’s lifeless form, but was considerably chagrined at my disappointment, as was also Nat at his. The trapper’s was a dozen yards from where it had been struck. “’Pears to me,” said he with a sly smile, “I heer’n your dogs bark, but I don’t see nothin’ of no buffaloes, ogh!” “I _hit_ mine,” I answered quickly; “I am sure of it.” “Whereabouts?” “In the head, plump and square.” “Whar’d you sight yourn, Greeny?” “Just back the horns, and I hit him too. If he hasn’t dropped before this, I’ll bet he’ll have the headache for a week.” “B’ars and beavers, you! Them bufflers didn’t mind your shots more nor a couple of hailstones. Do you see whar I picked mine?” asked the trapper, pulling the buffalo’s fore-leg forward, and disclosing the track of the bullet behind it. “Isn’t a shot in the head fatal?” I asked in astonishment. “You might hit ’em thar with a cannon-ball, and they’d git up and run agin, and ef you’d pepper ’em all day whar you did yourn, you’d pick the bullets out thar ha’r and they wouldn’t mind it.” This I afterward found to be true. No shot, however well aimed, can reach the seat of life in the buffalo through the head, unless it enter the eye, fair front.[1]