On and on spurred the group of four. They swerved for the buffalo herd; and separating, as if by agreement, into pairs, dashed into the herd that way――Buffalo Bill and his referee on the right, Scout Comstock and his referee on the left. As soon as the first shot echoed back across the prairie, the cry went up: “They’re in! They’re in!” and wildly excited, straight for the field broke the eager spectators. The wagons jounced and bounded, the horses and mules snorted, women screamed, men shouted――and better equipped than those other excursionists, on horseback amidst his army friends Davy forged to the front. When they arrived the contest was well under way. Scout Comstock had ridden almost out of sight, pelting along and shooting into the rear of his bunch. He had left a trail of dead buffalo, as if he had made every shot count. Buffalo Bill, however, was right here, working by a different system. Evidently he had hastened to the head of his bunch first, and turned them――until now he had them all actually running in a small circle. He was riding around the outside at an easy lope on Brigham, and steadily firing, oftentimes without raising his gun from across the saddle horn. Brigham’s bridle lines were hanging loose. He needed no guiding. He knew just what was to be done. He loped to the side of a buffalo and stayed there a moment until the gun went “Bang!” Then, even before the buffalo had fallen, he loped on to another, put his master in good position, and at the report of the rifle continued to the next! “A wonderful horse! A wonderful horse!” ejaculated General Brown. “Why, teach that horse to shoot and he wouldn’t need a rider. Bill could sit and look on!” “He nurses the buffalo together and all Bill has to do is to load and fire. He scarcely needs to aim,” said another officer. Presently Buffalo Bill had shot down every buffalo in the bunch; there were thirty-eight, dead as doornails. When Bill Comstock returned, his horse blown, from chasing his bunch as far as he could, his referee reported twenty-three as that count. The horses were rested until another herd appeared. Out of this Buffalo Bill killed eighteen with the help of old Brigham, and Billy Comstock killed fourteen. So at noon the score stood: Buffalo Bill (and Brigham), fifty-six; Billy Comstock only thirty-seven. Luncheon was spread out on the prairie by the excursionists and everybody ate. The opinion was that Buffalo Bill had won; Billy Comstock never could catch up――not even if they traded horses! After luncheon Buffalo Bill suddenly stood, and, going to Brigham, quickly stripped him of saddle and bridle. “Ladies and gentlemen,” announced Billy, “in order to give my friend Comstock a chance I’m going to finish my hunt without saddle and bridle――and even then I’ll wager I’ll down more buffalo than he will.” “Oh, Mr. Cody! Please don’t!” begged one of the women excursionists, who had been nervous all along. “You’ll certainly be hurt.”