He has seen nothing, and we are still invisible, but he does not stop to look behind. "Escape for your life!" has been as plainly telegraphed from nose to brain, as it could be by eyes or mouth. We were so far off and well hidden then, that those active tell-tales, sound and sight, could play no part in this alarm. But the sentinel nerves of smell fled back from their post on the frontier, with the cry of "Man!" and the beast of the wilderness thinks only of flight. Powerful for defense against the rest of the animal creation, he is coward on the instant before its king. Away he goes, right into the teeth of the wind, which he knows will tell him of any other foes ahead. Lumber along, old fellow, in your ponderous gallop,--the reader and I are on your path. Our saddle girths have been tightly drawn, the holster pistols are nestled snug at hand, in their cases on either side of the saddle-horn, while across its front lies the light Henry carbine, with a shoulder-strap attaching it to our person, should we drop the gun for the pistol. Thus we ride with twenty-four shots before reloading, at the service of our trigger-finger; the carbine carries twelve, the pistols each a half-dozen. How warm we have become. Our hearts are as high up as they can get, bumping away at the throat-valves, as if they wished to get out and see what it is that has called their reserves into action. There is a muskish taint in the air, from the game ahead. Put in your spurs, comrade; don't spare. Get up beside him quickly as possible. Once there, the horses will easily stick. A stern chase disheartens the pursuer, encourages the pursued. Look out for that creek! See how the buffalo takes its steep bank--a plunge headlong, which sends the dust up in clouds. Now, as we check and turn into a ford, he is going up the opposite side. Another hundred yards, and we are close beside him. The long tongue is hung out, and his head lies low down, as he plunges steadily forward, diverging ever so little as we press up opposite his fore-shoulders. That was a bad shot, my friend, barely missing your horse's head. Shooting at full gallop is like drawing straight lines while being shaken. Some of our bullets are telling; you can hear them crack on his hide. There is a red spot now, not bigger than the point of one's finger, opposite a lung, and drops of blood trickle, with the saliva, from his jaws. Half a score of balls have been pelted into his big body, and he is bleeding internally. Now the blood comes thicker, and little clots of it drop down. He slows up--there is danger; look well to your seat! That was a narrow escape, comrade. The bull suddenly whirled on his forefeet for a pivot, and your horse's chest, which was brushing his hind-quarters, grazed the black horns as they dipped for a plunge. The pony's swerve barely saved you both.