Now he stands sullen, glaring at us. The wounds look like little points of red paint, put deftly on his shaggy hide. They bleed inwardly, just crimsoning the brown hair at their mouths. The large eyes roll and swell with pain and fury. He is measuring our distance. See him blow the blood from his nostrils. The drops scatter like red-hot shot around him, seeming to hiss in globules of fury, as they spatter upon the dry grass. Bladder-like bubbles sputter in ebb and flow, from the red holes over his lungs. Tiny doors, for death's messengers to have entered in at. What a marvel of size and ferocity he looks. Only our horse's legs stand between us and disembowelment. Down drops the head into battery again, and his rush would knock us over like nine-pins, did we stay to receive it. But bison charges are short ones. Our animals spring away, and he stops. Signs of grogginess are coming on him. How he hates to feel his knees shake, straightening them out with a jerk, as we thought he was just going down. But at last gradually and gracefully he sinks, doubling his legs under him, and resting on his belly. There is still no flurry, or motion of any kind denoting pain. Unconquerable to the death, he suddenly falls on his side, the limbs stiffen, and he is dead. Twine your hands in the long beard, and in the mane. How he shames the lion, for whom he could furnish coats half a dozen times over. What switches of hair those black fetlocks would make. Was there ever another so big a bison? Wondering over this, we lie down on the prostrate bulk, and wait for the wagon. CHAPTER XXI. "CREASING" WILD HORSES--MUGGS DISAPPOINTED--A FEAT FOR FICTION--HORSE AND MONKEY--HOOF WISDOM FOR TURFMEN--PROSPECTIVE CLIMATIC CHANGES ON THE PLAINS--THE QUESTION OF SPONTANEOUS GENERATION--WANTON SLAUGHTER OF BUFFALO--AMOUNT OF ROBES AND MEAT ANNUALLY WASTED--A STRANGE HABIT OF THE BISON--NUMEROUS BILLS--THE "SNEAK THIEF" OF THE PLAINS. While we were at breakfast one morning, the guide ran in to say that the herd of wild horses which we had seen on Silver Creek, were feeding toward us, a mile away. I left the table to obtain a view of them, and by Abe's advice carried my rifle, as he suggested that we might "crease" one of them. This feat consists in hitting the upper edge of the bones of the neck with a bullet, the blow striking so high up that it will momentarily paralyze, without fracturing. We had read of it often in tales of Western daring, where the hero mounted the prostrate steed, and, upon its return to consciousness, escaped on its back from numberless difficulties and hosts of Indians.