As for myself, I soon found that six bullets in my mouth were at any rate five too many, and I slipped the five back into my shot-pouch. Then my horse would spring over several badger holes, and my hair would lift; I fancied he would come down in another. When I neared the buffalo, I cocked my gun, and in the intensity of my excitement, and because of an extra jump of my horse, I touched the trigger and off it went, fortunately into the air, and thus I lost my shot. I felt very much mortified at this, but hoped no one would notice what I had done; in fact, all had enough to do in looking after themselves and the game before them. To load under these conditions is no small matter--horse at full speed, greatly excited, and because of the nature of the ground, now making a plunge, now a short jump, and again a long one; and then a dead buffalo right in the way and your horse jumping over him, another struggling and rising and falling in the throes of death straight ahead of you, some winded bulls coming athwart your course, heads down and tails up, which you have been told are sure signs of a fight; and to put on the climax of difficulties, you a "tenderfoot," or, as in the Hudson's Bay country dialect, a "greenhorn." However, after spilling a lot of powder and getting some of it in my eyes, I was loaded at last, and now I saw that the buffalo were driven from me; but just then an Indian chased a cow at an angle towards me, and I also saw that his horse was winded, and I closed in. Yet I did not like to intrude, but the friendly fellow said, "Chase her, my brother," and then I went in gladly. Again he shouted, "That is a good horse you are on. Drive him!" I touched the black with my whip and he speeded. "Drive him!" shouted my friend, "go close!" and again I struck the black, and like the wind he carried me up, and I did go close, and shot the cow. Down she dropped, and I jumped to the ground beside her, a very proud boy. Ah, thought I, just give me a chance; I will make a hunter as good as the best. My friend came up and said, "You did well, my brother." I thought so too, and though I have killed many hundreds of buffalo since then, and often under far more difficult and trying circumstances, yet that first race and dead-shot can never be forgotten. My new brother would fain have me take part of the meat. I told him the animal was his, but if he would give me the tongue I would be thankful. This he did, and fastening it to my saddle, I rode on to look over the field of slaughter, as also to find father and party if I could. Ascending a hill, I could see men and women at work skinning and cutting up. In little groups they dotted the plain. The pack-horses were waiting for their loads, and the runners were feeding quietly beside them, their work for the day finished. I think I am within bounds when I say there must have been between eight hundred and a thousand buffalo slain in that run.