In this way, later in the day, Oliver got another chance at an antelope; it was a long and difficult shot, and though he made practice good enough to draw a note of admiration even from the undemonstrative Andy, he was unsuccessful. As for me, the only chance I had all day was at an old grey wolf-coyote, who was lumbering along at that awkward, shuffling pace which seems so slow and is so fast. He was more than two hundred yards off and both my bullets struck the ground so close to him that he gave a great terror-stricken jump each time;—unfortunately very near does not count at any game. We stopped for our mid-day meal at a creek where we found a pool of stagnant water from which we scared half a dozen mallard; we had some bread and cold meat, and Mr. Dodge had thrown into the cart a can or two of preserved strawberries and oysters—the former tasted of tin and sugar, the latter of tin and salt, but friend Andy enjoyed them mightily. As soon as the mules had fed and rested, Andy gave the signal for a move. “Now then, you fellers! If you’re ready I’m a-gwine to move on, and I guess we’ll beat the sun an hour.” The further we advanced in the prairie, the more frequent became the carcases of dead buffaloes, some already blanched skeletons, others more recently killed, torn and mangled by wolves and vultures. Even had economic and agricultural reasons not determined their extermination, there would probably have been few buffaloes left by now. The slaughter was on a huge scale. Old bulls and young, even cows heavy in calf were slain mercilessly, often in places where the skins could not be removed, so that the massacre was profitless and without excuse. The hunters seemed to be bent on killing the goose that laid the golden egg. A good bull’s skin was worth two dollars, a cow’s skin one dollar; to-day I am told that a bison’s head in good condition is worth a huge sum to decorate the walls of some sporting club in the West. Our day was not quite blank, for Oliver shot a jackass rabbit, a sort of big hare with huge, flapping ears; the expanding bullet made mince-meat of it, but we picked up the pieces and were thankful for them at supper-time. Towards the end of the day Oliver’s keen eyes spied some huge black lumps in the distance—buffalo! We were mad to go after them, but Andy looked at the herd and then looked at the sun, which by this time was low in the heavens, turned his quid in his mouth, and saying, “I guess a man feels pretty bad if he’s lost on this yar prairer after dark,” whipped up his mules and drove on. Next day, when I was being led on for mile after mile by a herd, I knew how wise he had been. But at the time I hated him and his prudence; I thought he lacked keenness. Andy not keen! I soon had occasion to know better.