Mark had but a smooth-bore single-barrelled flint-lock. No long distance shooting for him. He must get close. He must pass through the line of bulls. Could he do it? That was the question on my mind as I moved from side to side on my frozen snowy couch. With his white blanket belted around him, and the upper half covering his head and shoulders, Mark was steadily making towards the herd. Fortunately the day was calm, so that the danger of giving scent was small. For interminable periods, as it seemed to me, I lost sight of my companion, and then in a totally unexpected quarter he would reappear, but always nearer to our game. Now he was among the bulls, and I almost held my breath as I saw him push himself past a great big fellow where a blow from horn or hoof might be instant death to the brave hunter. But with consummate skill he made his way past the bull and was right in amongst the great black fellows and quite lost to sight. Darkness was coming on fast, and the suspense to me as I lay watching became almost unbearable. Cold, anxiety, hunger, each was doing its work on brain and heart and stomach. But presently I saw the whole herd start, and there came in sight a puff of smoke, followed by the report of Mark's first shot, and away I went after the flying buffalo. As I ran I heard another report, and then I came suddenly upon a dead cow. Concluding that this was the result of Mark's first shot, and that in good time he would come back to this point, I set to work to skin the carcase, and was thus engaged when I heard Mark approaching. He was glad to see me, and I delighted at his return in safety. He had killed two cows. This one we were at was his first. Then as the buffalo bunched up and fled he had run to one side and, reloading, had continued running until the herd slowed up. He had then drawn in under cover and shot the second cow. I admired his pluck and skill and speed, and told him so, but he only quietly replied, "These cows are fat, John, and we will have better meat to-night than we had last night." We were now on the southerly edge of the plain, and about eight miles from where we left our dogs early in the day. After brief deliberation it was decided that Mark should remain to butcher the cows and look up the nearest camping place, while I should cross the plains and bring back our dogs. Taking my direction, I availed myself of buffalo trails in the snow as much as possible, and when I left one to cross country to another, I marked the spot as strongly as I could upon my memory, and took my bearings of the place as well as I could in the winter's darkness which surrounded me.