They told us of buffalo, and we went on gladly; but as we were now outside of the Wood Cree camps we kept a sharp lookout for enemies, and a constant guard at night. The next day--the fifth out from the mission--we sighted buffalo, in "bunches" or bands, about noon. We had been seeing a few all morning, mostly bulls, but we were after cow meat, and about noon saw several bunches not far from us. The country was of a very rolling nature, and about half and half prairie and brush. Jack and Joseph and Peter and I saddled and made ready to run. Peter took Ki-you-ken-os and putting a big curb-bit in his mouth, I heard him say to the horse, "I will be bound to hold you with this." The rest of our party stayed with the carts. We charged at the buffalo as they were running down the slope of a hill towards an opening between two dense thickets of timber. The last I saw of Peter was when two bands of buffalo were meeting in their mad rush for this opening, and old Ki-you-ken-os seemed determined to take the gap before them. Peter had his gun stuck in his belt, had hold of the double reins from the big curb-bit with both hands, and was pulling with all his might, mouth wide open, and eyes bulging out; but the old horse did not seem to heed either Peter or his bit--he was running the buffalo a race for yonder gap. Peter and his horse were on the centre line of three converging forces: two bands of buffalo, perhaps two hundred in each, and Peter and his wild horse. I fully expected to see some buffalo killed by the collision, which was inevitable. I was terribly anxious for Peter. In a few moments the two herds came against each other. A moment later the horse and his rider were in the centre of the confused mass, and then all I could see was buffalo stampeding, and old Ki-you-ken-os leaping over and running amongst the wild herd, which was now tightly jamming its way through the narrow prairie lane. Then dust and distance hid the scene from me. This was my second run after buffalo. My first shot was a miss, and loading again I fired, only to miss again. I blamed badger-holes and brush and dust, but lack of experience was what did it. I had killed in my first race, but did not in my second. My horse was good, my gun, though single shot, was sure. It was my fault, and I felt it keenly. Peter also did not kill in that race--indeed, he was thankful, as was I, that he was not killed; but Joseph and Jack made up for it, and we were busy all the rest of the evening butchering and hauling in to where we camped for the night.