We noticed about a mile to our left at the spot where the stream ran out of a precipitous and very narrow gorge, eight buffaloes quietly grazing, and resolved to hunt them. We left our cattle under Antonio's charge and crept toward the animals. Here my comrades hid themselves in a dry bush overgrown with raspberry creepers that stood nearly at the centre of the opening, and Tiger and I crept up to the buffaloes, which were standing at the highest point of the ravine: we reached some bushes not more than ten yards from the animals without their perceiving us, and lay down on the ground in the midst of them. We had each selected a buffalo, when they stared into our bush with tails erect, as they had probably scented us; we fired together, and at the same moment there was a trampling over us as if a cavalry regiment were charging. I jumped up and fired again at the flying monsters, which now had to run the gauntlet of my comrades' guns. One dropped close to them and a second fell a little farther on, while the rest galloped down the stream. Tiger sprang up too and cut off a buffalo near our bush, which he said was the one I had shot: his had fled with the others. For my part, I had not seen it, for the powder smoke still hung over my rifle, when the brutes charged over us, and we might consider ourselves fortunate that they had not trampled us with their huge feet. We skinned one of them in order to use the skin as a substitute for the one we had lost, although an untanned buffalo hide is a very clumsy thing to carry on pack-animals. We laid in a stock of the best meat, took all the marrow-bones and tongues, and then followed a very decent path, which here left the main road and went down the stream eastward. After a little while the path trended more to the northern hills, where we saw the smoke of numerous fires rising farther to the north. Tiger said it was lucky we had chosen this road, as on the other we should have ridden right into an Indian camp.