I was busy skinning when my
old friend Auberry rode up.
"That's the first time I ever saw a bull die on his back," said he.
"He did not die on his back," I replied. "I turned him over."
"You did--and alone? It's rarely a single man could do that, nor have I
seen it done in all my life with so big a bull."
I laughed at him. "It was easy. My father and I once lifted a loaded
wagon out of the mud."
"The Indians," said Auberry, "don't bother to turn a bull over. They
split the hide down the back, and skin both ways. The best meat is on
top, anyhow"; and then he gave me lessons in buffalo values, which later
I remembered.
We had taken some meat from my bull, since I insisted upon it in spite
of better beef from a young cow Auberry had killed not far above, when
suddenly I heard the sound of a bugle, sharp and clear, and recognized
the notes of the "recall." The sergeant of our troop, with a small
number who did not care to hunt, had been left behind by Belknap's
hurried orders. Again and again we heard the bugle call, and now at once
saw coming down the valley the men of our little command.
"What's up?" inquired Auberry, as we pulled up our galloping horses near
the wagon line.
Pages:
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176