His thoughts regarding the buffalo were sober ones. These buffaloes, he realized, now that there was time to think of it, were not in every sense of the word wild buffaloes. They ranged a wide preserve. They were watched over by buffalo rangers. They might not be killed except in a grave emergency. One who did kill a woods-buffalo was liable to a term in prison.

“But this,” he assured himself, “was a grave emergency.”

But what was this? Even as he stood there thinking there came the crack of hoofs once more. A lone buffalo was passing. A youngster, half-grown and almost spent, he limped painfully after his fast disappearing companions.

And after him came gray streaks in the failing light. Once more the boy’s bow sang. A gray form plunged to the snow and went rolling over and over. A second followed the first. He, too, had felt the sting of the boy’s arrow. And now they were gone, all gone. . . Read More