It was a huge horse pistol, that
threw an ounce ball of exactly the calibre of my double
rifle. I had shot several buffaloes with it, by riding close
to them in a chase; and when in danger of Indians I loaded it
with slugs. At last I found it. It was getting late; and I
didn't rightly know where I was. I made for the low country.
But as we camped last night at least two miles from the
river, on account of the swamps, the difficulty was to find
the tracks. The poor little grey and I hunted for it in
vain. The wet ground was too wet, the dry ground too hard,
to show the tracks in the now imperfect light.
'The situation was a disagreeable one: it might be two or
three days before I again fell in with my friends. I had not
touched food since the early morning, and was rather done.
To return to the high ground was to give up for the night;
but that meant another day behind the cavalcade, with
diminished chance of overtaking it. Through the dusk I saw
what I fancied was something moving on a mound ahead of me
which arose out of the surrounding swamp. I spurred on, but
only to find the putrid carcase of a buffalo, with a wolf
supping on it. The brute was gorged, and looked as sleek as
"die schone Frau Giermund"; but, unlike Isegrim's spouse, she
was free to escape, for she wasn't worth a bullet.
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