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a pretty exciting sight. I had only seen buffalo a few times, and had never hunted them. I had eaten the meat several times, and thought it was tasty.
    “That’s a nice stand of meat,” Johnston said.
    “Didn’t realize they were so plentiful in these parts,” I said. “Looks to be thirty or forty head.”
    “Forty-five. But they ain’t all that plentiful. Biggest herd I’ve seen in awhile. ‘Tween them red divvils and us white divvils, we done about wiped ‘em out. Even worse is them goddamned hide hunters. Kill ‘em and let the meat rot in the fields.”
    “I sure wouldn’t let one rot right now. I’m so hungry I could even stand another pan of your biscuits.”
    Johnston looked at me and said in all seriousness, “Hell, I make good biscuits.”
    “But for every meal?”
    “Now there’s gratitude fer ya.” He gave me a sly look. “You nail one of them critters and we’ll eat buffaler steak tonight.”

    I took the Sharps Johnston had given me and pressed it to my shoulder. I was still weak and that eighteen-pound rifle felt as if it weighed forty.
    “That would be one hell of a shot from there,”
    Johnston said. “Mean, considering you couldn’t shoot an Indin in horseback a few days ago.”
    “You saw that?” I lowered the rifle.
    “Did.”
    “Well, this isn’t no revolver, and if you’ll remember, I had been sick.”
    “Dear me, why didn’t ya say so. Give one of ‘em a harelip.”
    “Reckon I might just do that if you’d shut your trap.”
    He grinned at me. “Go right ahead.” I didn’t like it, but I could tell Johnston knew right then and there that I was not a veteran buffalo hunter. I later found out that most of the hunting was performed from the ground using a hickory wiping stick as a rifle prop.
    I set my sights, touched a finger to my mouth and then to my earlobe to get the windage. I got my aim again and fired.
    A big bull buckled its front legs and went down.
    “A lucky shot,” Johnston said.
    “Yeah, and the more I shoot the luckier I get.”
    “I say that old bull is pop-shot, and will likely as not ram yer fool head off when ya get close.”
    “You’re just jealous of a good shot. Mad that you were wrong.”
    “Come on, bean head, let’s have a closer look.”
    The herd had finally rumbled away having picked up our scent. I later learned that buffalo are pretty nearsighted and not very smart. A hunter could sometimes drop one after another of the beasts without arousing suspicion. But when they get wind of you, they’re gone like last year’s youth.
    We rode out to the bull I had shot. It lay on its side, tongue hanging out, eyes rolled up in its head.
    “You can have the tongue for yourself,” I said, “and the liver, of course.”
    Johnston didn’t laugh.
    When I dismounted, he warned, “Watch his feet, kid. Way they’re a stickin’ straight out like that shows he’s probably jest pop-shot.”
    “Gotta be right, don’t you, Johnston?”
    “He’s just stunned, Lard Brain.”
    I grinned and called for Johnston to toss down his knife.
    “Have it yer way,” he said, and threw the Bowie at my feet.
    I bent over and grabbed the bull by the hair of the head, straddled its neck, and shan neck, tarted to work.
    No sooner had that blade pricked the beast than it stood straight up, bouncing me over its back and onto the ground.
    I rolled to my feet just as the bull charged my horse.
    Johnston jerked up his Spencer and slammed two shots into the animal’s head, quick as a wink.
    The bull changed course suddenly, went about thirty feet and fell, skidded on his nose and died with a kick.
    I got up on one knee and looked at Johnston.
    “It’s a good thing that there buffaler was dead. Bet them live ones is real mean.”

8
    We dined on buffalo, biscuits and coffee cooked on a buffalo chip fire. We finished eating just before sundown, and by the time night had rolled in, we had the fire put out. Wasn’t any use inviting any Sioux to sit down to supper