The great speed and bottom of Banion’s horse, as well as the beast’s savage courage and hunting instinct, kept him in longer touch with the running game.  Banion was in no haste.  From the sound of firing he knew his men would have meat.  Once in the surge of the running herd, the rolling backs, low heads and lolling tongues, shaggy frontlets and gleaming eyes all about him, he dropped the reins on Pronto’s neck and began his own work carefully, riding close and holding low, always ready for the sudden swerve of the horse away from the shot to avoid the usual rush of the buffalo when struck.  Since he took few chances, his shot rarely failed.  In a mile or so, using pains, he had exhausted all but two shots, one in each weapon, and of course no man could load the old cap-and-ball revolver while in the middle of a buffalo run.  Now, out of sheer pride in his own skill with small arms, he resolved upon attempting a feat of which he once had heard but never had seen.

Jackson, at a considerable distance to the rear, saw his leader riding back of two bulls which he had cut off and which were making frantic efforts to overtake the herd.  After a time they drew close together, running parallel and at top speed.  At the distance, what Jackson saw was a swift rush of the black horse between the two bulls.  For an instant the three seemed to run neck and neck.  Then the rider’s arms seemed extended, each on its side.  Two puffs of blue smoke stained the gray dust.  The black horse sprang straight ahead, not swerving to either side.  Two stumbling forms slowed, staggered and presently fell.  Then the dust passed, and he saw the rider trot back, glancing here and there over the broad rolling plain at the work of himself and his men.

“I seed ye do hit, boy!” exclaimed the grizzled old hunter when they met.  “I seed ye plain, an’ ef I hadn’t, an’ ye’d said ye’d did hit, I’d of said ye was a liar.”

“Oh, the double?” Banion colored, not ill pleased at praise from Sir Hubert, praise indeed.  “Well, I’d heard it could be done.”

“Once is enough.  Let ’em call ye a liar atter this!  Ef ary one o’ them bulls had hit ye ye’d have had no hoss; an’ ary one was due to hit ye, or drive ye against the other, an’ then he would.  That’s a trap I hain’t ridin’ inter noways, not me!”

He looked at his own battered piece a trifle ruefully.

“Well, Ole Sal,” said he, “‘pears like you an’ me ain’t newfangled enough for these times, not none!  When I git to Oregon, ef I ever do, I’m a goin’ to stay thar.  Times back, five year ago, no one dreamed o’ wagons, let alone plows.  Fust thing, they’ll be makin’ plows with wheels, an’ rifles that’s six-shooters too!”

He laughed loud and long at his own conceit.

“Well, anyways,” said he, “we got meat.  We’ve licked one red nation an’ got enough meat to feed the white nation, all in a couple o’ days.  Not so bad—­not so bad.”

And that night, in the two separate encampments, the white nation, in bivouac, on its battle ground, sat around the fires of bois des vaches till near morning, roasting boss ribs, breaking marrowbones, laughing, singing, boasting, shaking high their weapons of war, men making love to their women—­the Americans, most terrible and most successful of all savages in history.