There is no object, perhaps, so terrible as the headlong advance of a herd of these animals when thoroughly aroused by terror.
They care not for their necks.

All danger in front is forgotten, or not seen, in the terror of that from which they fly.

No thundering cataract is more tremendously irresistible than the black bellowing torrent which sometimes pours through the narrow defiles of the Rocky Mountains, or sweeps like a roaring flood over the trembling plains.
The wallowing, to which we have referred, is a luxury usually indulged in during the hot months of summer, when the buffaloes are tormented by flies, and heat, and drought.

At this season they seek the low grounds in the prairies where there is a little stagnant water lying amongst the grass, and the ground underneath, being saturated, is soft.

The leader of the herd, a shaggy old bull, usually takes upon himself to prepare the wallow.
It was a rugged monster of the largest size that did so on the present occasion, to the intense delight of Dick Varley, who begged Joe to lie still and watch the operation before trying to shoot one of the buffalo cows.