His first bullet struck just behind the shoulders; the herd started and looked around, but the bull merely lifted his head and took a step forward, his tail curled up over his back.

The next bullet likewise struck fair, nearly in the same place, telling with a loud "pack!" against the thick hide, and making the dust fly up from the matted hair.

Instantly the great bull wheeled and charged in headlong anger, while the herd fled in the opposite direction.

On the bare prairie, with no spot of refuge, it was useless to try to escape, and the hunter, with reloaded rifle, waited until the bull was not far off, then drew up his weapon and fired.
Either he was nervous, or the bull at the moment bounded over some obstacle, for the bullet went a little wild; nevertheless, by good luck, it broke a fore-leg, and the great beast came crashing to the earth, and was slain before it could struggle to its feet.
Two days after this even, a war party of Comanches swept down along the river.

They "jumped" a neighboring camp, killing one man and wounding two more, and at the same time ran off all but three of the horses belonging to our eight adventurers.