To aim at the head is a waste of ammunition.
As the bull went down, out from the herd came a cow, and a second shot accounted for her.

The others, a second cow and two yearlings, were the work of a few moments; then I left Ooblooyah and Koolatoonah to skin and cut them up, while Egingwah and I started for the single animal, a couple of miles away.
As the dogs approached this fellow, he launched up the hill and disappeared over a nearby crest.

The light surface snow along the path he had taken was brushed away by the long, matted hair of his sides and belly, which hung down to the ground.
The dogs had disappeared after the musk-ox, but Egingwah and myself were guided by their wild barking.

Our quarry had taken refuge among the huge rocks in the bottom of a stream-bed, where his rear and both sides were protected, and there he stood at bay with the yelping dogs before him.
One shot was enough; and leaving Egingwah to skin and cut up the animal, I started to walk back to the other two men, as it had been decided to camp at the place where they were cutting up the five musk-oxen.

But as I emerged from the mouth of the canon, I saw up the valley still another of the big, black shaggy forms.