He was sitting quietly loading his gun, as cool as a
cucumber, while his horse was dashing forward at full stretch, with
the reins hanging loosely on his neck.
"Ah, Mister Charles," said he, with the least possible grin on his
leathern visage, "that was not well done. You should never hold the
reins when you fire, nor try to put the gun to your shoulder. It
a'n't needful. The beast'll look arter itself, if it's a riglar
buffalo-runner; any ways holdin' the reins is of no manner of use. I
once know'd a gentleman that came out here to see the buffalo-
huntin'. He was a good enough shot in his way, an' a first-rate
rider. But he was full o' queer notions: he _would_ load his gun with
the ramrod in the riglar way, instead o' doin' as we do, tumblin' in
a drop powder, spittin' a ball out your mouth down the muzzle, and
hittin' the stock on the pommel of the saddle to send it home. And he
had them miserable things--the _somethin'_ 'cussion-caps, and used to
fiddle away with them while we were knockin' over the cattle in all
directions. Moreover, he had a notion that it was altogether wrong to
let go his reins even for a moment, and so, what between the ramrod
and the 'cussion-caps and the reins, he was worse than the greenest
clerk that ever came to the country. He gave it up in despair at
last, after lamin' two horses, and finished off by runnin' after a
big bull, that turned on him all of a suddent, crammed its head and
horns into the side of his horse, and sent the poor fellow head over
heels on the green grass.
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