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As Bulon plunged madly at his enemy, the man darted to one side, and Bulon crashed into the bush, running the cruel thorns into his nose and eyes, and tumbling head over heels with the impetus.
But, after a great clashing of horns, stamping of hoofs, and sharp snorts and grunts, Bulon's opponent began to breathe heavily and show signs of distress, and when this took place the fight soon came to an end. Bulon followed up his advantage with true buffalo skill, and in a very short time his enemy was in the dust and panting out his life.
Bulon, the leader of the herd, glanced from under his shaggy brows, first at the birds and then at the buffaloes; his wild fiery eyes were blood-red, and his shaggy mane and almost hairless shanks for he was getting old showed unmistakable signs of a recent fight.
In an almost incredible time the buffaloes were out of sight, except a few unfortunate mothers and little ones who, having once stumbled, lost their lives by being trampled to death by the others. This was the reason that Bulon, with all his bellowings of rage, pain and distress, received no answer to his cries, and could find no one of his fellow-creatures to give him comfort.
The birds, however, having given warning of approaching danger, the males stationed themselves in an irregular circle in all the most dangerous positions having first put the mothers and calves in the middle while Bulon stood a little apart and kept his wicked little eyes first on the herd and then on the birds.
The moment Bulon caught sight of his enemy he made a mad rush, and as he plunged violently he splashed and covered the traveler with thick mud, which nearly blinded him. Unfortunately, Bulon was in a soft spot, and the more he wallowed the deeper he sank in the mud. But he made one grand struggle, and, getting a slight grasp, he floundered up and made another wild dash at his enemy.
In times gone by no one would have dared to interfere with Bulon, unless, perhaps, the leader of some other herd, for in those days his strength had been magnificent, and even lions and tigers quailed before him. But old age was creeping on, which the other buffaloes realized only too quickly.
The fight once over, the herd moved on, leaving the dying buffalo by himself, for, in animal life, the old, sick or decrepit, are always treated with contempt. Bulon led the way until they reached a nice, muddy swamp.
His own particular herd had forgotten all about him long before this, and had chosen a new leader a young, strong, vigorous male, who was looked up to and respected far more than Bulon had been during the last few months of his life, for the buffaloes had already begun to realize that Bulon was getting old, and had been losing their respect for him accordingly. His day had passed.
His massive shoulders and sturdy limbs were shrinking a little, while his tough, thick skin was now almost hairless, except for his mane and a thin fringe on his back and withers. But, in spite of his age and diminished strength, Bulon had won the day. It had seemed doubtful at first, very doubtful, and some of the herd had looked on with interest, but with grave doubts as to the result.
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