We ride up and dismount. The bull is still quivering, bloody foam snorting from its nostrils.
“Ain’t never seen a buff by hisself before,” Ezra says, “And Two Feathers says that herd to the west ain’t but twenty head.”
He spits out a glob of tobacco. “Time is running past men like us, young Davy.”
I look at the dying buffalo and nod in agreement.