It was stamped on the receiver "Sharps Old Reliable," and it was a .45 caliber, described as .45-120-550 -- which means the bore was 45/1000 in diameter, the powder load was 120 grains, and the lead slug it propelled weighed 550 grains. That would be something, I told myself; yes, that would be! And I knew when I read about it the first time, my life would be blighted until I owned one. So I bought one.
There was one more chapter in my life as a buffalo runner, however. My last buffalo. There had to be a first, and there had to be a last. I have already told you about my first, how I shot a tough old bull and thus contracted buffalo fever. Well, my last victim was likewise a tough old bull. It was up on the Musselshell in Wyoming. I was up there hunting elk when I topped a draw and saw him, strayed from the herd. He was a pitiful object, old, decrepit, and sick. Already coyotes were around him, licking their chops in anticipation of the feed which would come, once he dropped, which he was sure to do very shortly. I saved him the trouble. I set the trigger on my old .40-90, aimed at his neck. It was just like old times, to have a buffalo in the stadia hairs, and maybe my heart leaped a little bit. I touched the delicate trigger, and the gun roared. He fell. He never knew what struck him.
Nearby was a herd of twelve fine cows, all of which I could have easily killed. But I didn't even shoot one. My buffalo days were over. I had harvested the last of the crop.
Check out this history at the link:
http://www.pbs.org/weta/thewest/resources/archives/five/buffalo.htm
Great history of one of the great "Buffalo Runners" - Frank Mayer
There was one more chapter in my life as a buffalo runner, however. My last buffalo. There had to be a first, and there had to be a last. I have already told you about my first, how I shot a tough old bull and thus contracted buffalo fever. Well, my last victim was likewise a tough old bull. It was up on the Musselshell in Wyoming. I was up there hunting elk when I topped a draw and saw him, strayed from the herd. He was a pitiful object, old, decrepit, and sick. Already coyotes were around him, licking their chops in anticipation of the feed which would come, once he dropped, which he was sure to do very shortly. I saved him the trouble. I set the trigger on my old .40-90, aimed at his neck. It was just like old times, to have a buffalo in the stadia hairs, and maybe my heart leaped a little bit. I touched the delicate trigger, and the gun roared. He fell. He never knew what struck him.
Nearby was a herd of twelve fine cows, all of which I could have easily killed. But I didn't even shoot one. My buffalo days were over. I had harvested the last of the crop.
Check out this history at the link:
http://www.pbs.org/weta/thewest/resources/archives/five/buffalo.htm
Great history of one of the great "Buffalo Runners" - Frank Mayer