Toward noon his eye found a place where the buffalo had rubbed its back on an outcropping of stone. Old Bear trembled as he looked at the stone. Caught in the chinks of rock and fallen to the grass, here and there, were coarse hairs from the animal. These hairs were white. Old Bear had found, at last, the trail of the white buffalo, the Medicine Buffalo. He had seen the old robes that proved such animals existed, but he had never spoken to a man who had seen one alive.
Without stopping to eat or drink, Old Bear urged his pony ahead in the hunt. At last, near dusk, he saw the animal shambling along in front of him. It was a thin, shaggy buffalo, an old animal, a bull, one ready to die. It didn’t hear him nor did it smell him.
Old Bear, heart pounding, strung his bow quickly; he fitted the long buffalo arrow to the string.
Trembling, Old Bear edged his pony close to the old animal, until they were side by side.
The old bull, its wide, pale eyes understanding nothing, watched Old Bear draw his bow taut. For a long time Old Bear held the bow taut, the arrow poised over the heart of the bull. He watched the shaggy white hair lift and fall with the beating of the heart; he listened to the buffalo’s slow hard breathing; he watched the muscles of its neck swell and fall.
At last Old Bear lowered his arm, slowly relaxing the bow. “Old Warrior,” he said, “do not be afraid. I will not kill you.”
Old Bear unstrung his bow and put the long buffalo arrow back in his quiver. Then he turned his pony and began to ride slowly away, leaving behind him the thin, shaggy bull. The animal stood, its hoofs planted wide in the dust, watching him go. There would be no white robe in the lodge of Old Bear. The time of the white robes was gone.
Gone too were the days of painted horses and the feathers of eagles; the days of Kills-His-Horse and of Drum, his son; Old Bear lifted his hands to the sky; the Messiah had not come; the wire remained on the prairie; the buffalo had not returned. Tears from the eyes of the old man fell in the mane of his pony.
Weeping he rode from the place where he had found and spared the white buffalo.
He would go home now, letting the white buffalo go where it might, untroubled, eating what grass and drinking what water it could.
He rode away, weeping.
He would go home now. The hunt was done.