The two four-pounders trundled along their rumbling way, only one man to each gun, the rest of their crews off with the advance guard. Tom glanced at the all but deserted weapons and frowned. Franklin, noticing it, frowned in reply. It was not because full cannon crews were needed on this part of the trail, but because both men knew that it would be the same all the way.
After the last wagon had passed, Tom and his companion rode forth and turned when half a mile from the column, riding ahead on a course parallel with it. The prairie was studded with the earlier flowers of spring, in some places a rich carpet of delicate colors. Suddenly Tom pointed to a gray object nearly covered with earth, dried grass of the year before, and the fresh greenery of this season's slender blades pushing up through it.
"Buffalo skull," he explained. "Let's look at it; it may tell us something interesting."
They rode close to it and the plainsman nodded in quick understanding.
"That bull was killed by an Indian," he said. "Notice that it faces the west? They place them that way to propitiate their gods. A skull hardly lasts more than three years on the prairie, which means that this animal was killed about that long ago. It is more than likely that he was an old, renegade bull, wandering far from the herd to die alone. The significant fact is, however, that not more than three years ago he grazed here and was here killed by an Indian; coupled to that is another significant fact, about one hundred thousand buffalo skins are taken to the settlements every year. Remembering both those facts and adding another, that it will be some days before we see even such a bull on the very outskirts of the buffalo range, what does it mean? And here is a fact I nearly overlooked; those hundred thousand skins taken each year are from cow buffalo." He shook his head sadly. "The day of the buffalo, countless as their numbers still are, is fast setting. Their range is shrinking hour by hour, almost; and a comparatively few years more will see them gone. Wait till you witness the brainless slaughter when the herds are met with. Ah, well, we are a prodigal race, Miss Cooper, spending our natural heritage with almost a drunken recklessness. If it were drunken there might be found some excuse for us; but we are doing it in our sober senses. Excuse me, when I get to thinking along those lines I'm afraid I get a little fanatical. There's something more interesting," he said, pointing to the north. "See it?"
After a moment's intense scrutiny she shook her head, and looked up at him inquiringly.
"I forget that you haven't a plainsman's eyes," he laughed, "accustomed to focussing for long distances. Why, over there, well beyond that series of flat-topped prairie swells, is a red handkerchief waving lazily in the air. It is fastened to a ramrod, and I'm willing to bet that it belongs to Hank Marshall. He has been grumbling about a steady diet of bacon. Now that we are getting into antelope country, his disappearance from his trained mules is easily explained. I can promise you and Uncle Joe antelope meat tonight. He never would have planted that flag if he hadn't seen his victim; and while we are a long way off, let's ride on so he won't be able to blame us if he fails to get his shot."
Patience was laughing heartily, and hurriedly explained the cause of her mirth.
"I saw him tie the bell to that old mule's neck. The sudden pride she showed, the quick alertness of the other seven, and the satisfaction shared equally by the mules and your partner was one of the most ludicrous sights I've ever seen. When Uncle Joe, who was in his best vein, explained the whole affair, I laughed until I cried. Is it true that the seven worshipers won't leave her?"
Tom, laughing in sympathy with her mirth, nodded. "Picket her, with her bell on, and we can let the others graze without hobbles or ropes. They won't leave her. Don't ask me why, for if you do I can only answer by saying that they have been trained that way; why it is possible for them to be trained in such a way, and so easily, is beyond me. When we left Independence Hank and I caught many a scornful glance directed at our atejo, for I must confess that it was made up of eight scarecrows; but handsome is as handsome does, and now our pack train troubles are confined solely to packing and unpacking the animals. We don't even have to remember what pack or aparejo belongs to each mule; they know their own unerringly, and will shower kicks on any careless or stupid companion who blunders up to the wrong pack. Perhaps you've heard that mules are stupid; that's something that you can discount heavily. They are stupid only when it serves their purpose." He laughed again. "We have one mule that takes a thrashing every morning, regular as a clock. Hank calls him 'Dummy,' but I am not sure that he is well named. I can't decide whether he is dumb or perverse. But the fact remains that he never selects his own pack, and gets kicked along the line until he reaches it by elimination. I shall enjoy studying him as we go along."