“See ’em?” said Billy, pointing. “That’s a big herd. Thousands of ’em. Hurray for fresh meat.”
Ahead, between the river at one side and some sand bluffs at the other, a black mass, of groups as thick as gooseberry bushes, had appeared. The mass was in slow motion, as the groups grazed hither and thither. On the edges, black dots told of buffaloes feeding out from the main body. There must have been thousands of the buffalo. Davy had seen other herds but none so large as this one. His blood tingled—especially when Lew Simpson, the wagon boss came galloping back.
“Ride on, some of you men,” he shouted. “There’s meat. You whackers follow along by the trail and be on hand when we’re butchering.”
“I can’t go, can I?” appealed Davy, eagerly, to Billy.
“No; you haven’t any gun,” answered Billy. “I’m going, though. I can kill as many buffalo as anybody. You watch us.”
Forward galloped Lew Simpson and Billy and twenty others. From a wagon George Woods, his shoulder bandaged and painful, stuck out his head, and lamented the fact that he was too sore to ride. The buffalo hunt promised to be great sport; and, besides, the fresh meat would be a welcome change.
So away the hunters galloped, Lew Simpson and little Billy leading. The train, guarded by the other men, followed, closely watching. Even the very rear of it was excited.
Now arose another cry, passing from mouth to mouth.
“Lookee there! More hunters!”
That was so. Beyond the buffalo, up along the river were speeding another squad of horsemen, evidently intent upon the same prey. They were coursing rapidly, but already the buffalo had seen them, and with uplifted heads the farthest animals were gazing, alarmed.