Not much time had passed; no, not a quarter of a minute, since the mule had fallen and had left Davy to the buffalo. The wagon train men were yelling and running, from the one direction; the hunters were yelling and riding, from the other; and whether they were yelling and hurrying on his account, Davy could not look, to see. Down had dropped the bull’s huge shaggy head, up had flirted his little knobbed tail; and on he came.
Davy never knew how he managed—he dimly heard another outburst of confused shouts, amidst which Billy Cody’s voice rang the clearest, with “Dodge him, Red! This way, this way!” He did not dare to glance aside, and he felt that it was not much use to run; but in a twinkling he peeled off the crimson shirt (which was so large for him) and throwing it, sprang aside.
Into the shirt plunged the big bull, and tossed it and rammed it and trampled it, while Davy watched amazed, ready to run off.
“Bully for you, Red!” sang out a familiar voice; riding hard to Davy’s side dashed Billy Cody, on lathered mule; he levelled his yager, it spoke, the big bull started and stiffened, as if stung. Slowly he swayed and yielded, with a series of grunts sinking down, and down; from his knees he rolled to his side; and there he lay, not breathing.
IV
VISITING BILLY CODY
“All right, Red,” panted Billy Cody. “He’s spoiled your shirt, though. Lucky you weren’t inside it. Say, that was a smart trick you did. Get up behind me. The wagon train’s in a heap of trouble. Let’s go over there.”
Davy’s knees were shaking and he could not speak; he was ashamed to seem so frightened, but he clambered aboard the mule, behind the saddle. Away Billy spurred for the wagon train. Other hunters were spurring in the same direction.