Lost with Lieutenant Pike / How from the Pawnee Village the boy named Scar Head marched with the young American Chief clear into the Snowy Mountains; how in the dead of winter they searched for the Lost River and thought that they had found it; and how the Spanish Soldiery came upon them and took them down to Santa Fé of New Mexico, where another surprise awaited them

by Edwin L. Sabin

Every eye sprang to search the landscape. There! Far down, upon the prairie! Black dots—slowly moving across! Buffalo! And where were the hunters? Their tracks pointed onward from the two packs. See! They were running, crouched, down among the billowy swells, as if to head the animals off. It was a desperate chance.

“The breeze is with us,” Sergeant Meek cried hopefully. “Quick! For that timber tip, yon, and keep out o’ sight. Trust the cap’n and the doctor to do their best. Let’s take no risk of spoiling their chance.”

The column hustled, with strength renewed. The tip of timber was about a mile distant. The buffalo had disappeared behind a knoll of the prairie; the last seen of the lieutenant and the doctor, they were hastening—stumbling and falling and lunging again, to reach the same knoll. The doctor had forged ahead. He was stronger than the lieutenant.

Then the scene was swallowed up by a dip in the trail to the timber.

Next, a dully-sounding gunshot! But only one. The doctor probably had fired—perhaps at long distance. Had he landed—disabled, or only wounded, or missed? Nothing could yet be seen. The men, and Stub, their lungs almost bursting, shambled as fast as possible. Just as they emerged at the point of timber, other shots boomed: two, close together. Hooray! That meant business. They paused, puffing, to gaze.

Again hooray! Down near the knoll a black spot blotched the snow. At one side of it there were other black spots, some still, some moving in and out. It was the herd, and seemed confused. Look! From the black spot, off by itself—a dead buffalo, that!—smoke puffs darted and spread. The buffalo herd surged a little, but did not run. The lieutenant and the doctor were lying behind the carcass and shooting.

“One, anyway, lads!” cheered Sergeant Meek. “Maybe more. Off with your packs, now. Roy, Mountjoy, Stout, Brown, you cut wood; the rest of us’ll be clearing a space. There’ll be meat in camp before long, and we’ll have fires ready.”

They all worked fast. No one now felt tired. The hunt down below sounded like a battle. The lieutenant and the doctor were firing again and again, as rapidly as they might load and aim. Toiling with ax and spade and hands, the column, making camp, scarcely paused to watch; but presently the firing ceased—the buffalo herd were lumbering away, at last, with one, two, three of them gradually dropping behind, to stagger, waver, and suddenly pitch, dead! Meat, and plenty of it!

The lieutenant and the doctor were busy, butchering the carcass that had shielded them. They wasted no time. Here they came, loaded well. The fires were crackling and blazing, in readiness; and when they panted in, spent, bloody and triumphant, the camp cheered hoarsely.