Ned flattened himself as flat as a horned toad or a lizard, and motionless, watched. He did not dare to stir his head, he dared scarcely to breathe. Indians, as well he knew, had eyes very keen for any movements against the surface of the ground.
The buffalo was running gallantly—head down, tail curved, heavy fore-quarters propelled by light hind-quarters. In its rear pursued the hunter. Ned, peering through a screen of weeds, fastened eyes upon him to read him. He wore a hat; good! He wore a shirt or coat; pretty good! He held a revolver; very good! He rode like a white man; hurrah!
Heart beating afresh, Ned waited a minute longer, to make certain.
How the buffalo ran! How the hunter rode! It was a big bull buffalo. Ned could see his shaggy head, like a lion’s; he fancied that he could see his tongue as it hung foamy and red; almost could he see his glaring eyeballs and hear his panting breath. The horseman—yes, he was white!—was leaning forward, lifting his long-legged bay to the race. His right hand held high a heavy revolver, his left hand gathered the loosely drawn reins; his broad-brimmed hat flared in the breeze that he made; his hair, yellow and free, streamed backward. He gave a wild, exultant halloo, and his horse, lengthening with leap after leap, fairly was eating the space to the straining, lumbering quarry. It took a fast horse to do this; but the buffalo was wounded, for now from his red tongue was dripping something redder still.
Ned had just concluded that the hunter must be a soldier, for his trousers-seams, showing between boot-tops and shirt or coat, bore broad stripes, when he realized also that this chase, like the rest of the chase, was passing his wallow; and that if he did not make himself known he would not be seen. Another minute, and buffalo and rider would be by, and the chances were small that they ever would notice such a small thing as he, behind them. With a spring, out rushed Ned; waving his arms and calling, he ran forward across the prairie.
His thoughts and eyes were on the rider—that white man rider. He was regardless of the buffalo, now—but the buffalo proved not regardless of him. Into the very path of the onward scouring chase went Ned, waving and shouting; and veering at sharp tangent the buffalo instantly charged for him. The buffalo’s little tail flicked up, in half-cocked manner, his shaggy head dropped lower, and he made a savage lunge at what he thought was a new enemy.
Ned paused not for parley. An enraged buffalo bull coming full tilt won’t listen to talk, and the fact that Ned was only a boy made no difference to this big fellow. In a sideways jump Ned dodged and turned and made for his wallow again.
This seemed the thing to do. Now he forgot about the rider and thought about the buffalo. He had small hope of beating him, for a buffalo can run as fast as an ordinary horse and this buffalo was very angry. Ned imagined that the hot breath of the great animal was burning his back—that the hard stubby horns were grazing him there; his legs were weak and his feet heavy; and nervously glancing behind him, as he ran, he stumbled, sprawling head over heels. When he should stop rolling, then what?
He stopped, and scrambling for his feet he looked quickly, poised on hands and knees, before he should rise. His next movements depended upon the buffalo. The buffalo had halted, as if surprised. He was almost towering over, so huge he stood; he was surveying Ned, his matted hump high, his bearded hairy head low again, his tongue dripping crimson froth, his red-streaked eye-balls standing out amidst his matted locks, his throat rumbling, his forehoofs flinging the dirt in defiance. As soon as he could debate a little over what had upset his new enemy, he would charge again.