A shout came from the far edge of the restless ranks. A half-naked rider waved a blanket. With shrill shouts the entire line broke at top speed for the ridge.
Neither of the two young Americans had ever engaged in the sport of running the buffalo; yet now the excitement of the scene caused both to forget all else. They urged on their horses, mingling with the savage riders.
The buffalo had been feeding less than a quarter of a mile away; the wind was favorable, and they had not yet got scent of the approach; but now, as the line of horsemen broke across the crest, the herd streamed out and away from them—crude, huge, formless creatures, with shaggy heads held low, their vast bulk making them seem almost like prehistoric things. The dust of their going arose in a blinding cloud, the thunder of their hoofs left inaudible even the shrill cries of the riding warriors as they closed in.
The chase passed outward into an open plain, which lay white in alkali. In a few moments the swift horses had carried the best of the riders deep into the dust-cloud which arose. Each man followed some chosen animal, doing his best to keep it in sight as the herd plowed onward in the biting dust.
Here and there the vast, solid surface of a sea of rolling backs could be glimpsed; again an opening into it might be seen close at hand. It was bold work, and any who engaged in it took his chances.
Lewis found his horse, the black runner that Weucha had given him, as swift as the best, and able to lay him promptly alongside his quarry. At a distance of a few feet he drew back the sinewy string of the tough Sioux bow, gripping his horse with his knees, swaying his body out to the bow, as he well knew how. The shaft, discharged at a distance of but half a dozen feet, sank home with a soft zut. The stricken animal swerved quickly toward him, but his wary horse leaped aside and went on. Such as the work had been, it was done for that buffalo at least, and Lewis knew that he had caught the trick.
The black runner singled out another and yet another; and again and again Lewis shot—until at last, his arrows nearly exhausted, after two or three miles of mad speed, he pulled out of the herd and waited.
In the white dust-cloud, lifted now and then, he could see naked forms swaying, bending forward, plying their weapons. Somewhere in the midst of it, out in the ruck of hoof and horn, his friend was riding, forgetting all else but the excitement of the chase. What if accident had befallen either of them? Lewis could not avoid asking himself that question.
Now the riders edged through the herd, outward, around its flank—turned it, were crowding it back, milling and confused. Out of the dust emerged two figures, naked, leaning forward to the leaping of their horses. One was an Indian, his black locks flowing, his eyes gleaming, his hand flogging his horse as he rode. The other was a white man, his tall white body splashed with blood, his long red hair, broken from his cue, on his shoulders.