"He waited until the foremost buffalo was just upon him, then gave a leap, clear over his horns, and landed on his back, then turning sharply round so as to face the head instead of the tail, he pulled out his revolver and kept shooting to one side of the buffalo's head, just past his eye, so that at every shot the beast turned a little more to one side, thus cutting him out of the herd. Then, when he was clear of the herd, he shot the buffalo."
"What for?" asked Wilbur indignantly. "It seems a shame to kill the buffalo which had got him free."
"What chance would he have had against an angered buffalo alone and on foot?" said Merritt. "He couldn't very well get off and make a bow to the beast and have the buffalo drop a curtsey?"
"I hadn't thought of that," said the boy, laughing.
"I was afraid I might have to try that dodge, but when I saw the crack in the rock I knew it was all right."
"Well," said Wilbur as they turned off the road to where the pack-horse had been picketed, "I think we're both pretty lucky to have come off so easily."
Merritt looked at the lad. He was dusty and grimy to a degree, his clothes were torn in a dozen places where he had gone rolling down the hill, a handkerchief was roughly knotted around his head, and there were streaks of dried blood in his hair.
"You look a little the worse for wear," he said; "maybe you'd better go home, and I'll go on alone."
"I won't," said Wilbur.
"You what?" came the curt rebuke. "You mean that you would rather not."