“Who’ll begin shooting?”
“Those Indians.”
Griggs turned in his saddle to look wonderingly at the speaker, and then his features began to relax, but grew hard again at once, and he said quietly—
“Oh, I see—shoot at us. Why, they’re doing that now, and making bulls’-eyes.”
“What do you mean?” cried Chris sharply. “What have I said? Here, Ned, he’s laughing at us.”
“That I wasn’t,” cried Griggs. “I only nearly smiled. Why, do you mean to tell me that you don’t know what those are?”
“Indians, aren’t they? Blackheads or blackfeet—I don’t know.”
“That’s very evident,” said Griggs grimly. “Why, they’re buffaloes—bisons, staring at us with their heads just above the grass.”
“Oh–h–h!” cried Chris. “So they are.”
“Then they mean beef,” cried Ned excitedly.