They had not been at work above an hour before a couple more Indians came into sight, and soon after, to his great delight, Bart recognised Joses and the Beaver coming slowly over a ridge in the distance, and he cantered off to meet them at once.
“Thought we lost you, Master Bart,” cried Joses, with a grim smile. “Well, how many bufflers did you shoot?”
“Only one,” replied Bart, “but it was a very big fellow.”
“Calf?” asked Joses, laughing.
“No; that great bull that came over the ridge.”
“You don’t mean to say you ran him down, lad, and shot him, do you?” cried Joses, excitedly.
“There he lies, and the Indians are cutting him up,” said Bart quietly.
Joses pressed his horse’s sides with his heels, and went off at a gallop to inspect Bart’s prize, coming back in a few minutes smiling all over his face.
“He’s a fine one, my lad. He’s a fine one, Master Bart—finest shot to-day. I tell you what, my lad, if I’d shot that great bull I should have thought myself a lucky man.”
As he spoke he pointed to the spot, and the Beaver cantered off to have his look, and he now came back ready to nod and say a few commendatory words to the young hunter, whom they considered to have well won his spurs.