The Americans were led by the chief, who directed them out of the village and toward the stream near which the beast stayed. The trail they followed was overgrown somewhat by the heavy plant growth, indicating that it had not been in use for some time.
Joe carried a camera, while Bob, as the best shot of the two, had a high-powered rifle. Both youths looked ahead in eager anticipation.
“Here’s hoping I can get a good picture of him,” said Joe, keeping his camera in readiness. “Movies of a buffalo hunt! Sounds good, doesn’t it?”
“And I’m going to try to be the gink that pots him off,” came from Bob, inspecting his rifle. “He won’t live long if he gets one of these high-velocity bullets in his hide.”
Mr. Holton looked around.
“Don’t take any chances, Son,” he warned. “Better not fire till Ben or I give the word. There’s nothing quite as bad as a wounded buffalo.”
Bob looked at his chum and groaned.
“Guess the honor won’t go to me after all,” he said.
It was a distance of about a half mile to the stream. The hunting party made good time, reaching the stream before anyone had expected.
“Now where’s that buffalo?” queried Joe, as he pushed the release on his movie camera.