“There hasn’t been no such critters as them in Tennessee for many a year,” said he. “And I’d like pretty well to have a shot or two at them before we leave this country behind.”
Both Walter and Ned eagerly assented to this. The mighty bison appealed to them as a worthy subject for the chase.
“Let’s have a try at them now,” said Ned.
But Crockett smiled in his droll fashion.
“It’s not so easy as you seem to think, youngster,” said he. “It won’t do to mount horse and ride out after game like that. They know what a horseman is, and they know what a rifle means when it speaks. And they are as shy as antelope, for all their size. You’ve got to get to windward of them or they’ll scent you; and once they do that they are off like sixty.”
Crockett had no sooner uttered the last words than there came a queer shrilling sound such as neither of the boys had ever heard before, followed by a sudden shock of one body striking against another.
“Indians!” cried Davy Crockett as he threw himself flat upon the ground, his rifle in his hands, his keen eyes searching the green of the noonday prairie.
“Look!” said Ned Chandler, as he and Walter crouched low.
Walter looked in the direction indicated by his friend’s pointing finger. There, quivering in the trunk of a tree, was a long Indian arrow.
“So that’s what it was,” said young Jordan, drawing in his breath sharply. “Look, Ned, it’s sunk an inch into the wood. It’s good the red rascal made a bad shot of it.”