Along the broad, trampled track of the buffalo rode the hunters, their eyes ahead to catch the first glimpse of the game.
“Some ponies don’t like the smell of buffalo,” said Dolph; “and they are hard to get up to a herd. Others again don’t care anything about them and are likely to run you into danger if you don’t look out. The best kind of a horse is the kind that understands what you are about—that the thing’s a hunt—that there’s a time for getting in close, and a time for getting away.”
“I suppose,” said Walter, “they must be trained to that.”
“Mostly, yes,” said Dolph. “But not always. Some mustangs take to the thing naturally. This one that I’m riding is one of that kind. He knows all about buffalo. But it may be that none of the others know anything. So give one eye to the game and the other to your pony.”
It was about noon that they sighted the herd; far off on the plains the great shaggy beasts were grazing on the dry grass, scattered over a great extent of country. The hunters halted at the first glimpse of them, and held a consultation.
“The wind is dead from the west,” said Crockett.
“It’d be well if some of us stayed here,” said old Dolph, “and if some others rode around to the east, and others to the north. Then at a signal—say a rifle shot—we could all ride down on them from three directions and scatter them all over the prairie.”
This was considered a good idea. So Dolph and two of the men were left at the halting place and the other five pushed around to the east. Here Jed Curley and one other man were left; Crockett and the two boys held on until they reached a point south of the grazing buffalo.
The great animals were slowly moving about upon the range, never suspecting that their hunters were so close at hand.
“All ready?” asked Colonel Crockett.