“I have you to thank,” said he, “for giving me a shot at the finest bull I ever saw. What do you think, Dolph?”
The wrinkled veteran shook his head.
“He’s a mighty beast,” said he. “There are not many like him on these prairies, if any.”
In a half hour the herd of buffalo had so scattered over the plain that the hunters had brought down a dozen or so in all; and as the ponies were tired by the sharp work, and they had no desire uselessly to slaughter the bison, they halted in the pursuit and returned to the place where their leader had been left.
“Well,” said Crockett, “we’ve had a very good little hunt of it while it lasted. And now if we’re going to have any of the meat, we’d better set about it and then be on our way.”
They cut sufficient tender meat from the carcass of a yearling which old Dolph had been careful to shoot for just that purpose, and with this carefully packed, they resumed their journey toward the southwest.
The day’s ride was filled with “buffalo” talk; and the camp-fire that night saw a roasting of juicy strips of the yearling’s meat and a fervent wishing that the party might fall in with such royal sport at least once more before they had reached their journey’s end.
Next day they crossed the Brazos; and a few days further the Colorado came in sight. As they caught the sheen of its waters under the afternoon sun, they also caught the glint of something harder.
“Cold steel,” said Crockett, shading his eyes with both hands, and looking keenly ahead.
A party of almost a score of horsemen were advancing, the sun striking their rifle barrels. But it was the glitter of the points of long lances they carried that had attracted the attention of the band under Crockett.