“It hardly seems possible, and yet—would the members of four different tribes tell a story so nearly alike, without they had at least a foundation of truth to go upon?”
“That's right. And yet—the inland sea sounds natural enough. We know, too, that there are such things as underground rivers, outside of Jules Verne's yarns. But those animals,—or reptiles,—which?”
“Both, I believe,” answered Bruno, with a subdued laugh.
“That's all right, old man. I never was worth a continental when it came to such things. I prefer to live in the present, and so—well, now, will you just look at that old cow!”
In surprise Waldo pointed across to where a bovine shape showed not far beyond the pool at the base of the miniature waterfall; but his brother had a fairer view, and, instantly divining the truth, grasped an arm and hastily whispered:
“Hush, boy; can't you see? It's a buffalo, a hill buffalo, and—”
“Quick! the guns are in the machine! Down, Bruno, and maybe we can get a shot and—”
His eager whisper was cut short, though not by grip of arm or act by his brother. A rumbling roar broke forth from the further side of that mountain stream, and as the dense bushes beyond were violently agitated, the hill buffalo wheeled that way with marvellous rapidity.
Just as a long head and mighty shoulders spread the shrubbery wide apart, jaws opening and lips curling back to lay great teeth bare, while another angry sound, half growl, half snort, only too clearly proclaimed that monster of the mountains, a grizzly bear.
“Smoke o' sacrifice!” gasped Waldo, as the grizzly suddenly upreared its mighty bulk, head wagging, paws waving in queer fashion, lolling tongue lending the semblance of drollery rather than viciousness.