The young man replied in the affirmative, and as the herd was yet some distance off, he walked his horse to the trapper’s side, and stood talking with him and Marion Verne.
The herd came on grandly. It numbered only three or four hundred, and was passing to the right of the camp, at the distance of half a mile. As the first of the herd came opposite, Vic Potter gave the signal, and the half-dozen mounted men dashed toward them.
There was no evidence in the herd that they were seen or noticed until they were very close, when some agitation in the outskirts, and running to and fro, showed they were discovered.
The hunters rode steadily abreast until within about twenty-five yards of the herd, when they separated and broke into it.
Vic Potter selected a large cow, and brought her down at the first shot. Leaving her, he dashed after an old bull, which showed symptoms of fight, and charged his horse several times. He succeeded, after considerable trouble and several shots, in bringing him to the ground.
Meantime the herd had passed on, leaving an immense cloud of dust, and the hunters were preparing to cut up such of the game as they desired. Vic Potter tied his horse to the horns of the cow he had secured, and then looked around for his companions. All were near except Wayne Kent. The trapper raised himself and gazed earnestly down the valley.
Far away toward the south-east he descried a small, moving object. One whose eyes were less keen would never have seen it. The trapper shook his head at the sight.
“The boy’s chasin’ a buffler, an’ he’s lettin’ his excitement run away with his reason. Don’t he see thet the sun is down, an’ he’s plump tew miles from camp, an’ goin’ like mad? He’s a new hand on the plains, an’ don’t know nothin’ about Injun ways. Like as not they’ll gobble him up.”
Muttering away, the hunter continued to watch the fast-receding figure, until distance, and the fast-gathering dusk, hid it from view.
Then, after securing the choicest portions of the cow, he returned with the others to the camp.