We came to the spot where I had killed the two buffaloes, and to my surprise I saw that the body of the old bull was gone, leaving a broad trail of crushed grass that led to the adjoining thicket.
“I thought you had made sure both bulls were dead,” Rattler exclaimed. “The big one must have had some life in him.”
“Think so?” I asked.
“Of course, unless you think a dead buffalo can take himself off.”
“Must he have taken himself off? Perhaps it was done for him.”
“Yes, but who did it?”
“Possibly Indians; we saw an Indian’s footprint over yonder.”
“You don’t say! How well a greenhorn can explain things!” sneered Rattler. “If it was done by Indians, where do you think they came from? Dropped from the skies? Because if they came from anywhere else we’d see their tracks. No, there was life in that buffalo, and he crawled into the thicket, where he must have died. I’m going to look for him.”
He started off, followed by his men. He may have expected me to go, too, but it was far from my thoughts, for I did not like the way he had spoken. I wanted to work, and did not care a button what had become of the old bull. So I went back to my employment, and had only just taken up the measuring-rod, when a cry of horror rang from the thicket, two, three shots echoed, and then I heard Rattler cry: “Up the tree, quick! up the tree, or you’re lost! he can’t climb.”
Who could not climb? One of Rattler’s men burst out of the thicket, writhing like one in mortal agony.