“In all the papers, monsieur.”
“You offered a high price?”
“I did. It was to no purpose. I could not have procured a white buffalo’s skin if I had offered ten times as much. I could not have got it for a thousand dollars.”
“I would give five thousand!”
“It would have been all the same, monsieur. It is not to be had in Saint Louis.”
“What says Monsieur Choteau?”
“That there is but little chance of finding what you want. A man, he says, may travel all over the prairies without meeting with a white buffalo. The Indians prize them beyond anything, and never let one escape when they chance to fall in with it. I found two or three among the fur packs of the traders; but they were not what you desire, monsieur. They were robes; and even for them a large sum was asked.”
“They would be of no use. It is wanted for a different purpose—for a great museum. Ah! I fear I cannot obtain it. If not to be had in Saint Louis, where else?”
“Where else, papa?” interrupted François, who, with his brothers, had stood listening to the above dialogue. “Where else, but on the prairies?”
“On the prairies!” mechanically echoed his father.