“If my hoss kin make Black River, yours kin, I reckon.”
“True enough. But the wind is blowing directly from Black River. That’s where the fire is, old man. The nearest water of any size is Bendigo Lake, and the going will be thundering hard on the horses.”
Texas Jack leaped up and exclaimed:
“Hark! what’s that?”
A crashing in the underbrush had startled both men. Some distance away there burst into the glade a fine herd of deer, all running madly. They swept across the scouts’ line of vision and disappeared in another clump of brush, keenly alive to peril in their rear.
“They’ve come a power of a ways in the last half-hour, Jack,” said Buffalo Bill.
“Right you are, Buffler. Guess we’d better light out. Ha! there goes a grayback.”
A lone wolf slunk through the underbrush, gave the two men a sharp look, and then loped away in the same direction as that followed by the deer. But he was not running the deer—oh, no, indeed!
Soon other animals began to drift past the camp of the scouts. The two packed their war-bags, caught their mounts, and prepared to leave the vicinity in short order. By that time, although the evening was closing in, the sky was a mass of ruddy, drifting haze. The fire was advancing with terrific speed, yet it was still so far away that the smoke floated high above the tree tops, and they heard no sound.
“Reckon we kin make it, Bill,” said Texas Jack, as they pricked their mounts along the forest path.