“Waugh! Buffler, this ’mences ter look like life was wuth livin’ er dyin’, ary one. Snarlin’ catermounts! I feels et in my ole bones thet ther fur’s goin’ ter fly ’fore these sage brushes git ter be plum trees.”
“Let’s be off,” said the scout quietly, selecting the best pony by going among them and feeling of their heads and ears for intelligence and their bodies and legs for endurance.
“Better turn the other two loose, hadn’t we, Nomad?” he asked.
“Shore we don’t want no extra hosses ter bother with—them’s my notions,” answered the trapper.
Buffalo Bill removed the lariats from two of the ponies, and giving each a sharp slap sent them scurrying out on the plain.
“I hope they’ll get a good rest and take on fat before the Indians pick them up,” he said.
The scout and his party struck the valley to the northward of the encampment, and came to the little stream which Hickok had found the previous night. In a thicket they left the horses and moved down toward the twinkling fires.
When near enough they saw that it was a special occasion in the camp, and they kept close to the stream because of the growth along its banks. They saw the dancing, and heard the shouting of the warriors, and then they drew near enough to discover that it was the celebration of a successful buffalo hunt.
For some time they watched the animated night scene, and Cayuse was just stealing away intending to enter the heart of the camp to hear what was the gist of the harangues, when there was a commotion only a few rods from them down the stream, followed by the report of a rifle.
Instantly the scene in the camp changed from riotous hilarity to one of consternation and excited inquiries. Everywhere there were shouts and running about.