“Glory be!” cried Pizen Jane, with an almost hysterical cackle. “The painter has druv ’em off.”
The “painter,” as she called the panther, came on toward the river, not at first seeing the horse midway of the stream. In another moment it would have been cracking the bones of the dead wolves, if the horse had not been startled by its coming and began to plunge in the water, making a good deal of noise.
The panther stopped, throwing up its head and looking down at the horse. It was startled, and seemed too surprised for a moment to move. Then, with a quick leap, it turned aside; and in another instant it, too, was lost to sight in the darkness.
“Glory be!” Pizen Jane mumbled.
Buffalo Bill saw now that she was trembling, as if her nerves were exhausted.
“Shall we ride out now?” he asked.
Before she could answer, the sharp report of a revolver, or rifle, sounded. It was some distance away; yet the stillness which had followed the cessation of the wolf attack made it possible for sounds to carry a long distance. Following the first shot, came others in quick succession.
“Some other pore critter attacked by them varmints!” Pizen Jane interpreted.
“Yes.”
“I hope they don’t git him, if he’s honest and hon’rable; I hope he’s nigh to the water, and can git into it, as we did.”