Her landing place was soft, a bank of snow blown in among the branches of a fallen tree. She was not injured. The breath had been knocked from her; that was all. And this was fortunate. It gave her time to think.
Having thought, she lay quite still. She was, she believed, quite covered with snow. The buffalo, who was snorting and bellowing in an alarming fashion, would find her only by stepping on her.
“The branches will keep him back. I am safe.” She whispered, scarcely daring to breathe.
A moment passed; another and another. Still the snorting and roaring continued.
Then a curious thing happened. A rifle shot rang out in the night. The buffalo went crashing away through the bush. Then followed a silence.
“A rifle,” she whispered to herself. “There is no rifle in our camp.”
She was delivered from one peril, only to be threatened by another. She was far from camp, and there were strangers about.
Five minutes more she lay there. Then, feeling the drowsy sleep of the North coming upon her, she cast aside the snow, to leap to her feet and go speeding away toward the camp.
Ten minutes later she burst into camp, exclaiming:
“A buffalo treed me! I jumped on his back. A stranger shot at him.”