"I do not think so," replied Bob, considerably relieved at not discovering a horde of dusky figures rushing toward them, as he had feared would be the case.
Nor did they notice any signs of enemies around them. Sandy insisted upon going over to the spot where the Indian had dropped his bow and arrow, at the time he received Bob's bullet in his arm.
"Some of them might refuse to believe that we had met a real Indian, and got the better of him," he said, after picking up his trophies; "but these will be the proof."
"Let us go on," observed Bob, who had now finished the labor of recharging his gun.
"Then you do not mean to give up looking for game?" asked Sandy, eagerly.
"Why should we?" observed his brother, sturdily. "That Indian has run off, and we need fear nothing further from him. Perhaps there is no other within miles of this spot, and we need fresh meat very much. If my shot has not frightened everything away, we may get a chance at a deer yet."
"Perhaps a buffalo!" remarked Sandy, with eagerness in his voice; for as yet no one in the company had been successful in shooting a specimen of those huge, shaggy monsters, about which they had heard so much, and whose beaten trails they followed so persistently in making their way.
They kept on, Bob careful all the while to observe the direction they took, for he did not wish to get lost. He was moving up against the wind, so that even the most suspicious game might not scent their presence.
"Look! What is that?" whispered Sandy, as they made their way through a screen of bushes, and some bulky object was observed trotting along ahead.
"A buffalo at last! Get ready, and we will fire together!" said Bob, trying to stifle his excitement as he dropped on one knee, the better to aim his gun.