An hour later they chanced upon the track of a small herd of buffaloes.
"It is fresh, too," declared Sandy, after he had dropped down on hands and knees to examine the marks of split hoofs.
"Then here is our meat, if we are lucky enough to get within shooting distance," declared Bob, looking carefully to the priming of his flintlock musket, as was the universal habit with the pioneers of the days of Boone, since a lack of powder at that point, when the hammer came down, and sparks flew into the pan, would cause a misfire, and that generally meant trouble.
Carefully the brothers crept along, first one and then the other taking the lead, in order not to miss the tracks of the game. They could only hope that the buffalo might have stopped near by, to lie down during the heat of the day, or lick the salt at one of the known spots frequented by such animals.
"Hist!" whispered Sandy, presently, as he slowly allowed his body to sink down until he was hidden behind the brush that acted as a screen beyond.
No words were permissible under such conditions. The wary game was too close by for talking, even in whispers. Sandy pointed, and made a few gestures that his companion must have readily understood, for he immediately nodded. They had hunted so often in company that they had a regular code of signals for occasions like this, to take the place of verbal communications.
Thus Bob understood that the buffaloes were within easy gunshot, that several of them were even then in sight, and appeared to be feeding; and the opportunity for a double shot excellent.
Together they crept forward through the brush, inch by inch. Arrived at the further side they found that they could see splendidly. Bob bent his head close to Sandy's ear, and whispered softly:
"You take the mother; leave me the half-grown baby!"