CHAPTER IV.
CHARLEY SHAFER’S RIDE.
“Dash me, boys, if we ain’t in sight of the old place already,” cried Frontier Shack, abruptly terminating a silence which had lasted for many minutes, during which time Tecumseh had borne his riders rapidly from the scene of the trapper’s victory. “Things look remarkably quiet about the shanty, and I guess we’ll find everything in apple pie order—just as I left ’em yesterday.”
The horse knew that he was near the trapper’s home, for he gave a shrill, joyous neigh, and sprung forward with new zeal.
Daylight now flooded the plains once more, every vestige of darkness had disappeared, and the scene that stretched before the young hunters’ vision filled their souls with rapture, and caused them to forget that they were riding over dangerous ground—that this fair land was still inhabited by the fierce aborigine of America.
They were on rising ground, and the beautiful valley of the Platte lay at their very feet. The water shone like silver in the strong light that preceded the rising of the sun, and the islands that dotted the stream—the cotton-wooded islands—resembled rich gems in a magnificent setting. Far beyond the stream a black mass, imbued with life, moved westward, like some giant cloud creeping along the horizon’s bar.
That living blackness was a herd of buffalo. The young hunters had encountered the emperors of the plains before, but not in such numbers; and they could not repress an exclamation of wonderment when they gazed upon the mighty bisonic legion.
“Yes, them’s buffler,” said Shackelford, “and they’re all brown fellars, too.”
The boys exchanged looks and curious smiles.
“So you think there are no white ones in that herd?”
The frontiersman laughed.