“And he’s found it afore he got there,” said the hunter, with a strange smile. “He’d hev’ done better on Broadway, I think. But, my boys, ye weren’t emigrants; yer clothes—”
He paused suddenly, ashamed to proceed.
“No, we were not emigrants,” answered George Long, glancing at his companion with a smile, which was followed by a mortifying blush.
“We are runaways; our parents live in Cincinnati, Ohio, and are well to do in the world.”
“Then, why did you leave home and seek this death-land?” asked Shackelford, the stern part of his nature getting uppermost.
“I will tell you the truth,” said George, looking him squarely in the eyes. “We came hither to shoot white buffaloes.”
For a moment the old hunter stared blankly into the youthful faces before him, then he rose to his feet and gave a long whistle of profound wonder and astonishment.
The boys watched him anxiously.
For several minutes he look vacantly toward the south, and then a ludicrous smile overspread his countenance.
“Who told you about white buffaloes?” he asked, stooping again.