“Then what will we do?”
It was Lina Aiken’s question.
“I can save the party. I could show you the Pawnees’ plan for baffling buffalo.”
“We can ride through the ranks.”
“You can not, Shackelford: those ranks must be three hundred deep. Through the ranks of a common herd we might ride to safety; but not through those ranks.”
The hunter reseated himself in the saddle, after surveying the bisonic legion, that rushed forward, completely infilading them, crazed for water to cool their tongues.
Such a horde threatened to drain the Platte.
“That’s so, Tom; we can’t ride through them. If they war wild horses we’d fix them, but—heavens! what thunder!”
“We’ve got to die when we can be saved,” grated the renegade.
“No! there!”