They had ridden several miles off the trail now, and the humped backs of the grazing animals were quite plainly visible.
“Suppose they see us?” suggested Dig suddenly.
“From what I’ve heard about the buffaloes, there’s not much danger. You see, they are headed away from us and are grazing. When their heads are down they can’t see much going on right about them, and nothing at all at a distance. A buffalo herd sets no sentinels as do elk or wild horses.”
“But if they get a scent of us?”
“Wind’s from them. It’s blowing in our faces, isn’t it? Just the same, we’ll creep up on them like a cat on a mouse,” Chet agreed. “After a while, we’ll keep to the coulies and gullies, and go at a slower pace. This is a great chance, Dig. If we each brought home a buffalo robe—eh?”
“Whew!” breathed Dig exultantly.
“Or shot the big fellow they say captains this herd?” went on Chet.
“Oh, come on!” exclaimed Dig. “You make my mouth water.”
They had stopped for no midday meal; nor did Dig complain of this loss. Not at present, at least. He was quite as much worked up over the hunt as his chum.
“Just think of it,” Chet said, after a time, “I was reading a book the other evening that quoted ‘Fremont, the Pathfinder’ as saying that in 1836 one travelling from the Rockies to the Missouri River never lost sight of grazing buffaloes.”