“Even if they lead us to the Arctic Circle?” laughed Chet.
“Well, we have our camp equipment with us. Why not camp for the night where we happen to be? We can get back to the Grub Stake trail tomorrow.”
“And poor little Stone Fence?” suggested Chet slyly.
“Shucks! Maybe I’ll lasso one of those buffalo calves,” said Dig, grinning. “It would sell for more in town.”
It was agreed to pursue the buffalo herd for a way, at least. The frightened creatures had run from their feeding course. They had disappeared behind some round mounds to the northwest. This was almost as much off their trail as the buffaloes’ previous course had been. When the boys started on a heavy gallop after the game, the Grub Stake trail lay far to the south.
The distance to the mounds was not above five miles. The horses took up the trail at an easy pace and when they mounted the first small eminence the buffaloes were still out of sight.
“Whew!” exclaimed Digby. “I reckon they have run some distance, Chet.”
“See that timber ahead?” replied his chum. “It’s an open piece, and there is probably a stream in it, or just the other side of it. The buffaloes have gone no farther than the water, and may be feeding in the grove. If the latter, then we must approach very carefully. They can see us on the plain before we can see them in the timber.”
“Now you’re shouting, old boy!” cried Dig, admiringly. “Say! you’re a regular plainsman.”
“It stands to reason,” Chet returned, “we’ve got to use our heads if we expect to ever shoot one of those buffaloes.”