“Hey, you fellows!” he called, “if you want any of the buffalo meat that we hope to kill, you’ve got to help get it.”
“Sure, Chet,” cried Tony briskly.
“That’s understood,” said the other man, though not very graciously.
“Want us to drive ’em for you?” queried Tony, who was no bad hunter himself, when he had a good weapon and a decent mount. Both the rifle and the pony he now possessed were wretched.
Chet told them what he desired. He and Dig were going to ride west to head the buffaloes off. They proposed going back over the crown of the hill and entering the valley some miles below the spot where the herd of buffaloes was now feeding.
“Although we’ll approach them almost down wind, we’ll trust to the speed of our mounts to get in a couple of shots, at least. The whole herd may tear up this way. But we’ll probably wound one, if not two, and they’ll lag behind. If you are ready for them, that old rifle of Tony’s—even your pistol,” and he spoke directly to Steve, “may put the finishing touch to our work.”
“Good boy. You’re right,” said Tony briskly.
“I want you to lengthen your lines with your lariats, and let your ponies drift out into the valley. If the buffaloes are frightened and come on the run, they won’t bother about the ponies. You fellows keep down, of course, until the beasts are near. Then up and at them!”
“They’ll easily keep out of the range of our guns,” said the man Steve, doubtfully.
“Then they’ll have to turn back on us,” Chet said, confidently. “We’ll have them between two fires. That’s the only sure way we have of getting one of the beasts. Do you want to do your share?”