The boys crossed the cattle trail, for it came up from the south through a pass between the hills there, while the faint trace they were following took them almost due west. The stream flowed with them, and during the afternoon they were never far from its bank.
Therefore they started up several groups of animals that were either feeding near the river or were drinking—a second small herd of antelopes (or possibly the same herd they had caught a glimpse of before), a pair of red deer, coyotes uncounted, and some animal that went crashing off through the willows, which they did not see, but which Dig declared made as much noise as a heavy freight.
“Your big buffalo, I bet, Chet,” he chuckled. “That’s the only chance you’ll have of knocking him over.”
“Maybe not,” his chum said cheerfully.
“Talking of knocking something over,” pursued Digby, “what are we going to have for supper? There’s nothing hearty left in my pack but a condensed milk tin. All these creatures seem to spot us half a mile off.”
“The birds don’t,” said Chet, unmoved.
“What have you in this outfit to shoot sage hens with?” growled Digby. “If you’d have let me bring a shotgun—”
His grumbling was stopped almost instantly. Chet had been riding with the six-shooter loosened in its case while his eyes roved all about them as the horses walked.
He threw up his left hand in warning to Dig and spoke in a low voice to Hero:
“Whoa, Hero! Stand still!”