THE BUFFALOES.
The moon was now well up in the sky, and the members of the party were
enabled to discern objects at a greater distance than at any time since
starting. When Tom Hardynge announced that they had passed through this
spur of mountains, the three instinctively turned their eyes to the
westward, where the prairie stretched away until it vanished in the
gloom.
"There's a clean hundred miles or more of level plain," added the
hunter. "I've traveled it many a time and I ought to know."
"You're right," said Dick. "That's a good sweep of prairie, and we ought
to make good time over it, for our horses have had a long rest."
"There's only one thing that troubles me," ventured Ned Chadmund, when
the heads of all their animals were turned westward; "I'm so hungry and
faint that I can hardly sit on my horse."
"That's bad," said Tom, feelingly. "I never thought of that when we had
a good chance among the mountains to fetch down some game. We ain't apt
to run agin anythin' in the hash line while riding along on the prairie;
but we'll try it, and if we don't we'll turn off to a little spot where
I know we shall hit it."
Ned expressed his willingness to do this, and the company started.
Instead of going in Indian file, as they had done while among the
mountains, they rode side by side at an easy swinging gallop, the
prairie lightening up as they advanced, and the surface continuing of
the same impact character, which rendered it the most favorable possible
for horseback riding. To one who, like the boy, had tramped and trudged
along until scarcely able to stand, this change was of the most pleasing
character. He felt comfortable and anxious to ride ahead for hours, the
only drawback being that gnawing hunger, that weary faintness, which
could only be dissipated by food.
Occasionally, while riding along in this manner, the three would halt
and listen, and then, when certain that they heard nothing, move on
again. This was repeated several times, until the two hunters remained
motionless longer than usual. When Ned asked the cause of this, Tom
replied by asking him whether he heard anything. He answered that he did
not.
"I hear it," added the scout, as he dismounted and applied his ear to
the ground.
"What do you make it?" inquired Dick.
"Can't tell."
Hardynge remained standing beside his steed for several minutes, looking
off to the southward, and then he knelt down and bent his ear to the
ground again.
"It is off yonder," he added, pointing to the southward, and leaping at
the same time upon the back of his mustang.
Ned listened to catch some explanation; but at this interesting
juncture, for some reason only known to themselves, the two men began
talking in the Indian tongue. It was interesting to hear their gutteral
exclamations, but it would have been much more interesting could he have
understood what they were saying, and to know why it was, when talking,
that they laughed and looked meaningly toward him. The lad affected not
to notice all this, although it piqued his curiosity not a little.
A half mile more was ridden at a leisurely gait, when all three drew up
their mustangs, and Dick Morris looked meaningly at their young comrade.
"Do you hear anything _now_?"
Yes, there could be no mistaking it, faint though it was. All three sat
motionless and listened. At first, it might have been taken for the
far-off rumble of thunder--a fluttering, distant rattle, such as is
occasionally heard during the hot summer months. It was not exactly of
that character, either, being more like a continuous rattle, coming from
some point many miles away.
"What do you suppose it is?" asked Tom, of the lad.
"I never heard anything like it before. What is it?"
"Does it sound like the tramp of animals?"
"Not much, it seems to me. It can't be that."
"That's just what it is."
Ned started.
"So it is--so it is. I can notice it now. I hear the sound of horses
hoofs on the prairie. The sound is growing more distinct, too, and they
must be coming this way, Tom. Is that so?"
"That's just what's the matter. We'll see 'em all inside of half an
hour, unless we turn tail and run."
"Let's do it, then, for there can't be much time to spare."
The hunters showed no disposition to flee from the danger approaching,
and Ned began to grow alarmed.
"Why do you stay here?" he asked. "If your horses are so fleet that no
one can catch them, what is the use of letting them do it?"
"Don't get scart, my boy," returned Tom Hardynge. "We'll take care of
you."
He much preferred that they should all take care of themselves by giving
their animals the rein and permitting the Apaches to make no nearer
approach. But the scouts were obstinate and remained as motionless as
statues. The tramping of myriad feet came nearer and nearer, until the
sound partook of one general, thunderous undertone of the most trying
character to the lad. It seemed to him so much like suicide--this
waiting for a terrible danger as it steadily approached--that he was
strongly tempted to start his horse away on his own account.
"Look!" called out Morris, pointing toward the southwest.
Following the direction indicated, the lad saw what appeared to be a
heavy cloud lying low down in the horizon, but creeping slowly upward,
like the sulphurous vapor that sometimes hovers over a battle field.
"What is it?" he asked, terrified, knowing that it was not the presage
of a storm such as sometimes sweeps over the prairies.
There was something strange and unnatural in its appearance,
accompanied, as it was, by the tremulous, thunderous rumbling. By and
by, as this uproar came nearer and nearer, a still more curious sight
presented itself. The prairie seemed agitated, trembling and quivering
with a peculiar, wave-like motion, such as the ocean shows when it is
subsiding after a severe storm. There was a sea, a living sea, spreading
tumultuously over the plain. Dark, heaving masses were constantly
verging nearer, as they moved rapidly toward the northeast. Suddenly
light broke in upon the mind of Ned Chadmund.
"I know what it is!" he exclaimed. "They are buffaloes."
"Correct," assented Tom, with a laugh. "They are passing pretty close,
but we're out of their way."
The buffaloes surged so near to where the three horsemen stood that more
than once Ned started with a fear that they would be overwhelmed; but
the hunters showed such calmness and self-possession that he was
reassured. All at once a furious trampling was heard, and two of the
animals that had become separated from the others in some way, dashed
directly by the horsemen and out upon the prairie.
"Now, Ned," called out Tom; "there's your chance! Take that head one! He
will make you a good supper if you can fetch him down!"
The lad and his animal were seized with a sudden inspiration seemingly
at the same time. Just as the heart of the young hunter swelled with a
wild desire to bring down the noble game, the mustang bounded away in
pursuit of the very buffalo which had been indicated by the trapper. As
the rider saw himself drawing rapidly near the huge body, lumbering
awkwardly but rapidly along, he was seized with a fluttering which,
perhaps was natural, but which, unless overcome, was fatal to any hopes
of procuring any supper. The mustang drew steadily nearer, Ned's
agitation increasing every minute, until pursuer and pursued were
running side by side.
This was the critical moment when the rider should have fired, and when
the horse had been taught to expect him to do so; but when our hero
raised the heavy Indian gun to his shoulder, his trembling, together
with the jolting of his mustang, now upon a dead run, told him that it
would be useless to fire, when the only chance of hitting his prey was
by the merest accident. Accordingly, he lowered his gun, in the hopes of
quieting his nerves, so as to bring himself up to the self-appointed
task. As he did so, his horse began shying off from the buffalo. He was
afraid of the horns of the enraged creature, and having given him all
the opportunity he could expect, he was not willing to keep him company
any longer. The paths continued to diverge until they were twenty yards
apart, when the mustang appeared to think all danger was passed. By this
time Ned Chadmund felt that he was master of himself, and he turned the
head of his horse toward the immense fugitive, still gliding forward at
the same terrific rate.
"I'll fetch him this time," he muttered, with a determined air.