down he espied a huge brown object lying inert.
The wildness of the boy in Tom conquered all else. Leaping up, he broke out of the woods, yelling like an Indian, and charged down the gentle slope, exultant and proud, yet not quite frenzied enough to forget possible peril. From that quarter, however, he was safe.
The monarch was heaving his last breath.
Pilchuck rode in at noon that day, in time to see Tom stretch the hide of his first buffalo.
"You got one, hey?" he called, eying the great shaggy hide with appreciation. "Your first buffalo! Wal, it's a darned fine one.
They don't come any bigger than that fellow."
Tom had to tell the story of his exploit, and was somewhat discomfited by the scout's remark that he should have killed several of the bulls.
"Aren't you back early?" queried Tom, as Pilchuck dismounted.
"Run out of cartridges," he said, laconically.
"So quick!" exclaimed Tom, staring. "You must have seen a lot of buffalo."
"Reckon they WAS thick this mornin'," returned the scout, dryly.
"I got plumb surrounded once an' had to shoot my way out."
"Well! . . . How many did you down?"
"Twenty-one. I think when we count up tonight we'll have a good day. Burn is doin' better than yesterday. . . . Wal, I want a bite to eat an' a drink. It's warm ridin' in the dust. Then I'll hitch up the wagon an' drive down for the hides. Come to think of it, though, I've a job to do before. You can help me."
Later Pilchuck hailed Tom to fetch an ax and come on. Tom followed the scout down into the thickets.
"Cut four strong poles about ten feet long an' pack them to camp," said Pilchuck.
Tom did as he was bidden, to find that the scout had returned ahead of him, carrying four short poles with forks at one end. He proceeded to pound these into the ground with the forks uppermost, and then he laid across them the poles Tom had brought, making a square framework. "We'll stretch a hide inside the poles, loose so it'll sag down, an' there we'll salt our buffalo humps."
Pilchuck then brought in a team of horses and hitched it to the big wagon. "Wal, son," he said to Tom, "I ain't hankerin' after skinnin' hides. But I may as well start. We're goin' to kill more buffalo than we'll have time to skin."
He drove out of camp down the slope into the shallow water. The horses plunged in at a trot, splashing high. Pilchuck lashed out with the long whip and yelled lustily. Any slowing up there meant wheels stuck in the sand. Horses, driver, and wagon were drenched.
From the other side Pilchuck looked back. "Fine on a day like this," he shouted.
Not long after he had gone Tom heard one of the horses up the river neigh several times. This induced him to reconnoiter, with the result that he espied a wagon coming along the edge of the timber.
It appeared to be an open wagon, with one man in the driver's seat.
Another, following on horseback, was leading two extra horses.
"More hide-hunters," Tom decided as he headed toward them. "Now I wonder what's expected of me in a case like this."
When the driver espied Tom come into the open, rifle in hand, he halted the horses abruptly.
"Dunn outfit--hide-hunters," he announced, with something of alarmed alacrity, as if his identity and business had been questioned. He appeared to be a short, broad man, and what little of his face was visible was bright red. He had bushy whiskers.
"I'm Tom Doan, of Hudnall's outfit," replied Tom. "We're camped just below."
"Clark Hudnall! By all that's lucky!" exclaimed the man. "I know Hudnall. We talked some last fall of going in together. That was at Independence. But he wasn't ready and I come ahead."
Tom offered his hand, and at this juncture the horseman that had been behind the wagon rode forward abreast of the driver. He was a fat young man with a most jocund expression on his round face. His apparel was striking in its inappropriateness to the rough life of the plains. His old slouch hat was too small for his large head, and there was a tuft of
The wildness of the boy in Tom conquered all else. Leaping up, he broke out of the woods, yelling like an Indian, and charged down the gentle slope, exultant and proud, yet not quite frenzied enough to forget possible peril. From that quarter, however, he was safe.
The monarch was heaving his last breath.
Pilchuck rode in at noon that day, in time to see Tom stretch the hide of his first buffalo.
"You got one, hey?" he called, eying the great shaggy hide with appreciation. "Your first buffalo! Wal, it's a darned fine one.
They don't come any bigger than that fellow."
Tom had to tell the story of his exploit, and was somewhat discomfited by the scout's remark that he should have killed several of the bulls.
"Aren't you back early?" queried Tom, as Pilchuck dismounted.
"Run out of cartridges," he said, laconically.
"So quick!" exclaimed Tom, staring. "You must have seen a lot of buffalo."
"Reckon they WAS thick this mornin'," returned the scout, dryly.
"I got plumb surrounded once an' had to shoot my way out."
"Well! . . . How many did you down?"
"Twenty-one. I think when we count up tonight we'll have a good day. Burn is doin' better than yesterday. . . . Wal, I want a bite to eat an' a drink. It's warm ridin' in the dust. Then I'll hitch up the wagon an' drive down for the hides. Come to think of it, though, I've a job to do before. You can help me."
Later Pilchuck hailed Tom to fetch an ax and come on. Tom followed the scout down into the thickets.
"Cut four strong poles about ten feet long an' pack them to camp," said Pilchuck.
Tom did as he was bidden, to find that the scout had returned ahead of him, carrying four short poles with forks at one end. He proceeded to pound these into the ground with the forks uppermost, and then he laid across them the poles Tom had brought, making a square framework. "We'll stretch a hide inside the poles, loose so it'll sag down, an' there we'll salt our buffalo humps."
Pilchuck then brought in a team of horses and hitched it to the big wagon. "Wal, son," he said to Tom, "I ain't hankerin' after skinnin' hides. But I may as well start. We're goin' to kill more buffalo than we'll have time to skin."
He drove out of camp down the slope into the shallow water. The horses plunged in at a trot, splashing high. Pilchuck lashed out with the long whip and yelled lustily. Any slowing up there meant wheels stuck in the sand. Horses, driver, and wagon were drenched.
From the other side Pilchuck looked back. "Fine on a day like this," he shouted.
Not long after he had gone Tom heard one of the horses up the river neigh several times. This induced him to reconnoiter, with the result that he espied a wagon coming along the edge of the timber.
It appeared to be an open wagon, with one man in the driver's seat.
Another, following on horseback, was leading two extra horses.
"More hide-hunters," Tom decided as he headed toward them. "Now I wonder what's expected of me in a case like this."
When the driver espied Tom come into the open, rifle in hand, he halted the horses abruptly.
"Dunn outfit--hide-hunters," he announced, with something of alarmed alacrity, as if his identity and business had been questioned. He appeared to be a short, broad man, and what little of his face was visible was bright red. He had bushy whiskers.
"I'm Tom Doan, of Hudnall's outfit," replied Tom. "We're camped just below."
"Clark Hudnall! By all that's lucky!" exclaimed the man. "I know Hudnall. We talked some last fall of going in together. That was at Independence. But he wasn't ready and I come ahead."
Tom offered his hand, and at this juncture the horseman that had been behind the wagon rode forward abreast of the driver. He was a fat young man with a most jocund expression on his round face. His apparel was striking in its inappropriateness to the rough life of the plains. His old slouch hat was too small for his large head, and there was a tuft of
Similar Books
It's Always Darkest Before the Fridge Door Opens: Enjoying the Fruits of Middle Age
Phil Callaway, Martha O. Bolton
