"No, Merne. I'll hunt as the Indians do. We'll beat them at their own game."
Already the Sergeant Pryor detachment were mounting. There were scarcely horses enough to go around, for only enough had been hired from the Mandans to supply the regular hunters.
"There are more at the village, lads," called Captain Lewis.
The men without mounts went running, plodding, laughing, across the snowy ice, for the village. York was pressing after the captain and the chief. He carried a rifle and had a large knife belted around his soldier's overcoat. Peter delayed not, but scurried, too.
"I stay by Marse Will," was declaring York. "We show dem Injuns."
In mid-river the sounds from the hunt were plainer. To thud of hoofs the squad under Sergeant Pryor raced past with a cheer and flourish of weapons. At the village the squad afoot were met by squaws, holding ponies. A young squaw who had frequently smiled on York tendered him the hide rope of a splendid black.
"Great Medicine heap kill 'um," she urged.
"Huh! Dey all like Yawk," chuckled York, scrambling aboard.
The other men were grabbing ropes and mounting. A very old and ugly squaw with a spotted pony yelped at Peter (who knew better than to push forward) and signed. She thrust the pony's thong at him.
