"Boy go," she cackled, grinning toothless. She signed "Wait," and shuffled away, fast.
All the men except Peter and York left, hammering their ponies with their overshoes, in haste to join the fray. Yonder, about a mile, a snow dust hung in the wind, and under it black figures plunged and darted. Reports of fire-arms boomed dully.
Captain Clark and Chief Sha-ha-ka had disappeared in the chief's lodge, before which stood a squaw holding two horses. Peter's squaw came trotting back, with a bow and quiver of arrows. Grinning, she extended them to Peter, and signed: "Go! Shoot!" Peter thankfully accepted—slung the quiver at his waist, strung the bow. He never had killed a buffalo, but he had shot rabbits; now he would kill a buffalo. The bow was a strong little bow, but after these weeks of work he had a strong little arm.
"Golly!" chuckled York. "Cap'n Clark done got a bow, too."
For the captain and Sha-ha-ka had emerged from the chief's lodge. Sha-ha-ka was muffled in a buffalo robe; so was the captain. He had shed his overcoat, and his cap, had bound about his brow a scarlet handkerchief, Indian fashion, and his red hair flowed loose to his shoulders. He carried a bow; doubtless underneath his robe was the quiver.
As quick as the chief he snatched the hide rope from the squaw's willing fingers, and vaulted upon the pony's back, and he and Big White pounded off together.
