"Come on, boy," bade York; and he and Peter launched in pursuit.
"Never mind me, York," yelled the captain, over his shoulder. "I'll take care of myself. This gray is the best buffalo horse in the village."
"Marse Will done been brung up by Dan'l Boone," explained York, to Peter. "Yessuh; done shot wif bow 'n arrer, too, back in ol' Kaintuck. Reg'lar Injun, Marse Will is."
The Indian ponies were saddled only with a buffalo-hide pad, from which hung thong loops into which the rider might thrust his feet, if he wished. Peter could not reach the loops. And the ponies were bridled only with a single thong which looped around the lower jaw. But Peter had ridden in this fashion many a time before.
York clung like a huge ape. To ride bareback was nothing new to him. Before, the captain sat as if glued fast. Sha-ha-ka could sit no firmer than the Red Head.
The breeze was keen, whistling past one's ears and stinging one's cheeks. But see! The buffalo! There were hundreds, in a writhing, surging, scampering, bewildered mass. They had come out of the sheltered bottoms to feed in the open, and the Indians had espied them. Now around and around them sped the Indians, yelling, volleying arrows, stabbing with lances, working at the mass, cutting out animals and pursuing them to the death. The hunters from the fort were at work,
