arrow—twang! thud!—the gray horse leaped again, to follow up—but the great bull halted, faltered, drooped his head, his tail twitched and lashed, still his head slowly drooped, he straddled, and began to sink.
"Catch your horse, Pryor. Quick!" ordered the captain. "You can't hunt afoot." And before the bull's body had touched the snow he was away again, in the wake of the frantic herd, his red hair flaming on the wind.
"Fust kill foh Marse Will," jubilated York. He and Peter scarcely had had time to check their horses. "He done beat Big White. Come on, boy!"
In a twinkling all was confusion, of buffalo bellowing, fleeing, charging; of horsemen shouting, pursuing, dodging, shooting; of flying snow and blood and steaming breaths and reek of perspiring bodies. Peter speedily lost York; he lost Sha-ha-ka and Captain Clark—but occasionally he sighted them, now separated, now near together, as if they were rivals. He lost everything but himself and pony and the buffalo. He shot, too; he saw his arrows land, he left wounded buffalo behind and chased others; and ever and again he saw the red hair of the captain.
The captain was in his buckskin shirt; Sha-ha-ka was in buckskin; many of the Indians rode half naked—excitement kept them warm. Peter felt no cold, through his buckskin and his flannel shirt. He had been more thinly clad in the Oto village and was used to weather. But bitter was the wind, nevertheless, and
