CHAPTER XVII—A MYSTERY

Chet Havens had been an apt pupil of old Rafe Peters, the hunter who was now mine foreman at the Silent Sue; nor had he missed much that had been told him by other plainsmen. Trailing and hunting was a hobby with the boy, and each vacation for several years past he had spent the most of his time on hunting trips.

With Digby Fordham he had taken many short trips around Silver Run; but they had seldom encountered big game or gone many miles from their home. This trip to Grub Stake was by far the longest the chums had ever taken alone.

It was Chet’s trained eye that discovered the fact that a marauder other than the wolves had been at their camp. Had it been left to Dig, who was not observant, the presence of any other enemy than that which had annoyed them in the evening probably would never have been discovered.

“Could it have been those Indians, Chet?” asked Dig, as his chum bent to examine the ground closely.

“What Indians?”

“John Peep’s dog soldiers.”

“Nonsense! Those boys wouldn’t play us such a trick. Nor did they follow us.”

“Huh! Didn’t know that anybody else was following us,” said Dig.

“Perhaps this fellow wasn’t on our trail. Maybe he stumbled on this camp. The fire—or the wolves themselves—might have drawn him.”

Chet was thinking hard, however. At once, when he had discovered the footprint which proclaimed a white marauder, he remembered what Amoshee, the lame Cheyenne boy, had told him.

There was a strange man who was interested in the old Crayton mine and therefore was interested in this trip to Grub Stake. This stranger had joined forces with the discharged Tony Traddles. Chet had heard Tony himself threaten Mr. Havens and declare he would “get square” with his former employer.

Chet looked at the print of the large boot in the soft soil. Tony Traddles might stand in boots like that. And if Tony was here, the man who was trying to get hold of the old Crayton mine was very likely here, too.

The condition looked serious to Chet Havens. He did not want to say anything yet to his chum; but he did propose to keep a sharp watch thereafter.

He was desirous, too, of learning all he could about the midnight marauder. If the mysterious person had stolen only some of the deer meat, why had he taken it?

And if he had come as near the camp as this, why hadn’t he come nearer?

“With both of us sound asleep,” thought Chet, with disgust, “they might have come in and taken anything they liked. It puzzles me!”

He placed his hand upon the bosom of his shirt and could feel the stiff packet of papers he carried in its accustomed place. His apprehension was immediately relieved.

“Pshaw!” Chet muttered. “This might not have been Tony or that other fellow at all. Just some tramp or the like on the trail, who was attracted to our camp. Probably needed meat and helped himself.

“But it was funny he didn’t wait till daylight and come and ask for it.”

While he was turning these thoughts over in his mind he was moving through the thicket, turning aside bushes, looking under bunches of grass, peering here and there, to trace the tracks of the stranger.

And they were easy to follow—even for a youthful trailer like Chet Havens. A spoor made in the night must be less carefully laid down than a track by daylight. Not much chance to hide footprints while stumbling through the dark.

Chet saw how the stranger had come into the thicket, and how he had left. He had not gone near the camp and the place where the sleeping boys lay. Chet was so sure of this that he did not attempt to examine very closely the camp itself.

He was sure, however, the marauder had robbed them of the bulk of their meat. The in trace and the out trace led directly up the slope from the brook beside which they were encamped, to the trail they were following to Grub Stake.

There, as near as Chet could make out, two horses had stood. He could not discover, the sod was so cut up, whether both, or only one, of the riders had dismounted.

He could picture the possible happening, however. In the night the two riders had come along from the east. They were following the trail in the same direction as the boys.

Hearing the noise made by the wolves over their dead brother, the strange trailers stopped, and one of them had gone down to investigate. The wolves had been frightened away by the coming of this person.

The stranger must have found the camp, but had circled about it—as his footprints showed. Finding the meat, he had helped himself and returned to the trail, then he and his partner had ridden on.

“The mystery of it is,” said Chet to his chum, when he returned to the camp to find breakfast started, “why the fellow robbed us of meat and didn’t try to take anything more valuable. I hope you see the value of keeping watch now, Dig?”

“Yes, I do!” agreed his chum, with more seriousness than he usually displayed. “I’ll take my medicine for that break last night, old man. If I had kept my watch and waked you, nobody would have sneaked up on our camp and stolen our meat.”

“Glad they left us this piece,” Chet said, slicing off steaks with his hunting knife.

They seasoned the meat highly and rubbed tallow on both sides. Then they broiled the steaks over the clear fire on one of the “contraptions” which Dig had laughed at his chum for packing. They had coffee; but the pancake flour was gone, and there were only a few “hard-breads.”

Hearty boys, however, do not need tempting dishes for breakfast. There was still milk for the coffee, and as Dig said, they fairly “wolfed” the venison steaks. The sun was not an hour high when they abandoned the camping place and started for the trail.

Chet was particularly eager to reach the trail, for he wished to follow the trace of the strangers who had robbed them; and when he saw Dig fussing with Stone Fence, he exclaimed:

“For pity’s sake! don’t delay us to-day by fooling with that calf, Dig. Do be reasonable.”

“What do you think he is—a race horse?” demanded the other boy, in feigned amazement. “Can’t expect him to trot like Maud S., or Yellow-dock. You surprise me!”

“I’ll surprise you if I ride off on Hero and leave you and your plaguey calf to bring up the rear,” threatened Chet.

“You couldn’t be so heartless,” declared Dig. “I know you couldn’t. We have been in peril together—Stone Fence and I. We came pretty near being drowned, and then, there were the wolves. I feel toward him just like a brother—Get out, you beast! want to butt me over again?”

They got under way and Chet set as brisk a pace as possible. He did not want to leave his chum and the maverick behind; yet he was a little vexed at Dig for being so obstinate.

The morning was delightful, however; nobody could hold anger at such an hour. The boys whistled and sang and skylarked; the horses snorted and stepped “high, wide and handsome,” as Dig called it; and even Stone Fence trotted along the trail without much urging.

They had not to be on the watch for game this day, for they had enough of the deer meat left to last them until over breakfast the following morning. Yet Chet’s glance was ever roving over the plain as they went on. No trace of the venison thieves was to be found.

The hills were behind them; the mountains were so far in advance that a blue haze masked them. Nearby groves of small trees marked water-holes; but there was no stream in sight.

“Plain” did not mean in this case a perfectly flat surface. There were coulies to break the monotony of the level trail, or ancient watercourses to descend into and climb out of. Once they came to the edge of a steep sand-bluff, after having ridden up a gradual ascent to this eminence. From the spot they could see vastly farther than before.

It was from here that Chet spied something far to the north that interested him. He carried a pair of field-glasses in a case slung from one shoulder. He opened these and focused them on the round, black objects that had attracted his attention.

With the naked eye they looked like beehives, and they did not seem to move. But through the glass they were not conical, and they were travelling toward the northeast. They all moved together, but slowly; there could be no doubt of that.

“What’s got you now?” demanded Dig, finally noticing that his chum was fixed in one position for a long time.

“Look here,” Chet said, offering him the glasses.

“Well, look out for Stone Fence,” returned Dig, and urged Poke nearer to the bay mount, while he reached for the glasses.

“Fix them on those dots over yonder,” advised Chet. “Now, look good.”

Dig did so. In a minute he exclaimed:

“Cattle grazing!”

“Think so?”

“Sure. Maybe Stone Fence belongs to that herd.”

“But to whom does the herd belong?” demanded Chet. “We know well enough that there is no ranch nearer than the Ogallala. Those are not strays from the cattle trail. Weak and crippled cattle that are abandoned on the march fall an easy prey to wolves and lions.”

“What do you make of it, then?” demanded Dig.

“Look at the round backs of them; the size of them, too. No cattle that I ever saw are built like those. They certainly are not Texans or the sun would flash on their horns now and then when they toss their heads. It doesn’t look as though those creatures have any horns.”

“Oh, say!” cried Dig. “That’s going too far! We couldn’t see their horns from here, if they had ’em a mile wide!”

“That’s stretching it some,” said Chet, laughing and reaching for the glasses again.

“But what do you really think they are?” demanded Dig, growing more and more excited.

“Going to find out,” announced Chet.

“Oh, goodness, Chet! You don’t think—”

“I’m going to find out what they are,” repeated the other lad firmly.

“By all the hoptoads that were chased out of Ireland! you don’t mean to say that you think those are buffaloes? Oh, Chet!”

“I certainly don’t think they are hoptoads,” grinned his chum. “I’m not sure what they are, but I’m going to find out.” He slipped out of the saddle, to ease it on Hero’s back and then cinch it up for a hard ride.

“Whew! you’re not going to leave me alone?” gasped Dig. “Why, it’s miles and miles over yonder.”

“Come on, then.”

“But what’ll I do with Stone Fence?” blurted out Dig.

“Say, boy!” said Chet shortly, “this is the parting of the ways for you and that red dogy. You’ve had your fun. Now this is business.”

“Have I got to decide between a perfectly good yearling calf and a possible buffalo? Seems a hard case,” groaned Dig. “I bet I could sell him for five dollars.”

“We’ve got to turn back a little on our trail to follow those beasts yonder,” Chet said. “It’s likely we’ll hit the trail again about here. Turn Stone Fence loose down in this sandy bottom. There’s enough grass to feed him a year and I see a trickle of water yonder. He’ll be all right. If he’s learned to love you, Dig, he’ll be waiting for you when we return.”

“I’ll do just that,” cried Dig eagerly, and he urged the obstinate maverick down the slope.

He was back in ten minutes after abandoning the surprised calf at the foot of the bluff. The creature gazed after his human companions and the horses with plain surprise in his bovine countenance.

Finally, as Dig and the black horse surmounted the rise, Stone Fence spread all four of his legs and blatted after him like a cosset calf.

“What do you know about that? I hate to leave him in the lurch,” declared Dig. “Some beast’ll get him, sure as shooting, Chet.”

“He was exempt from trouble long before you met him, Dig,” said Chet, smiling. “I’m not sure that he considers you, even yet, his guardian angel.”

They rearranged their outfit, tightened cinches, and remounted. The black specks were quite visible to the naked eye; but they were moving slowly northeast. The boys shook the reins and let Hero and Poke point into the wind at an easy canter.

CHAPTER XVIII—ROYAL GAME

Chet was just as eager and excited as he could be. Dig appeared to be doubtful of the identity of the moving herd they had spied so far away; nevertheless, he felt that the venture was momentous.

The chums had not hunted big game frequently enough to approach this strange herd of grazing animals with calmness. Their pulses throbbed and their faces flushed. They were both on the qui vive.

“If it should be the buffaloes, Chet,” gasped Digby Fordham, “what’ll we do?”

“Shake salt on their tails,” grinned Chet, “as you suggested doing to the antelope.”

“No fooling,” Dig urged. “They’ll be dangerous, won’t they?”

“If we get them mad, I reckon they will be. But they are very timid at the approach of man. And if they get started on the run—good-bye! We couldn’t catch them unless our horses were very fresh. That’s why we must take the trip over to their feeding ground easily. We may have to gallop to get a shot.”

“If they are the buffaloes,” added the Doubting Thomas.

“If they are not the buffaloes, they’ll be something well worth shooting,” Chet said with confidence. “I don’t know of anything else that size that roams these plains.”

They had ridden several miles off the trail now, and the humped backs of the grazing animals were quite plainly visible.

“Suppose they see us?” suggested Dig suddenly.

“From what I’ve heard about the buffaloes, there’s not much danger. You see, they are headed away from us and are grazing. When their heads are down they can’t see much going on right about them, and nothing at all at a distance. A buffalo herd sets no sentinels as do elk or wild horses.”

“But if they get a scent of us?”

“Wind’s from them. It’s blowing in our faces, isn’t it? Just the same, we’ll creep up on them like a cat on a mouse,” Chet agreed. “After a while, we’ll keep to the coulies and gullies, and go at a slower pace. This is a great chance, Dig. If we each brought home a buffalo robe—eh?”

“Whew!” breathed Dig exultantly.

“Or shot the big fellow they say captains this herd?” went on Chet.

“Oh, come on!” exclaimed Dig. “You make my mouth water.”

They had stopped for no midday meal; nor did Dig complain of this loss. Not at present, at least. He was quite as much worked up over the hunt as his chum.

“Just think of it,” Chet said, after a time, “I was reading a book the other evening that quoted ‘Fremont, the Pathfinder’ as saying that in 1836 one travelling from the Rockies to the Missouri River never lost sight of grazing buffaloes.”

“Whew!”

“The old emigrant trails were marked for years and years by the whitened skulls of buffaloes, wantonly killed by the travellers. Everybody who came West wanted to say that he had shot a buffalo. Why, Dig! they used to roam all this great United States from the Pacific Slope to Lake Champlain. The last buffalo was killed east of the Mississippi River in 1832.”

“And now it’s hard to find any of ’em,” said Dig. “Where have they gone?”

“Indiscriminate killing,” replied Chet. “So the books say. Yet in 1859 some people estimated that there were more buffaloes grazing these ranges than there were cattle in the whole country.

“Of course, the Indians slaughtered many of them. They were the only beef the redmen had. The prairie Indians—the Comanches, Sioux and Pawnees—just about lived on buffalo meat all the year around. And their skins covered their winter teepees, clothed them in cold weather, and otherwise were made useful. Their hoofs made glue and their tendons were used by the squaws to sew with. Yes indeed! a buffalo was a mighty useful animal to a redskin.”

“Well,” sighed Dig, “a buffalo is going to be a mighty useful animal to you and me, Chet—if we shoot one. Why, say! there won’t be another fellow in Silver Run who can show a buffalo head for a trophy.”

“Well,” Chet said, “if you propose to cart head and all back to town you’ll have some contract, boy. I believe the head of a bull buffalo will weigh almost as much as the rest of his body.”

“Whew!”

“That’s what makes of him such a good battering-ram. They say a blow from the head of a two-months calf will knock a man over. Suppose Stone Fence had been a buffalo calf. When he rammed you into that creek you’d have been drowned.”

“Huh! That’s straining a point,” replied Dig. “You can bet I’m not going to get in front of any of the creatures.”

“And that’s where you’ll be wise. Especially if you want to shoot one,” Chet observed. “You might pump every ball in your rifle at the front of an old bull, and he’d only shake his head and whisk his tail like a horse bit by a fly. A bullet won’t bring down a bull, unless you are too close for comfort. Behind the foreleg is the place to aim at.”

“Very well, Davy Crockett,” returned Dig. “I have taken your advice to heart.”

Nevertheless, Digby admired his chum greatly because of Chet’s wider reading and better memory for practical things. Of course, Chet had been reading up on buffaloes ever since Rafe Peters and Tony Traddles reported seeing the stray herd near the Grub Stake trail.

“Though I never expected that we’d sight them,” admitted Dig. “Whew! Suppose we do bag one of them, old man?”

“That’s what we’re out here for,” his chum said. “Wait now till I spy out the land again.”

He stood up in his stirrups and looked through the field-glasses. The focus of the instrument brought the group of feeding buffaloes very near. Chet counted them twice to make sure.

“Sixteen, Dig!” he said, under his breath. “My goodness, boy! Wait till we get up to them.”

“Do you see the big fellow? Or was that a yarn of Tony’s? I wouldn’t believe that fellow on a stack of Bibles as high as the moon.”

“Rafe saw the big bull, too. Goodness! there he is!”

“Where?” asked Dig, looking around, startled, as though expecting to see the buffalo right at hand.

“He’s been feeding off by himself. He is coming from behind that clump of shrubs. Look at the monster, Dig!”

He handed the glasses quickly to his chum. The latter focused them and almost immediately uttered his favourite ejaculation:

“By the last hoptoad that was chased out of Ireland! That’s an elephant—not a buffalo, Chet.”

“Aren’t you glad you brought that heavy rifle, old man?”

“I wish it were a cannon,” admitted Dig, in amazement at the size of the big buffalo.

He was grazing with his side toward the approaching hunters, and for several minutes Chet and Dig both gazed upon him through the glasses. His hump was enormous, and so shaggy that he looked as big as an overland freight wagon, painted black.

Of course, close to, the buffalo would have been found to be brown—of various shades. The mane is the darker—sometimes almost black, in fact. The bull is much darker than the cow.

The great shoulders, neck and head, covered with thick, matted hair to the eyes, make a threatening front for any unsophisticated hunter to face. Dig admitted his distaste for the prospect.

“I’ll take your word for it, old man,” he said to his chum. “If I get a shot you can bet it will be from the side. I don’t want that battering-ram headed for me when I fire. I certainly should have what old Rafe calls elk fever.”

“Stage fright, I reckon!” agreed his chum.

“But say!” Dig asked, “where are his horns? I don’t see any.”

“And you’ll not till you’re on top of him,” Chet replied. “The horns are no bigger than a two year old steer’s. But he can bunt with ’em.”

“Aren’t you right! Whew! let’s be careful how we approach those creatures.”

“We will be just that,” agreed Chet. “Now come on, boy; give me the glasses. See that everything is all right; don’t let any of the tinware joggle. Is your rifle all right? Button your revolver tight in the holster. A six-shooter won’t do you anymore good than a pea-shooter with those shaggy fellows. This old rifle of father’s is the boy to depend on.”

“I’m ready,” said Dig, and they let the impatient horses go again.

They rode on sod, and that silenced the hoof-beats to a degree. When they were all of two miles from the buffalo herd they pulled in and only walked their mounts. And they did not see the buffaloes again for nearly an hour, for they kept to the low places in the plain.

At last Chet left his horse in Dig’s care and reconnoitred by creeping up the side of a coulie on hands and knees. When he saw the first buffalo he ducked quickly, fearful that he had been seen. It was a young bull, not more than half grown; but it looked larger than any horse Chet had ever seen.

He could have made a clean shot at that animal; but Chet had not brought his gun with him. He had not expected to find any of the herd so near. Nor were there any others at this spot.

The remaining fifteen, including the big bison, were out of rifle-shot from this point. And just as Chet spied the land out, the young bull lifted his head, twirled his tail, and started off on an easy trot for the rest of his tribe.

He had not been startled. It was merely that he had chanced to discover he was alone and the sense of fear, more than any other sense, keeps all of the bovine clans in herd. They are not naturally gregarious.

Chet peeped and peered after the trotting buffalo until he reached his clan. The herd was not disturbed. All went on feeding peacefully. It would have been too bad to shoot at that single bull and so startle the entire herd.

But they were feeding a good ways out on the open and unbroken plain. Chet scanned it carefully. There really did not seem to be a bit of screen on this side behind which they might creep up on the buffaloes.

The gentle wind blew towards him. He knew better than to try to approach the herd with the wind. But how meet the emergency?

Chet Havens was not a practical hunter; but he was theoretically a good one, for he had a good memory and was a good shot. The mere ability to shoot true is not the only quality necessary to make a good sportsman. The boy realised his shortcomings.

He had never been placed in such a situation as this alone before. Always he and Dig had had an experienced hunter with them when they stalked deer. Here was a case where the boy had to decide what to do on his own initiative.

His father and Mr. Fordham had praised his resourcefulness when he had made the successful attempt to get at the men entombed in the Silent Sue mine. This was another chance for him to prove that they had not been mistaken in him.

Chet Havens glanced again at the peacefully feeding buffaloes, fully a quarter of a mile away; then he looked down into the hollow where the two horses grazed and Dig awaited him. An idea was born in the boy’s mind.

CHAPTER XIX—A FRUITLESS CHASE

Chet slipped down from the summit of the rise, motioning to his chum to keep still. For, although the buffaloes were grazing so far away, he feared that a loud word spoken might startle them.

“Have they skedaddled, Chet?” Dig finally whispered when his chum came near.

“No.”

“I was afraid that they might have done so. Any chance for a shot?”

“I believe so. I’ll tell you my plan,” Chet returned in a low voice.

Dig was just as eager now as Chet himself to get a shot at the game. Chet explained quietly how the herd was grazing and what he proposed to do to overcome the lack of shelter from the down wind side.

Dig dismounted and they led the horses up the rise. They had some small discussion as to whether they should abandon the outfit while they stalked the buffaloes.

“You know what Poke will do the minute I take his saddle off. He’ll roll,” said Dig, with disgust. “And the way he kicks and snorts is enough to frighten any kind of game into a conniption fit.”

“I don’t think, after all, that the saddles and blanket-rolls will make the buffaloes suspicious,” whispered Chet. “Now lengthen your rein and tie your lariat to it. We’ll give the horses all the range possible.”

With the horses at the very end of the tethers the trail boys let them drift over the rise and out upon the plain. It was noon and they were hungry, so they began to graze immediately.

Whenever the buffaloes caught sight of the two horses, they were quietly feeding on the short grass, and moving on like themselves—up wind. A plains-bred or mountain-bred horse will always point into the wind when grazing, just as instinctively, as any game animal.

What the buffaloes did not see was the long line dragging behind each horse. At the end of the lines were the boys, creeping on hands and knees, or lying flat for a time on the prairie, to breathe.

The horses made a perfect screen for the young hunters. Chet’s plan included the stalking of the buffaloes to within easy striking distance. Then they were to spring into the saddles, cast free the ropes, and shoot from that vantage seat—following the herd on horseback if necessary, for a second shot.

It seemed as though the plan would go through without a hitch. The horses were kept moving by the boys at the end of the ropes; but they did nothing to startle Hero and Poke.

Holding the rope in one hand, each boy dragged behind him with the other his heavy rifle. If the buffaloes glanced toward the horses they would see no farther than the saddle mounts themselves. That is the way with creatures of the wild. With all their apprehension of an approaching enemy, they are satisfied of their own safety if some other creature intervenes between them and the enemy. The quietly grazing horses made the buffaloes perfectly tranquil. The young hunters were making a successful approach.

The big leader of the herd was on the far side; but Chet Havens had his mind made up to try for that very individual. It would be a feather in his cap indeed if he brought down the big bull.

There were two calves with the buffaloes; but they were of grazing age. Chet was quite sure that these calves would not keep the herd back much if once it should bolt.

The horses and their owners drew nearer and nearer. Chet had planned to come upon the buffaloes a little to one side instead of from the immediate rear. This was so the game would not have to swing their heads around to see the horses.

The more familiar they became with the sight of the grazing horses the less likely the herd was to stampede.

At the right hand—the southeast—was a considerable thicket. Chet had noticed this in the beginning; but he did not consider it a good vantage point from which to stalk the herd. He was aiming almost directly for it.

He would, however, have given considerable for just the protection that thicket afforded as the moment for him and Dig to mount drew near. The boys signalled each other without speaking. Chet assured Dig that he was going to try for the big bull while Dig signalled that he would be satisfied with a much smaller animal and pointed out one of the young males, nearer at hand.

Chet glanced all around to see if the way was clear, and had just raised his hand in signal to mount, when not only the buffaloes, but the horses, evinced sudden excitement.

The whole herd stopped feeding, and the horses threw up their heads and snorted.

“That old fool, Poke!” Dig muttered. “What does he want to make that noise for?”

A long grey body shot from the thicket and crossed the plain directly ahead of the buffalo herd. It was running like the wind; indeed, it looked to be little more than a streak as it skimmed the sod.

Neither boy had ever seen a running wolf before; but they did not need to be told what this was. With terror at his tail Mr. Wolf will match anything on four legs in speed.

And something had certainly frightened this grey rascal. He had doubtless been lurking in the thicket, watching the buffalo calves and licking his chops at the sight. Something had started him for the distant Canadian border, and it looked as though he would get there presently.

The wolf ran almost against the noses of the herd. The buffaloes huddled for a moment, the big bull snorting and bellowing. Then, as one creature, they wheeled in the track of the wolf, and set off at a lumbering canter that took them across the plain at surprising speed.

“By the last hoptoad that was chased out of Ireland!” exclaimed Dig, in disgust. “Did you ever see such luck?”

He ran to scramble on to Poke’s back; but Chet commanded him not to follow the herd at once.

“No use adding to their fright. They may only run a few miles if they are not molested,” said Chet.

“And not a shot after all that trouble!”

Chet was staring at the thicket rather than after the stampeded buffaloes.

“What under the sun could have started that wolf like that?” he muttered.

“Come!” cried Dig excitedly from the saddle, “you’re not going to let ’em get entirely away from us, are you, Chet?”

“I don’t believe we can get near them again today, Dig.”

“Why not?”

“After being scared like that they will be more watchful. And it’s two o’clock now.”

“I don’t care. Why, Chet, those are real buffaloes!”

“What’s the matter?” laughed his chum. “Did you think they were imitations at first?”

“Whew!” blew Dig. “I certainly believed they were an hallucination. I didn’t believe there were such creatures. At least, not along this trail.

“But now I’ve seen ’em—and been almost near enough to ’em for a shot—I tell you right now, Chet Havens, my blood is up! Let’s go after those buffaloes!”

“Even if they lead us to the Arctic Circle?” laughed Chet.

“Well, we have our camp equipment with us. Why not camp for the night where we happen to be? We can get back to the Grub Stake trail tomorrow.”

“And poor little Stone Fence?” suggested Chet slyly.

“Shucks! Maybe I’ll lasso one of those buffalo calves,” said Dig, grinning. “It would sell for more in town.”

It was agreed to pursue the buffalo herd for a way, at least. The frightened creatures had run from their feeding course. They had disappeared behind some round mounds to the northwest. This was almost as much off their trail as the buffaloes’ previous course had been. When the boys started on a heavy gallop after the game, the Grub Stake trail lay far to the south.

The distance to the mounds was not above five miles. The horses took up the trail at an easy pace and when they mounted the first small eminence the buffaloes were still out of sight.

“Whew!” exclaimed Digby. “I reckon they have run some distance, Chet.”

“See that timber ahead?” replied his chum. “It’s an open piece, and there is probably a stream in it, or just the other side of it. The buffaloes have gone no farther than the water, and may be feeding in the grove. If the latter, then we must approach very carefully. They can see us on the plain before we can see them in the timber.”

“Now you’re shouting, old boy!” cried Dig, admiringly. “Say! you’re a regular plainsman.”

“It stands to reason,” Chet returned, “we’ve got to use our heads if we expect to ever shoot one of those buffaloes.”

“Oh, cricky, Chet! If we only could,” said Dig longingly.

“Keep your heart up. Maybe we shall,” said Chet stoutly. “Now, let me tell you what I think.”

“Spout, brother, spout.”

“If that herd gets quiet again and goes to feeding, how will the animals head?”

Dig immediately saw what he meant, and nodded.

“Into the wind, of course,” he said.

“And the breeze holds steady, and is likely to do so until sundown,” Chet proceeded.

“Well?”

“What we want to do, then, is to make a circle to the west and come up behind the feeding herd, just as we did before. Let us not cross this plain to the timber. We’ll keep along the line of these mounds and at their foot, and find some place to cross over to the timber and the water under shelter. Come on,” and he swung Hero’s head about.

“Just one minute, Chet,” said his chum timidly, as he urged Poke to follow the other horse.

“What’s that?”

“Don’t you think we ought to eat?”

“Do you want to waste time now making camp, and cooking, and all that? Right in the middle of stalking that herd?”

“Whew! I’ll have to pull in my belt a hole or two, then,” grumbled Dig.

“Pull it in then. No stop until we have another chance at the buffaloes—or until night comes and stops us,” declared his chum firmly. “We’re real hunters now. We’re not playing at it!”

For two hours they rode steadily. The two boys scarcely exchanged a word and the horses began to show weariness. Then they came up a dead gully into the edge of the very piece of timber for which they had been aiming. There was no water in sight, and both horses and riders were beginning to suffer for it. The timber seemed more extensive than had appeared from the round back of the mound across the plain. Nor, as far as the boys could see, were there any signs of the herd of buffaloes. It really seemed as though their chase had been fruitless—and the sun was fast going down.

“Whew!” said Dig, whimsically. “We’re a long way from home, Chet. What shall we do next?”

CHAPTER XX—A MIDNIGHT ALARM

As Chet surmised, the timber was open, with a good sod and little rubbish or shrubbery. None of the bushes was big enough to hide the buffaloes even at a distance.

Not an object moved under the trees as the boys pressed on their tired mounts. If the herd of buffaloes had come this way it had not stopped to graze in the shelter of the timber.

And that fact puzzled Chet Havens and caused much disappointment to his chum, Dig Fordham.

“It gets me!” grumbled the latter. “You figured the thing out all right, Chet. We sneaked around and came up behind them all according to programme. But plague it all; somebody’s removed the buffaloes. They ought to have stopped here.”

“Maybe they kept on to water,” said Chet ruminatively.

“Whew! That wouldn’t be a bad idea for us! Where do you suppose water is? The last drop dribbled out of my canteen two hours ago.”

“Water’s right under our feet, I suppose. See how thrifty these trees are. But we can’t stop to dig for it,” said Chet. “We’d better let the horses find it.”

“And give up hunting the buffaloes?”

“For to-night. We don’t know how far away our camping place is—and night is coming fast. The horses have travelled hard.”

“Right!” agreed Dig. “But I hate to give over the hunt.”

“We’ll see what the morning brings forth,” Chet said cheerfully. “Let’s give the nags a free rein. Get on, Hero!”

The bay and the black horse were both thirsty. The boys could see no stream; but their mounts unerringly knew the direction of the nearest water. Both horses were range born and had run wild as colts. The instinct of their ancestors, the pure-blooded mustangs, was strong in them.

They struck almost directly northward through the timber and came out into the darkening plain on the other side. Night was coming fast and the boys naturally grew anxious.

They were not exactly lost. Chet had his compass, and, moreover, they could tell the general direction easily enough by the setting sun. But the Grub Stake trail was a long way behind them and all this country to the west, north, and east was entirely strange to the trail boys.

“Those buffaloes have plenty of country to hide in,” complained Dig, as the horses plodded on. “No wonder we didn’t find them. Whew! this is a big state, Chet.”

“We can pick up their trail in the morning if we want to,” returned his chum, smiling.

“How?” demanded Dig, interested.

“Why, all we need do,” Chet explained, “is to go back to those mounds, find the trail of the buffaloes, and follow it. They left a trace that a blind man could scarcely miss to the point where we turned west. It’s easy.”

“Whew!” blew Dig. “Of course! What a thickhead I am! We’ll get those buffaloes yet.”

“I don’t know,” Chet returned thoughtfully. “Ought we to go so far from the Grub Stake trail? Father did not tell me to hasten; but I am sure he expected us not to delay much on the road. I’ll feel a whole lot better, too, when I’ve attended to these deeds,” and he patted his breast to make sure of the packet he carried.

“Surely you wouldn’t drop the chase when we’re so near those beasts?” cried Dig.

“We don’t know how near they are. Maybe they’re running yet,” returned Chet grimly.

Their mounts quickened their pace and the boys fell silent. Twilight had fallen, and the immensity of the plains and their loneliness impressed the lads. Suddenly Chet started upright in his saddle and pointed ahead.

“Look!” he cried.

It was the gleam of water. There was no mistaking it. The horses snorted and broke into a trot. It was a fair-sized sheet of water, lying in a little saucer scooped in the plain—a “water-hole” in the West, but what would have been called a “frog-pond” in the East.

Rushes and willows grew about it. There were several stunted trees, too, offering plenty of firewood if not much shelter. The stars were already appearing in the arch of the sky overhead, and that would be their tent-roof.

The two chums became cheerful, however, as soon as they saw water and fuel. An open camp on a fair night like this had no terrors for them.

They unsaddled their mounts, let them drink their fill, and then hobbled them on a flat piece of prairie next to the camp. The fire was built and the strips of venison toasted. They were ravenously hungry and the remainder of the haunch the robber had left for them now looked very small. There was no more hard-bread.

“Whew!” sighed Digby, “I reckon we’ll have to start for Grub Stake bright and early in the morning, for we haven’t anything to eat!”

“We still have coffee, and milk for it, and all these cooking things,” chuckled Chet. “Lots better off than many hunters. Lost all your desire to shoot a buffalo, Dig?”

“Shooting a buffalo is all right, I don’t doubt,” returned his chum scornfully, “but chasing all over this country hunting the creatures isn’t much fun. Say, Chet!”

“Put a name to it.”

“What do you suppose ever scared that wolf so?”

“The wolf that stampeded the buffaloes?”

“Yes.”

“You may have three guesses. But that’s why we’re going to keep watch and watch to-night,” Chet said grimly.

“You don’t think it was another hunting party?” cried Dig.

“I believe nothing but human beings would have so scared that grey rascal. My! how he ran! I didn’t think of it at the time. I was too excited,” Chet said reflectively. “But take it from me, boy, that wolf was running from man.”

“I don’t understand it,” declared Dig. “If there had been another party besides us stalking that herd, why didn’t we see them?”

“They wouldn’t have been very good hunters if we had seen them,” laughed Chet.

“I mean after the buffaloes were stampeded. They must have been in that thicket out of which the wolf came.”

“Sure. And the very fact we didn’t see them after the stampede, makes me suspicious,” Chet returned. “I tell you, Dig, that party that stopped on the trail and robbed us last night puzzles me greatly.”

“How so?”

“They left the trail somewhere this side of our last camp; but I couldn’t see where. They were careful to hide their tracks.”

“I reckon, considering that they had robbed us.”

“Well, that might be so, too,” ruminated Chet. He did not want to frighten his chum regarding Tony Traddles and the strange man whom Amoshee had said were on the trail behind them. Yet the thought of the pair of rascals stuck in Chet’s mind and dove-tailed into the mystery of the two who had stopped to rob their camp.

“Well,” Dig said finally, “I suppose we’ll have to do as you say—keep watch. But we haven’t seen anything of any prowlers and it is likely those fellows who troubled us before are a long way from here.”

“Hope so,” agreed Chet. “But we’d better be sure than sorry.”

The boys were tired after the activities of the day; but Dig insisted upon standing the first watch. “And believe me!” he said, “I shall march up and down all the time. No sleeping on post this trick!”

Thus dividing the vigil, Chet bade him good-night and rolled up in his blanket. It was a warm night, however, and later, after he was dead asleep, the boy kicked the blanket off.

Dig kept away from him, however. There was no sound of roaming animals of any kind at first, and the watchman did not consider it necessary to feed the dying fire. The stars rendered a faint light and he could see objects in outline quite plainly.

The horses fed near the camp, and the ripping sound of the grass as their strong teeth severed it from the roots was the only sound Dig apprehended for some time.

It was as quiet here at this water-hole in the great plain as it would have been in Dig’s back yard. There was not even the rustle of a breeze in the brakes.

Dig tramped back and forth along the edge of the pool, occasionally stooping down to peer through the dusk at the horses. He could see them better that way. He kept away from his sleeping chum and their outfit purposely. He did not propose to rouse Chet until it was full midnight.

He grew thirsty and started to kneel down by the side of the pool to drink. Then he remembered that the horses had quenched their thirst on this side of the water-hole, and the water was likely to be roiled and muddy. So he started around toward the other side.

The water-hole was twenty yards across and its edge was screened by bushes and brakes for most of the way. Dig looked for an opening where he could kneel and reach the water, intending to fill his canteen and bring it back with him to the camp.

Poke stamped and whinnied; but Dig did not hear his mount. He kept on until he was fully half way around the water-hole. The plain seemed quite as silent and deserted as before. He could not see the spot where his chum lay nor even the gleam of the firelight now.

Chet was quite given up to sleep. He lay on his back with the neck of his shirt open.

He did not hear the restlessness of the horses, nor any other sound about the camp. Not at first, at least. But when a rifle exploded somewhere near, Chet Havens awoke with a start.

“Hi! what’s that?” he ejaculated, and sat up suddenly, throwing off the final restraining folds of the blanket.

“Dig! where are you?” he added and, getting no answer, he scrambled to his feet and picked up his own rifle that had been lying partly under him.

His chum was nowhere to be seen. He shouted again: “Dig! Dig!” and then strained his ear to catch the reply. But there was no immediate answer and Chet found himself shaking with apprehension. What had become of his chum?