NOW you must not forget that most of the names of rivers, mountains and settlements which I use in this story had no existence when Deerfoot and his friends started on their journey across the continent. A large number of these names were bestowed by Captains Lewis and Clark, who came after the little party. Some of the titles have stuck, and a good many have undergone changes. It was these explorers who gave the Rocky (then known as Stony) Mountains their name, to say nothing of other peaks and ranges. Lewis and Clark showed much ingenuity in making up the long list, and it must be admitted that in many instances the change of title since then was not an improvement.

Our friends left the Missouri some distance beyond old Fort Osage, where the stream changes its course, and instead of flowing directly east, comes from the north. They headed a little south of northwest, and when we look upon them again the four were in the western part of the present State of Kansas and below the Arkansas River. Had they turned south they would have had to cross only a comparatively narrow neck of Oklahoma to enter the immense State of Texas.

By this time it was early summer and the region was like fairyland. The surface was rolling prairie, and the luxuriant grass was dotted with an exuberance of wild flowers, brilliant, beautiful and fragrant, while the soft blue sky, flecked here and there by snowy patches of cloud, shut down on every hand. North, south, east, west, every point of the compass showed the same apparently limitless expanse of rolling prairie, watered by many streams and fertile as the “Garden of the Lord.”

The party had become accustomed to the varying scenery which greeted them from the hour of leaving their distant home, and especially after crossing the Mississippi, but they were profoundly impressed by the wonderful loveliness on every hand. Mul-tal-la had passed over the same ground before, but it was not clothed in such enchanting verdure. Not a single tree was in sight, but the grass in some places brushed the bellies of the horses, and no one needed to be told that at no distant day the region would become one of the most prosperous on the continent.

At intervals the horsemen came to higher swells in the prairies, upon which they halted and surveyed the surrounding country. While the weather was warm, there was just a touch of coolness which made it ideal for riding, walking or, in fact, living and drawing one’s breath.

The best of fortune had attended the little company thus far. There had been some delays and checks in crossing the streams, and once Zigzag’s stubbornness came within a hair of losing the contents of the pack strapped to his back. Bug, the horse of Mul-tal-la, wandered off one night, and he, too, developed such a spell of obstinacy that it was a whole day before he was found again. Had he not been recovered just when he was he would have been run off by a party of Pawnees, who seemed disposed to make a fight for him. These warriors were large, finely formed and numerous enough to wipe out the four, but the exercise of tact finally adjusted matters, and nothing more of an unpleasant nature occurred.

But, without dwelling upon these and other annoying incidents, we find our friends in the section named on this bright, sunshiny forenoon in early summer, riding at a leisurely gait toward the setting sun, for the time had not yet come to turn northward and make for the hunting grounds of the Blackfeet.

Deerfoot checked his horse on the crest of the moderate elevation, with one of the brothers on either side of him, and Mul-tal-la farther to the left. All carefully scanned the horizon and the grand sweep of prairie that inclosed them on every side.

“Do my brothers see anything more than the stretch of plain?” asked Deerfoot.

Naturally one of the first things done by George Shelton at such times was to bring his spyglass to his eye. It was a good instrument and proved of value to all. He had been thus engaged for several minutes when the Shawanoe asked his question.

“No,” was the reply. “There seems to be no end to waving grass and shining flower.”

“Let my brother look to the northward,” said Deerfoot, pointing in that direction, “and tell me what he sees.”

George did as directed. At first he saw nothing unusual, but as he peered he observed a change in the color of the landscape. Far off toward the horizon he noted, instead of the variegated hue, a dark sweep, as if the prairie ended on the shore of a dun-colored lake or sea. It covered thirty degrees of the circle. His first thought was that it was a large body of water, for as he studied it closer he perceived a restless pulsation of the surface, which suggested waves, though there was not a breath of wind where the company had halted.

“It looks to me like a big body of water,” said the boy, lowering his glass.

“Let me have a squint,” remarked Victor, reaching for the glass, which was passed to him.

Deerfoot and Mul-tal-la did not speak, but exchanged significant looks.

Victor held the glass to his eyes for several minutes, while the others waited for him to speak.

“It looks like a body of water,” he finally said, without lowering the instrument, “but, if it is, it’s coming this way!”

It was the Blackfoot who grinned and uttered the single word:

“Buffaloes!”

“So they are! You might have known that, George.”

“You didn’t know it till Mul-tal-la told you.”

Very soon the animals were identified by the naked eye. Numbers had been seen before, but never so large a herd as that upon which all now gazed with rapt attention. There must have been tens of thousands, all coming with that heavy, plunging pace peculiar to those animals. Sometimes an immense drove would be quietly cropping the herbage, when a slight flurry would set several in motion. Then the excitement ran through the whole lot with almost electric suddenness, and all were soon plunging in headlong flight across the plain.

The buffalo, or more properly the American bison, is a stupid creature and subject to the most senseless panics. Thousands have been known to dash at the highest speed straight away. Sometimes the leaders would come abruptly to the top of a lofty bluff, perhaps overlooking a stream deep below. In vain they attempted to hold back or to swerve to one side. The prodigious pressure from the rear was resistless, and they were driven over the cliff into the water, with the others piling upon them, and those again borne under by the remainder of the herd until hundreds were trampled, smothered and drowned in the muddy water beneath. Only those at the extreme rear were able to save themselves, and that not through any wit of their own.

As the seething host bore down upon the horsemen it was seen that the front, which was spread out over an expanse of several hundred yards, was coming straight for the elevation upon which our friends were waiting and watching them. Bellowing mingled with the thunderous tread of the mighty mass, and the sight was enough to awe the stoutest heart.

“They will trample us to death,” called the scared Victor, looking at Deerfoot, who was calmly contemplating the approaching army. The horses raised their heads, looked toward the brown, undulating mass, snuffed, snorted and trembled with terror, for their instinct told them that the peril was bearing down upon them with hurricane swiftness.

It would not do to wait, for the most frightful of deaths threatened the party. Mul-tal-la slipped from his horse and whipped the blanket from his back. Deerfoot also dismounted, but did not take his blanket with him, though he carried his gun.

“Let my brothers come with me,” he said sharply to the boys, who nervously sprang from their saddles and hurried to his side.

The Blackfoot ran a few paces in front of the three and began vigorously waving the blanket over his head, shouting at the top of his voice. At the same moment Deerfoot leveled his gun and fired at the nearest bison, which was less than a hundred yards off. The bullet struck the gigantic head, but the beast did not suffer the slightest harm. He plunged forward with the same impetuosity as before.

Deerfoot caught the gun from George’s grasp and fired again, but with no more effect than at first. The horses were snorting and rearing and in danger of breaking off in the irrestrainable panic shown by the bison. The Shawanoe reached for the rifle of Victor, and the lad eagerly passed the weapon to him.

“Let my brothers look to the horses,” he called, still cool but under restrained excitement. The boys ran to the animals and immediately found their hands full, for a horse frantic with fear is one of the most unmanageable of creatures.

Deerfoot did not discharge the third weapon, but awaited the chance to make his shot effective. It was a waste of ammunition to launch a bullet at the iron-like front of a bison. The surest avenue to his seat of life is back of the foreleg. The heads were held so low by the plunging brutes that they acted as shields to the vulnerable portions from that direction, and the position of the Shawanoe did not allow a favorable aim.

Mul-tal-la ran several steps toward the thundering herd, and then began leaping into the air, swinging his blanket and shouting like a crazy man. In any other circumstances his antics would have caused a laugh, but this was no time for merriment. Deerfoot was the only tranquil member of the party, and he stood with weapon half raised, unable to decide what to do to avert the peril sweeping down upon them like a hurricane.

Seconds were beyond value. Unless the bison were diverted at once the breath of life would be crushed out of the four and out of their animals. Wild bellowings filled the air, and peculiar crackling, rattling sounds, limitless in number, were heard. These were caused by the contact of the horns of the bison, which were crowded so close in many places that the wonder was how they were able to move at all.

The last hope seemed to lie in the Blackfoot. Unless his shoutings and contortions with the fluttering blanket, which threatened to be whipped into shreds, checked the furious beasts, they could not be stayed at all. He produced no more effect than the flicker of a straw in the wind.

At this appalling juncture, Deerfoot, with both arms outstretched, the left hand holding the rifle of Victor Shelton, dashed toward the head of the herd, which was only a few rods away. He was seen to make a tremendous leap, which landed him on the back of an enormous bull. Instead of firing the gun, he grasped it by the barrel and smote the bison with the stock, the blow descending upon one of his eyes. The youth’s strange position, which he managed to maintain, gave him the first chance to make a telling shot. Like a flash he fired at the nearest bison, sending the bullet down through the forepart of his body and into a spot so vital that, with a frenzied bellow, he stumbled forward and rolled over and over like a huge block of wood driven from the throat of a giant piece of ordnance.

While executing his lightning-like movements, the Shawanoe added his shoutings to those of his friend, and then laid about him with the clubbed weapon. The unique performances of the two did the business. The fall of one bison, the strange figure dancing as it seemed in mid-air, injected a panic into that part of the herd, which split into two divisions that thundered past the terrified group as if the elevation formed a small island in the center of a rushing torrent.

Deerfoot allowed himself to be carried a number of yards on the back of his frantic steed. When abreast of the horses he sprang from his perch and ran up beside them, where the boys had all they could do to restrain the animals. As if nothing unusual had occurred, the Shawanoe joined in their efforts, and, by main force, restrained the brutes from breaking away and diving among the bison, where they could not have survived more than a few minutes.

The wedge having been inserted into the onrushing herd, nothing more remained to be done. The dividing point not only was maintained, but the bison began separating farther back, so that by and by the partition point was twice as distant as at first.

None of the rifles was loaded, and no attempt was made to ram a charge into them while the stampede continued. The Blackfoot, however, seemed to catch the wild ardor of panic, and, dropping his blanket, brought his bow into play. Arrow after arrow was launched at the bison. Though none fell, a number were grievously hurt and, as they dived past, more than one showed an arrow projecting like a giant feather from some part of his body. So enormous was this herd of bison that nearly an hour passed before the last galloped by and followed with undiminished speed the thousands that were headed southward and running as if they would never stop.