You didn't tell us you wanted buffalo alive. And here you've got
us looking death in the eye!"

In the grim silence that ensued the two men unhitched the team
from the long, light wagon, while the buffalo hunter staked out
his wiry, lithe-limbed racehorses. Soon a fluttering blaze threw
a circle of light, which shone on the agitated face of Rude and
Adams, and the cold, iron-set visage of their brawny leader.

"It's this way," began Jones, in slow, cool voice; "I engaged you
fellows, and you promised to stick by me. We've had no luck. But
I've finally found sign--old sign, I'll admit the buffalo I'm
looking for--the last herd on the plains. For two years I've been
hunting this herd. So have other hunters. Millions of buffalo
have been killed and left to rot. Soon this herd will be gone,
and then the only buffalo in the world will be those I have given
ten years of the hardest work in capturing. This is the last
herd, I say, and my last chance to capture a calf or two. Do you
imagine I'd quit? You fellows go back if you want, but I keep on."

"We can't go back. We're lost. We'll have to go with you. But,
man, thirst is not the only risk we run. This is Comanche
country. And if that herd is in here the Indians have it
spotted."

"That worries me some," replied the plainsman, "but we'll keep on
it."

They slept. The night wind swished the grasses; dark storm clouds
blotted out the northern stars; the prairie wolves mourned