Who cares for the soul of poor Jack!"

It was long after midnight ere they settled down again, with the wreck of
the forest round them. Only the Indian slept; the others were alert and
restless. They were up at daybreak, and on their way before sunrise,
filled with desire for prey. They had not travelled far before they
emerged upon a plateau. Around them were the hills of the Mighty Men--
austere, majestic; at their feet was a vast valley on which the light
newly-fallen snow had not hidden all the grass. Lonely and lofty, it was
a world waiting chastely to be peopled! And now it was peopled, for
there came from a cleft of the hills an army of buffaloes lounging slowly
down the waste, with tossing manes and hoofs stirring the snow into a
feathery scud.

The eyes of Trafford and McGann swam; Pierre's face was troubled, and
strangely enough he made the sign of the cross.

At that instant Trafford saw smoke issuing from a spot on the mountain
opposite. He turned to the Indian: "Someone lives there"? he said.

"It is the home of the dead, but life is also there."

"White man, or Indian?"

But no reply came. The Indian pointed instead to the buffalo rumbling
down the valley. Trafford forgot the smoke, forgot everything except
that splendid quarry. Shon was excited. "Sarpints alive," he said,
"look at the troops of thim! Is it standin' here we are with our tongues
in our cheeks, whin there's bastes to be killed, and mate to be got, and
the call to war on the ground below! Clap spurs with your heels, sez I,