“Buffler!” he said. They followed the direction of his finger, but Jan could see nothing. “I dinks dat ish von lie, Penn. I does not see von puffalo.” “Course ye don’t,” said Ben, contemptuously. “’Tain’t to be expected ye _kin_, nohow. Does ye see them black spots, close down to the edge of the prairie, over yonder?” “Yaw; I sees _dem_,” replied Jan. “Oh, ye _do_. Waal, _them’s_ buffler.” “Ish _dey_ goot to eat?” “Good! Ye bet yer bottom dollar on that ar’, ye may. I calculate thar ain’t nothin’ in creation to ekal a buffler-hump; no, nothin’. Why, the juices squeeze out’n it when ye set yer teeth in it, like _ile_. Oh, it’s _good_. Ye bet I like it. Anyhow, I’ve got my opinion, and I’ll risk a beaver-pelt ye never tasted anythin’ half so good. So, _thar_!” “I dinks I likes him pooty good,” said Jan. “Vell, den, ve coes unt kills him pymepye, pooty soon, unt cooks him hump. Vat him hump pe, Penn?” “The first cut off the _horns_,” said Jules. “I dinks dat ish von lie,” said Jan, coolly. “Dat ish too tough. I not talks mit _you_, Shule. I asks Penn.” “I guess ye’ll find out what a buffler-hump is before ye’ve been long on the prairie. But, see hyar. It don’t taste half so good unless ye kill it yerself. So ye must try to kill one. I’ve always said ye’d got good stuff in ye, ef we could only bring it out, an’ I reckon we kin do it; eh, Jule?” “Yes,” said Jules. “We’ll put him through.” “I don’t vant no voolin’,” said Jan, in considerable trepidation. “I not likes dat. ’Tis not goot. S’pose you dells me right how to kill him, all right. S’pose you don’t, den I licks you, Shule. Yaw; dat ish vat I does.” “No quarrelin’,” said Ben. “I won’t hev it. The fust one thet gits to fightin’, I’ll fetch him a lick over the jaw thet’ll make him sick; I will, by gravy. Now look out.” In obedience to his signal, the party put themselves in motion, riding at a careful pace toward the black spots, which the experienced eye of the trapper had detected. A light wind was blowing in their faces. “We’ve got the wind of ’em,” said Ben. “They kain’t smell us.” There was a small growth of timber between them and the buffaloes, of not more than a dozen trees. Keeping this in line with them, they were enabled to get within three or four hundred yards of the herd, and peeping out from the trees, they could count them. The herd was small, consisting only of five, headed by a giant bull, whose patriarchal head was slightly elevated, as if he snuffed danger in the air. “The cunnin’ animile thinks somebody is around,” whispered Ben. “Oh, what a beauty. But the cows ar’ the best to eat. Is yer gun loaded, Jan?” “Yaw,” replied Jan. “Then git ready. When I give the word, foller me. Ar’ ye ready, Jule?” “Yes,” said Jules, from between his set teeth. “Then go it!” cried Ben.