“Hurrah!” cried Billy Cody, exultant. “Those mules are O. K. Lie low and stay by the wagon, fellows. Meat’s coming.” “What’ll I do?” yelled Left-over. “Where’ll I go? “You do as I say,” ordered Billy, thoroughly alive. “Stay right here. We may have to split that herd.” On blundered the buffalo. The roll of their hoofs sounded like heavy thunder, and the dust floated over their dark backs. Pressing valiantly, Hi and Jim held their mules in the rear, and, still circuiting, forced the herd over toward the wagon. “Great Cæsar’s ghost, boys!” gasped Mr. Baxter, straightening in his seat. “Don’t forget that I’m up aloft here, and I’ll land hard if that herd strikes us!” The herd arrived almost before he had finished speaking. The foremost――a big cow in the lead――went streaming past just in front of the wagon; and the whole van of the shaggy, crazy army loomed in one grand charge on either hand. “I’ll tend to this side; you and Left-over tend to the other,” shouted Billy to Dave. “Give it to them! Split ’em! Split ’em! Wave yore hat, Reverend.” [Illustration: “GIVE IT TO THEM! SPLIT ’EM! SPLIT ’EM!”] “Now’s your chance, Left-over,” exclaimed Dave, levelling his revolver. The Reverend waved his broad hat and shouted lustily. “Bang!” spoke Billy’s yager. Davy pointed his revolver at the nearest buffalo and pulled trigger. He dimly saw the huge creature plunge forward to its knees, but he did not wait to see more; he only pulled trigger as fast as he could right into the faces of the pelting herd. He had a vague vision of bulging eyes and lolling red tongues, and short horns and tangled foreheads and lunging shoulders, and ever the dark, panting mass flowed past. Suddenly a tremendous report in his ear well-nigh deafened him, and Left-over yelped loudly, crying, “I got him! I got him!” “Hooray!” screamed the Reverend, choking with glee, and laughing so that he doubled and swayed. Left-over was on his back, heels high, gun waving. He sat up, pulled trigger, and over he went again, kicked flat by the heavy Sharp’s. At every shot he yelped, sprawled backward, sat up, shot, and yelped again. Davy’s revolver was emptied, and he had space to watch. Now Left-over’s gun was empty, too; and dusty and perspiring and wild-eyed, he picked himself up. “How many did I kill?” he squealed hoarsely. “Are all those mine?” For the herd had passed, the wagon was untouched, and the chief token of the battle was the half dozen bulky forms lying prone almost in the very trail itself. Davy drew a long breath. That had been an exciting moment. Hi and Jim came galloping in, their mules lathered and puffing. XI SOME HALTS BY THE WAY “Good work,” praised Hi, with casual glance. “Thar are three or four more out yonder. Reckon we’ve got meat enough now for a while.” “Which are mine?” squealed Left-over. “Did you other fellows kill any? I’d have killed fifty if I’d had any more cartridges.”