Behind the sloping edge of the wallow Ned lay close, and peeped over. He was a brave boy, but he shivered with excitement. After he had escaped, and had come so far, and was almost within touch of white people, was he to be re-captured? He couldn’t stand it—no, he couldn’t stand it, unless he had to. When they have to, people can stand a great deal. The buffalo were increasing in size rapidly, as with their peculiar headlong rolling gallop they came thundering on. There were several thousand of them; the beat of their hoofs merged into a dull roar; over their torrent of black backs floated a yellow spume of dust. Gazing beyond them anxiously Ned searched for the hunters. He thought that he saw them—some horsemen, veiled in the dust as they so furiously pursued. Were they white horsemen, or red? Then he saw, to his relief, that the course of the tossing herd was past his wallow, not over it. He would not be trampled to death, anyway; and perhaps he would not be seen. And then he saw that a single buffalo had separated from the flying herd, and that had paired off with it a single horseman, to ride it down. _They_ were heading almost directly for the wallow. Ned flattened himself as flat as a horned toad or a lizard, and motionless, watched. He did not dare to stir his head, he dared scarcely to breathe. Indians, as well he knew, had eyes very keen for any movements against the surface of the ground. The buffalo was running gallantly—head down, tail curved, heavy fore-quarters propelled by light hind-quarters. In its rear pursued the hunter. Ned, peering through a screen of weeds, fastened eyes upon him to read him. He wore a hat; good! He wore a shirt or coat; pretty good! He held a revolver; very good! He rode like a white man; hurrah! Heart beating afresh, Ned waited a minute longer, to make certain. How the buffalo ran! How the hunter rode! It was a big bull buffalo. Ned could see his shaggy head, like a lion’s; he fancied that he could see his tongue as it hung foamy and red; almost could he see his glaring eyeballs and hear his panting breath. The horseman—yes, he was white!—was leaning forward, lifting his long-legged bay to the race. His right hand held high a heavy revolver, his left hand gathered the loosely drawn reins; his broad-brimmed hat flared in the breeze that he made; his hair, yellow and free, streamed backward. He gave a wild, exultant halloo, and his horse, lengthening with leap after leap, fairly was eating the space to the straining, lumbering quarry. It took a fast horse to do this; but the buffalo was wounded, for now from his red tongue was dripping something redder still.