Chet was just as eager and excited as he could be. Dig appeared to be doubtful of the identity of the moving herd they had spied so far away; nevertheless, he felt that the venture was momentous. The chums had not hunted big game frequently enough to approach this strange herd of grazing animals with calmness. Their pulses throbbed and their faces flushed. They were both on the qui vive. “If it should be the buffaloes, Chet,” gasped Digby Fordham, “what’ll we do?” “Shake salt on their tails,” grinned Chet, “as you suggested doing to the antelope.” “No fooling,” Dig urged. “They’ll be dangerous, won’t they?” “If we get them mad, I reckon they will be. But they are very timid at the approach of man. And if they get started on the run—good-bye! We couldn’t catch them unless our horses were very fresh. That’s why we must take the trip over to their feeding ground easily. We may have to gallop to get a shot.” “If they are the buffaloes,” added the Doubting Thomas. “If they are not the buffaloes, they’ll be something well worth shooting,” Chet said with confidence. “I don’t know of anything else that size that roams these plains.” They had ridden several miles off the trail now, and the humped backs of the grazing animals were quite plainly visible. “Suppose they see us?” suggested Dig suddenly. “From what I’ve heard about the buffaloes, there’s not much danger. You see, they are headed away from us and are grazing. When their heads are down they can’t see much going on right about them, and nothing at all at a distance. A buffalo herd sets no sentinels as do elk or wild horses.” “But if they get a scent of us?” “Wind’s from them. It’s blowing in our faces, isn’t it? Just the same, we’ll creep up on them like a cat on a mouse,” Chet agreed. “After a while, we’ll keep to the coulies and gullies, and go at a slower pace. This is a great chance, Dig. If we each brought home a buffalo robe—eh?” “Whew!” breathed Dig exultantly. “Or shot the big fellow they say captains this herd?” went on Chet. “Oh, come on!” exclaimed Dig. “You make my mouth water.” They had stopped for no midday meal; nor did Dig complain of this loss. Not at present, at least. He was quite as much worked up over the hunt as his chum. “Just think of it,” Chet said, after a time, “I was reading a book the other evening that quoted ‘Fremont, the Pathfinder’ as saying that in 1836 one travelling from the Rockies to the Missouri River never lost sight of grazing buffaloes.” “Whew!” “The old emigrant trails were marked for years and years by the whitened skulls of buffaloes, wantonly killed by the travellers. Everybody who came West wanted to say that he had shot a buffalo. Why, Dig! they used to roam all this great United States from the Pacific Slope to Lake Champlain. The last buffalo was killed east of the Mississippi River in 1832.” “And now it’s hard to find any of ’em,” said Dig. “Where have they gone?”