“Dave, why don’t you follow the trail again? That buffalo may not be far off. It won’t do any good for you to sit down here by me—I can take care of myself. Only be careful that the beast doesn’t corner you.” “I’ll do it. But I’ll get you some water first,” answered Dave. He had noted a spring just before coming to the bear hollow, and he walked back to it and procured some water in a gourd they carried for that purpose. With this Henry started to bathe his swollen ankle, while Dave took to the fresh trail the buffalo had made. “Don’t stay away more than an hour!” called out Henry after him. “Not unless it takes a little longer to get a good chance at the buffalo,” replied his cousin. The buffalo had crashed through a long stretch of brushwood where the trail could be followed with ease. Then he had taken to the old trail once more, at a point a good half-mile from where he had before left it. “He is bound for the west, that’s certain,” said Dave to himself. “And more than likely he will keep on until sundown. I may as well give up all hopes of bringing him down. Heigh-ho! such are the fortunes of hunting!” And he heaved a deep sigh. He kept on for quarter of a mile further, reaching a point where the trail crossed a small but clear stream of spring water. Here the bison had paused for a drink, and resting his gun against a tree, the young hunter got down on his hands and knees to do likewise. The water tasted so good that Dave took his time and drank his fill. Then he raised his head, started to rise, and looked toward the tree where he had placed his weapon. The gun was gone! For the moment the young hunter could not believe the evidence of his senses. He remained in a crouching position, wondering what he had best do. He felt that an enemy must have taken the gun, and wondered who it could be. With caution he looked around, but not a soul was in sight. It was a peculiar position to be in, and small wonder that the cold perspiration stood out upon the young hunter’s forehead. He had been in peril before, among the Indians, and felt fairly certain that a red man had gotten the better of him. What was best to do? He asked himself the question several times, his heart beating meanwhile like a trip-hammer within his breast. An enemy was surely at hand. What would be the next movement of the unknown? Cautiously he put his hand to his side, drew his hunting knife, and arose slowly to an upright position. Overhead the branches of the trees were tightly interlaced, making the spot rather gloomy. The stream came down between a number of rocks which were backed up by bushes and trees. Would it be best to make a dash for this shelter? “White boy drop knife!” The unexpected command, issued in a guttural tone, came from a clump of brushwood behind Dave. The young hunter swung around, but could see no one. “White boy drop knife, or Indian shoot,” were the next words spoken, and now Dave saw the barrel of his own gun pointed at his breast.