afe, lifted his eyes, and, resting
them casually on the Indian, replied: "Yes, I know the place.... No,
I have not been there, but I was told-ah, it was long ago! There is a
great valley between hills, the Kimash Hills, the hills of the Mighty
Men. The woods are deep and dark; there is but one trail through them,
and it is old. On the highest hill is a vast mound. In that mound are
the forefathers of a nation that is gone. Yes, as you say, they are
dead, and there is none of them alive in the valley--which is called the
White Valley--where the buffalo are. The valley is green in summer, and
the snow is not deep in winter; the noses of the buffalo can find the
tender grass. The Injin speaks the truth, perhaps. But of the number of
buffaloes, one must see. The eye of the red man multiplies."

Trafford looked at Pierre closely. "You seem to know the place very
well. It is a long way north where--ah yes, you said you had never been
there; you were told. Who told you?"

The half-breed raised his eyebrows slightly as he replied: "I can
remember a long time, and my mother, she spoke much and sang many
songs at the campfires." Then he puffed his cigarette so that the smoke
clouded his face for a moment, and went on,--"I think there may be
buffaloes."

"It's along the barrel of me gun I wish I was lookin' at thim now," said
McGann.

"'Tiens,' you will go"? inquired Pierre of Trafford. "To have a shot at
the only herd of wild buffaloes on the continent! Of course I'll go.
I'd go to the North Pole for that. Sport and novelty I came here to see;
buffalo-hunting I did not expect. I'm in luck, that's all. We'll start
to-morrow morning, if we can get ready, and Shangi here will lead us;
eh, Pierre?"

The half-breed again was not polite. Instead of replying he sang almost
below his breath the words of a song unfamiliar to his companions,
though the Indian's eyes showed a flash of understanding. These were the
words:

"They ride away with a waking wind, away, away!
With laughing lip and with jocund mind at break of day.
A rattle of hoofs and a snatch of song, they ride, they ride!
The plains are wide and the path is long,--so long, so wide!"

Just Trafford appeared ready to deal with this insolence, for the
half-breed was after all a servant of his, a paid retainer. He waited,
however. Shon saw the difficulty, and at once volunteered a reply. "It's
aisy enough to get away in the mornin', but it's a question how far