ine of another which he did not see.
Pierre sprang forward and swung him clear, but was himself struck
senseless by an outreaching branch.

As if satisfied with this achievement, the storm began to subside.
When Pierre recovered consciousness Trafford clasped his hand and
said,--"You've a sharp eye, a quick thought, and a deft arm, comrade."

"Ah, it was in the game. It is good play to assist your partner," the
half-breed replied sententiously. Through all, the Indian had remained
stoical. But McGann, who swore by Trafford--as he had once sworn by
another of the Trafford race--had his heart on his lips, and said:

"There's a swate little cherub that sits up aloft,
Who cares for the soul of poor Jack!"

It was long after midnight ere they settled down again, with the wreck
of the forest round them. Only the Indian slept; the others were alert
and restless. They were up at daybreak, and on their way before sunrise,
filled with desire for prey. They had not travelled far before they
emerged upon a plateau. Around them were the hills of the Mighty
Men--austere, majestic; at their feet was a vast valley on which the
light newly-fallen snow had not hidden all the grass. Lonely and lofty,
it was a world waiting chastely to be peopled! And now it was peopled,
for there came from a cleft of the hills an army of buffaloes lounging
slowly down the waste, with tossing manes and hoofs stirring the snow
into a feathery scud.

The eyes of Trafford and McGann swam; Pierre's face was troubled, and
strangely enough he made the sign of the cross.

At that instant Trafford saw smoke issuing from a spot on the mountain
opposite. He turned to the Indian: "Someone lives there"? he said.

"It is the home of the dead, but life is also there."

"White man, or Indian?"

But no reply came. The Indian pointed instead to the buffalo rumbling
down the valley. Trafford forgot the smoke, forgot everything except
that splendid quarry. Shon was excited. "Sarpints alive," he said, "look
at the troops of thim! Is it standin' here we are with our tongues in
our cheeks, whin there's bastes to be killed, and mate to be got, and
the call to war on the ground below! Clap spurs with your heels, sez
I, and down the side of the turf together and give 'em the teeth of our
guns!" The Irishman dashed down the slope. In an instant, all followed,
or at least Trafford thought all followed, swinging their guns across
their saddles to be ready for this