on the bison and the men we followed, the stench of their blasted
carcasses would have reached high heaven. But the bison surrounded us
impassively, bore us on as before; somewhere, miles beyond, Lessard
pursued the evil tenor of his way; and MacRae's futile passion, like a
wave that has battered itself to foam against a sullen cliff, subsided
and died. Later, while we three cast-aways drifted with the bovine tide,
he spoke to Piegan Smith.

"How are we going to get through?"

"Dunno. But we _will_ get through, yuh c'n gamble on that." Optimism
rampant was the dominating element in Piegan's philosophy of life.

As if to prove that he was a true prophet, the herd split against a
rocky pinnacle, and on this we stranded. So much, at least, we had
gained--we were no longer being carried willy-nilly out of our way.

"If they'd only scatter a little," MacRae muttered.

But for a long two hours the bison streamed by our island, dividing
before and closing behind the insensate peak that alone had power to
break their close-packed ranks. Then came an opening, a falling apart;
slight as it was, we plunged into it with joy. Thereafter we were
buffeted like chips in the swirling maw of a whirlpool; we fought our
way rod by rod. Here an opening, and we shot through; there a solid wall
of flesh for whose passing we halted, lashing out with quirts and
spurring desperately to hold our own--a war for the open road against an
enemy whose only weapon was his unswerving bulk. And we won. We pushed,
twisted, spurred our way through the ranks of a hundred thousand bison.
Jostling, cursing the brute swarm, we crowded our horses against the
press, and lo! of a sudden we reined up on open ground--the bison, like
a nightmare, were gone. Off in the gloom to one side of us a myriad of
hoofs beat the earth, the hoarse coughings continued, the animal odor
exhaled--but it was no longer a force to be reckoned with. We were free.
We had outflanked the herd.

[Illustration: A WAR FOR THE OPEN ROAD AGAINST AN ENEMY WHOSE ONLY
WEAPON WAS HIS UNSWERVING BULK.

_Page 256._]

CHAPTER XX.

THE MOUTH OF SAGE CREEK.

With that opposing force behind us, we bore away across the shrouded
benches, straight for the mouth of Sage Creek. What method we would
pursue when we got there was not altogether clear to me, and the same
thing evidently bothered Piegan, for, after a long interval, he
addressed himself pointedly to MacRae.

"We ought t' hit