e great West suits a man, who
don't want to talk, clean down to the groun'."

Will, the reins lying upon the pommel of his saddle, was surveying the
horizon with the powerful glasses which he was so proud to possess, and
far in the southeast he noticed a dim blur which did not seem to be a
natural part of the plain. It grew as he watched it, assuming the shape
of a cloud that moved westward along one side of a triangle, while the
four were riding along the other side. If they did not veer from their
course they would meet, in time, and the cloud, seemingly of dust, was,
therefore, a matter of living interest.

"What are you looking at so long?" asked Boyd.

"A cloud of dust that grows and grows and grows."

"Where?"

"In the southeast."

"I can't see it and I have pretty keen eyes."

"The naked eye won't reach so far, but the dust cloud is there just the
same. It's moving in a course almost parallel with us and it grows every
second I look at it. It may be the dust kicked up by a band of Sioux
horsemen. Take a look, Jim, and tell us what you make of it."

Boyd looked through the glasses, at first with apprehension that soon
changed to satisfaction.

"The cloud of dust is growing fast, just as you told us, Will," he said,
"and, while it did look for a moment or two like Indian horsemen, it
isn't. It's a buffalo herd, and the tail of it runs off into the
southeast, clean down under the horizon. Buffaloes move in two kinds of
herds, the giant herds, and the little ones. This is a giant, and no
mistake. In a few minutes you'll be able to see 'em, plain, with your
own eyes."

"I kin see thar dust cloud now," exclaimed the Little Giant. "Looks ez
ef they wuz cuttin' 'cross our right o' way."

They rode forward at ease and gradually a mighty cloud of dust, many
miles in length and of great width, emerged from the plain, moving
steadily toward the northwest. Will, with his glasses, now saw the
myriads of black forms that trampled up the dusty typhoons, and was even
able to discern the fierce wolves hanging on the flanks in the hope of
pulling down a calf or a decrepit old bull.

"They must number millions," he said.

"Like ez not they do," said the Little Giant. "You kin tell tales 'bout
the big herds o' bufflers on the plains that nobody will b'lieve, but
they're true jest the same. Once at the Platte I saw a herd crossin' fur
five days, an' it stretched up an' down the river ez fur ez the eye
could see."

"