et that day as long as I live!"

"Tell us about it," I suggested, in a matter of fact,
round-the-campfire voice. Had the silent plainsman ever told a complete
and full story of his adventures? I doubted it. He was not the man to
eulogize himself.

A short silence ensued. The cabin was snug and warm; the ruddy embers
glowed; one of Jim's pots steamed musically and fragrantly. The hounds
lay curled in the cozy chimney corner.

Jones began to talk again, simply and unaffectedly, of his famous
exploit; and as he went on so modestly, passing lightly over features
we recognized as wonderful, I allowed the fire of my imagination to
fuse for myself all the toil, patience, endurance, skill, herculean
strength and marvelous courage and unfathomable passion which he
slighted in his narrative.

CHAPTER 3.

THE LAST HERD

Over gray No-Man's-Land stole down the shadows of night. The undulating
prairie shaded dark to the western horizon, rimmed with a fading streak
of light. Tall figures, silhouetted sharply against the last golden
glow of sunset, marked the rounded crest of a grassy knoll.

"Wild hunter!" cried a voice in sullen rage, "buffalo or no, we halt
here. Did Adams and I hire to cross the Staked Plains? Two weeks in
No-Man's-Land, and now we're facing the sand! We've one keg of water,
yet you want to keep on. Why, man, you're crazy! You didn't tell us you
wanted buffalo alive. And here you've got us looking death in the eye!"

In the grim silence that ensued the two men unhitched the team from the
long, light wagon, while the buffalo hunter staked out his wiry,
lithe-limbed racehorses. Soon a fluttering blaze threw a circle of
light, which shone on the agitated face of Rude and Adams, and the
cold, iron-set visage of their brawny leader.

"It's this way," began Jones, in slow, cool voice; "I engaged you
fellows, and you promised to stick by me. We've had no luck. But I've
finally found sign--old sign, I'll admit the buffalo I'm looking
for--the last herd on the plains. For two years I've been hunting this
herd. So have other hunters. Millions of buffalo have been killed and
left to rot. Soon this herd will be gone, and then the only buffalo in
the world will be those I have given ten years of the hardest work in
capturing. This is the last herd, I say, and my last chance to capture
a calf or two. Do you imagine I'd quit? You fellows go back if you
want, but I keep on."

"We can't go back. We're lost. We'll h