"Their black hair, thick and lowering, Above their wild eyes hung, And about their frowning foreheads Like wreaths of night-shade clung. 'The bisons! ho, the bisons!' They cried and answered back. The frightened creatures stood aghast To see them on their track." With rifle on shoulder and knife in belt, Nat Wolfe rode along carelessly, for it was midday, and the country was open. That caution which ten years of uncivilized life had taught him never entirely slumbered, and he gave a sharp glance ahead, when, upon turning a low bluff rising out of the plain just here, he descried travelers in advance of him. A moment assured him that they were a family of emigrants making their toilsome way …
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