Of these hundreds of hunters, few had any experience on the Plains.  It was arranged by the head men that the hunt should be strung out over several miles, the Missourians farthest down the river, the others to the westward, so that all might expect a fairer chance in an enterprise of so much general importance.

Banion and Jackson, in accordance with the former’s promise to Wingate, had retired to their own train shortly after the fight with the Sioux.  The Wingate train leaders therefore looked to Bridger as their safest counsel in the matter of getting meat.  That worthy headed a band of the best equipped men and played his own part in full character.  A wild figure he made as he rode, hatless, naked to the waist, his legs in Indian leggings and his feet in moccasins.  His mount, a compact cayuse from west of the Rockies, bore no saddle beyond a folded blanket cinched on with a rawhide band.

For weapons Bridger carried no firearms at all, but bore a short buffalo bow of the Pawnees—­double-curved, sinew-backed, made of the resilient bois d’arc, beloved bow wood of all the Plains tribes.  A thick sheaf of arrows, newly sharpened, swung in the beaver quiver at his back.  Lean, swart, lank of hair, he had small look of the white man left about him as he rode now, guiding his horse with a jaw rope of twisted hair and playing his bow with a half dozen arrows held along it with the fingers of his left hand.

“For buffler the bow’s the best,” said he.  “I’ll show ye before long.”

They had not too far to go.  At that time the short-grass country of the Platte Valley was the great center of the bison herds.  The wallows lay in thousands, the white alkali showing in circles which almost touched edge to edge.  The influx of emigrants had for the time driven the herds back from their ancient fords and watering places, to which their deep-cut trails led down, worn ineradicably into the soil.  It was along one of the great buffalo trails that they now rode, breasting the line of hills that edged the Platte to the south.

When they topped the flanking ridge a marvelous example of wild abundance greeted them.  Bands of elk, yet more numerous bands of antelope, countless curious gray wolves, more than one grizzly bear made away before them, although by orders left unpursued.  Of the feathered game they had now forgot all thought.  The buffalo alone was of interest.  The wild guide rode silent, save for a low Indian chant he hummed, his voice at times rising high, as though importunate.

“Ye got to pray to the Great Speret when-all ye hunt, men,” he explained.  “An’ ye got to have someone that can call the buffler, as the Injuns calls that when they hunt on foot.  I kin call ’em, too, good as ary Injun.  Why shouldn’t I?

“Thar now!” he exclaimed within the next quarter of an hour.  “What did Jim Bridger tell ye?  Lookee yonder!  Do-ee say Jim Bridger can’t make buffler medicine?  Do-ee see ’em over yan ridge—­thousands?”