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The mule was galloping away; but Davy looked for the buffalo. The big bull had stopped short and was staring and rumbling, as if astonished. The change in the shape of the thing that he had been chasing seemed to make him angrier. He stood, puzzled and staring and rumbling, only about twenty yards from Davy. Suddenly the red shirt must have got into his eyes, for his fore-hoofs began to throw the dirt higher, and Davy somehow knew that he was going to charge.

Not much time had passed; no, not a quarter of a minute, since the mule had fallen and had left Davy to the buffalo. The wagon train men were yelling and running, from the one direction; the hunters were yelling and riding, from the other; and whether they were yelling and hurrying on his account, Davy could not look, to see. Down had dropped the bull’s huge shaggy head, up had flirted his little knobbed tail; and on he came.

Davy never knew how he managed—he dimly heard another outburst of confused shouts, amidst which Billy Cody’s voice rang the clearest, with “Dodge him, Red! This way, this way!” He did not dare to glance aside, and he felt that it was not much use to run; but in a twinkling he peeled off the crimson shirt (which was so large for him) and throwing it, sprang aside.