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Into the shirt plunged the big bull, and tossed it and rammed it and trampled it, while Davy watched amazed, ready to run off.

“Bully for you, Red!” sang out a familiar voice; riding hard to Davy’s side dashed Billy Cody, on lathered mule; he levelled his yager, it spoke, the big bull started and stiffened, as if stung. Slowly he swayed and yielded, with a series of grunts sinking down, and down; from his knees he rolled to his side; and there he lay, not breathing.

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“All right, Red,” panted Billy Cody. “He’s spoiled your shirt, though. Lucky you weren’t inside it. Say, that was a smart trick you did. Get up behind me. The wagon train’s in a heap of trouble. Let’s go over there.”

Davy’s knees were shaking and he could not speak; he was ashamed to seem so frightened, but he clambered aboard the mule, behind the saddle. Away Billy spurred for the wagon train. Other hunters were spurring in the same direction.

The wagon train certainly was having a time of it. Those stranger hunters, from down the river, had driven the buffaloes straight into the teams. The cavvy of loose cattle and mules had scattered; ox-teams had broken their yokes or had stampeded with the wagons. Several wagons were over-turned; and a big buffalo was galloping away with an ox-yoke entangled in his horns. Wild Bill overhauled him in short order and returned with the yoke; but hither and thither across the field were racing and chasing other men, ahorse and afoot, trying to gather the train together again.