Up to this time the man who watched had not stirred.  As they had gone over, the wide-open eyes had stared up at them; but not in the twitching of a muscle had the long body betrayed him.  Not even now that it was over did he move.  Instead, low at first, then louder, a whistle sounded.  The pony, wide awake now, was grazing contentedly; but he paused.  The whistle sounded for the third time, and reluctantly he drew near, halted obediently.  Then at last there was action.  With one motion the Indian was on his feet.  Swiftly as it was spread the blanket was rolled and replaced in the waterproof pouch with the remnants of the lunch and a book of odds and ends which he carried always with him.  The whole was strapped to the pony’s bare back.  As swiftly the hobble was removed and, not a minute from the time the last bird was down, the man and the beast, the latter only visible from the direction in which they were going, were moving on a zigzag, circuitous trail toward the resting yet ever-watchful flock before them.

On they went, the pony first, the crouching man beside, his body even with the pony’s front legs, his eyes peering through the wind-tossed mane.  First to the right, then to the left they tacked, halting at intervals, as a pony wandering aimlessly will halt now and then to feed; but never losing the general direction, always bit by bit drawing nearer and nearer.  A half hour passed by and in it they covered forty rods—­half the distance.  Thirty minutes more elapsed and they had crossed an equal portion of the remaining space.  Then it was they halted and a peculiar thing happened.

The wind had gradually risen during the day, and now, the middle of the afternoon, was blowing steadily.  Light objects unattached move easily across the level prairie at this time of year, and here and there under its touch one after another of a particular kind were already in motion.  Fluffy, unsubstantial objects they were, as large as a bushel measure and rudely circular.  Looking out over the level earth often a half dozen at a time were visible, rolling and halting and rolling again on an endless journey from nowhere to nowhere.  They were the well-named tumble weeds of the prairie; as distinctive as the resting flock of late autumn, of approaching winter.  One of these it was now that came tumbling in lazily from the south and, barely missing the indifferent birds themselves, dawdled languidly on toward the pony beyond.  On it came, would have passed to the right; but, under an impulse he in no way understood, the broncho moved to intercept it.  Fair in its path, the little beast would still have shifted to give it right of way, for the weed is very prickly; but again the authority he did not question held him in his place, and the three, the man, the horse, and the plant, came together.  Then it was the finale began, the real test, the matching of human cunning and animal watchfulness.