Left alone there upon the prairie, the indifferent broncho resumed its feeding.  Away from it, foot by foot, so slowly that a careful observer could barely have seen it stir, moved the great weed.  No animal on the face of earth save man himself would have been suspicious of that natural blind; even he would have overlooked it had he not by chance noted that while every other of its kind was moving with the wind, it slowly but surely was advancing against it.  The scene where the drama was taking place was level as a floor, the grazed grass that covered it scarcely higher than a man’s hand; yet from in front not an inch of the Indian’s long body was visible, not a sound marked its advance.  In comparison with its movement time passed swiftly; a third half hour while it was advancing ten rods.  Already the short autumn afternoon was drawing to a close.  The sun was no longer uncomfortably hot.  The heat waves had ceased dancing.  In sympathy the prairie breeze, torn of the sun, was becoming appreciably milder.  As certainly as it had come, the brief rest period was drawing to a close.

But the long figure that gave the blind motion showed no haste.  Inch by inch it advanced, never still, yet never hurrying.  The great unsuspicious birds were very near now, so near that a white hunter would have lost his equanimity in anticipation.  Through the meshwork of the blind the stalker counted them.  Twenty-seven there were together, and near to him another, a sentinel.  He was within half the distance of a city block of the latter, so close that he could see the beady, watchful eyes, the pencillings of the plumage, the billowing of feathers as the long neck shifted from side to side.  Verily it was a moment to make a sportsman’s blood leap—­to make him forget; but not even then did the Indian show a sign of excitement, not for a minute did the lithe body cease in its soundless serpentine motion.  It was splendid, that patient, stealthy approach, splendid in its mastery of the still hunt; but beyond this it was more, it was fearful.  Had an observer been where no observer was, it would inevitably have carried with it another suggestion—­the possibilities of such a man were a real object, one vital to his life, and not a mere pastime, at stake.  What would this patient, tireless, splendid animal do then?  What if another man, his enemy, were the object, the quarry?

The rest time at last was over.  Insidiously into the air had crept a suggestion of coolness, of approaching night.  In the background the pony ceased feeding, stood patiently awaiting the return of its rider.  Far in the distance, the herd, a darker blot against the brown earth, were once more upon their feet.  The flock, that heretofore like a group of barnyard fowls in the dust and the sun had remained indolently resting and preening their plumage, grew alert.  One after the other they began wandering here and there aimlessly, restlessly.  The subdued chatter became positive.  Two great ganders meeting face