In this manner our pursuers continued their journey for some three or four hours, scarcely exchanging a syllable—­the storm beating fiercely against their faces and drenching their bodies—­when an incident occurred of the most alarming kind.

They had descended a hill, and were crossing an almost open plain of some considerable extent—­which was bounded on the right by a wood, and on the left by a cane-brake—­and had nearly gained its center, when they were startled by a deep rumbling sound, resembling the mighty rushing of a thousand horse.  Nearer and nearer came the rushing sound; while each one paused, and many a pale face was turned with an anxious, inquiring glance upon Boone; whose own, though a shade paler than usual, was composed in every feature, as he gazed, without speaking, in the direction whence the noise proceeded.

“Good heavens! what is it?” cried Henry, in alarm.

“Behold!” answered Boone, pointing calmly toward the cane-brake.

A cry of surprise, despair and horror, escaped every tongue but the old hunter’s—­as, at that moment, a tremendous herd of buffaloes, numbering thousands, was seen rushing from the brake, and bearing directly toward the spot where our party stood.  Escape by flight was impossible; for the animals were scarcely four hundred yards distant, and booming forward with the speed of the frightened wild horse of the prairie.  Nothing was apparent but speedy death, and in its most horrible form, that of dying unknown beneath the hoofs of the wild beasts of the wilderness.  In this awful moment of suspense, which seemingly but preceded the disuniting of soul and body, each of the young men turned a breathless look of horror upon the old hunter, such as landsmen in a terrible gale at sea would turn upon the commander of the vessel; but, save an almost imperceptible quiver of the lips, not a muscle of the now stern countenance of Boone changed.

“Merciful Heaven!—­we are lost!” cried Henry, wildly.  “Oh! such a death!”

“Every man’s got to die when his time comes—­but none afore; and yourn hasn’t come yet, Master Harry,” replied Boone, quietly; “unless,” he added, a moment after, as he raised his rifle to his eye, “Betsey here’s forgot her old tricks.”

As he spoke, his gun flashed, a report followed, and one of the foremost of the herd, an old bull, which had gained a point within a hundred yards of the marksman, stumbled forward and rolled over on the earth, with a loud bellow of pain His companions, which were pressing close behind, snorted with fear, as they successively came up; and turning aside, on either hand, made a furrow in their ranks; that, gradually widening as they advanced, finally cleared our friends by a space of twenty yards; and so passed they on, making the very earth tremble under their mighty trend.[8]