At the last minute, Sleeping Thunder was detained by cattlemen, who wanted to purchase some of his stock, so the two boys set out alone.  The last good-bye was to the conductor, who, after charging them to return in ample time to catch the train, said seriously to Norton: 

“Let nothing scare you, sonny.  These Indians look savage, in their paint and feathers, but King Edward of England has no better subjects; and I guess it is all the same to His Majesty whether a good subject dresses in buckskin or broadcloth.”

Then there was much waving of hats and handkerchiefs.  The engineer caught the spirit of the occasion, and genially blew a series of frantic toots, and with the smile of his father and the face of his mother as the last things in his vision, and with North Eagle’s scarlet blanket rocking at his elbow, young Norton Allan hit the trail for the heart of the Blackfoot country.

For miles they rode in silence.  Twice North Eagle pointed ahead, without speech—­first at a coyote, then at a small herd of antelope, and again at a band of Indian riders whose fleet ponies and gay trappings crossed the distant horizon like a meteor.

By some marvellous intuition North Eagle seemed to know just what would interest the white boy—­all the romance of the trail, the animals, the game, the cactus beds, the vast areas of mushrooms growing wild, edible and luscious, the badger and gopher holes, and the long, winding, half obliterated buffalo trails that yet scarred the distant reaches.  It was only when he pointed to these latter, that he really spoke his mind, breaking into an eloquence that filled Tony with envy.  The young redskin seemed inspired; a perfect torrent of words rushed to his lips, then his voice saddened as he concluded:  “But they will never come again, the mighty buffalo my father and my grandfather used to chase.  They have gone, gone to a far country, for they loved not the ways of the paleface.  Sometimes at night I dream I hear their thousand hoofs beat up the trail, I see their tossing horns, like the prairie grass in the strong west winds, but they are only spirits now; they will never come to me, and I have waited so long, so many days, watching these trails, watching, watching, watching—­but they never come; no, the buffalo never come.”

Tony did not speak.  What was there to be said?  He only shook his head comprehendingly, and bit his under lip hard to keep back—­something, he scarcely knew what.  But he, too, watched the buffalo runs with longing eyes, hoping, hoping that even one glorious animal would gallop up out of the rim of grass and sky.  But young North Eagle was right—­the buffalo was no more.