The same wild pursuit, accompanied by accidents, serious and serio-comic, took place, and success again attended the hunt, but the day did not end so happily, owing to an event which filled the camp with great anxiety. It happened at the close of the day.

 

The men were dropping into camp by twos and threes, wearied with hard work, more or less covered with dust and blood, and laden with buffalo tongues. Carts, also, were constantly coming in, filled with meat. The women were busy cutting up and drying the meat in the sun, or over a slow fire, melting down fat, pounding the dried meat with stones, and manufacturing bags out of the raw hides. Chatting and merry laughter resounded on all sides, for pemmican and bales of dried meat meant money, and they were coining it fast.

 

Towards sunset a band of several hunters appeared on the ridge in front of the camp, and came careering gaily towards it. Baptiste Warder, the mighty captain, led. Victor, Ian, Rollin, Winklemann, Flett, Mowat, and others followed. They dashed into camp like a whirlwind, and sprang from their steeds, evidently well pleased with the success of the day.

 

“Had splendid sport,” said Victor, with glittering eyes, to one of the subordinate captains, who addressed him. “I killed ten animals myself, and Ian Macdonald missed fifteen; Winklemann dropped six, besides dropping himself—”

 

“Vat is dat you zay?” demanded the big German, who was divesting himself of some of the accoutrements of the chase.

 

“I say that you tumbled over six buffaloes and then tumbled over yourself,” said Victor, laughing.

 

“Zat is not troo. It vas mine horse vat tombled. Of course I could not go on riding upon noting after mine horse vas down.”

 

At supper Herr Winklemann was quieter than usual, and rather cross. His propensity to tumble seemed to be a sore subject with him, both as to body and mind. He made more than one cutting remark to Victor during the meal. After supper pipes were of course lighted, and conversation flowed freely. The only two who did not smoke were Ian Macdonald and, strange to say, Winklemann. That worthy German was a brilliant exception to his countrymen in the matter of tobacco. Victor, under the influence of example, was attempting in a quiet way to acquire the art, but with little success. He took to the pipe awkwardly.

 

“Vat vor you smok?” asked Winklemann, in a tone of contempt to Victor. “It is clear zat you do not loike it.”

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