The Last Herd 



The Indians have spotted the buffalo, and were run 

 ning the horses away from the water.&quot; 



The three got under way again, proceeding care 

 fully, so as not to raise the dust, and headed due 

 southwest. Scantier and scantier grew the grass; the 

 hollows were washes of sand ; steely gray dunes, like 

 long, flat, ocean swells, ribbed the prairie. The 

 gray day declined. Late into the purple night they 

 traveled, then camped without fire. 



In the gray morning Jones climbed a high ride 

 and scanned the southwest. Low dun-colored sand 

 hills waved from him down and down, in slow, decep 

 tive descent. A solitary and remote waste reached 

 out into gray infinitude. A pale lake, gray as the 

 rest of that gray expanse, glimmered in the distance. 



&quot; Mirage ! &quot; he muttered, focusing his glass, which 

 only magnified all under the dead gray, steely sky. 

 &quot;Water must be somewhere; but can that be it? 

 It s too pale and elusive to be real. No life 

 a blasted, staked plain! Hello! &quot; 



A thin, black, wavering line of wild fowl, moving 

 in beautiful, rapid flight, crossed the line of his 

 vision. &quot; Geese flying north, and low. There s 

 water here,&quot; he said. He followed the flock with his 

 glass, saw them circle over the lake, and vanish in the 

 gray sheen. 



&quot; It s water.&quot; He hurried back to camp. His 



59 



