268 The King of the Thundering Herd 



Northward, still northward, they fled, 

 old Buck leading the way as a wise King 

 should. The few hundred buffalo, left of 

 all the millions, he still held together 

 and in a straggling band they fled to the 

 country of the Saskatchewan. Days, weeks 

 and months they journeyed until they left 

 the treeless plains far behind and came to 

 the timber belt, where there was timber 

 along all the watercourses. Not such 

 trees as they had known in the southland, 

 however. Instead, there were shimmering 

 silver poplars, and graceful white birches, 

 dwarfed Jack-pines, and quivering aspens. 



Beneath them in the green moss, grouse- 

 berries, wintergreen and low bush cranber- 

 ries, all blushed red. The air was redo- 

 lent with the fragrance of the witch-hazel, 

 while the more pungent odor of the wild 

 cherry filled the nostrils. 



It was to such a land as this, upon the 

 high shelving banks of the broad Saskatch- 



