To the southwest, miles distant, a cloud of dust mushroomed skyward.

"Not buffalo," he muttered, "maybe wild horses." He watched and waited.

The yellow cloud rolled forward, enlarging, spreading out, and drove before it a darkly indistinct, moving mass.

As soon as he had one good look at this he ran back to his comrades.
"Stampede! Wild horses! Indians! Look to your rifles and hide!" Wordless and pale, the men examined their Sharps, and made ready to follow Jones.

He slipped into the thorny brake and, flat on his stomach, wormed his way like a snake far into the thickly interlaced web of branches.