Two weeks after this "Richard was himself again."
The muscles were springy, and the blood coursed fast and free, as was
its wont. Only a slight, and, perhaps, salutary feeling of weakness
remained, to remind him that young muscles might again become more
helpless than those of an aged man or a child.
Dick had left his encampment a week ago, and was now advancing by
rapid stages towards the Rocky Mountains, closely following the trail
of his lost comrades, which he had no difficulty in finding and
keeping now that Crusoe was with him. The skin of the buffalo that he
had killed was now strapped to his shoulders, and the skin of another
animal that he had shot a few days after was cut up into a long line
and slung in a coil round his neck. Crusoe was also laden. He had a
little bundle of meat slung on each side of him.
For some time past numerous herds of mustangs, or wild horses, had
crossed their path, and Dick was now on the look-out for a chance to
_crease_ one of those magnificent creatures.
On one occasion a band of mustangs galloped close up to him before
they were aware of his presence, and stopped short with a wild snort
of surprise on beholding him; then, wheeling round, they dashed away
at full gallop, their long tails and manes flying wildly in the air,
and their hoofs thundering on the plain.
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