"Let's clear off from these Cheyennes and head for the mountains. They move slow, and it'll be dead cold before we make it." "You're forgetting those Cheyennes up ahead.

If we leave these people, they won't know we're friendly." "I don't know that I am," Sandy replied coolly. "An Injun is an Injun. If we leave this lot, they'll kill us first time they see their chance." "I don't believe that, Bob," I said.

"If we were strangers to them, it might be true, but now we know them. We have ridden with them." "You think like you want, Scholar. Them books will teach you plenty but they'll surely not help you savvy Injun ways. You got to learn them firsthand." "I appreciate that, Bob, but I still believe this party of Cheyennes are our friends." Sandy shrugged. "Maybe. But I notice you don't leave that Ferguson rifle lyin' around.

You're in more trouble than the rest of us, Scholar.

There ain't an Injun in America who wouldn't give ever' horse he owns for that rifle. It ain't only the way it shoots, but all that silver foofaraw you got on the stock. To an Injun that's prime." No doubt what he said was true. Certainly the weapon I carried was a beautiful specimen of the gunmaker's art, and such a weapon was rarely seen on the western plains, although occasionally some trapper or Indian would decorate his gun with brass studs. Sometimes this was a design, more often his name or initials in the rifle stock.

Few of the Indians had seen my weapon fired, almost none of them at close range, and so far as I knew, none of them realized the rapidity with which it could be loaded and fired. Yet I knew enough of Indians not to underrate them.

There had been a time in the eastern areas when a group of Indians approached a number of white soldiers and asked them if they would not extinguish the matches with which they fired their guns. They protested that the sight of the flaming matches frightened their women and children. Obligingly, the soldiers did so, and then the Indians promptly attacked and killed all but one man, who fled into the woods and escaped.

The Indians had been shrewd enough to see that the musket of the white man had to be fired by a lighted match, although supposedly the Indian knew little of such weapons. The Indian was endlessly curious, quick to observe and to comprehend, and quite able to make minor repairs on damaged weapons. To underrate either their intelligence or their skill would be dangerous.

Over our campfires and when riding, we discussed the question from all aspects. We did wish to be about the business of trapping, but there was even more to be gained by trading. Alone of all our party, I possessed no trade goods, so whatever I had would be from trapping alone.

The hunting jacket and leggings begun back along the trail had been completed, and I now wore them, packing my other clothing away for state occasions.

The country grew increasingly rough. The ridges were often topped by thick brush or trees.

There were thousands of antelope, and twice we saw herds of wild horses that fled at our approach. Once we came down to a muddy spot, almost an acre in extent, trampled by wild horses. There were wolves about. We counted two dozen in the last hour of our march, and once we were in camp they lurked nearby.

During the night, I was awakened by something tugging at my pillow and sprang up to find myself facing a large wolf. Our bacon was wrapped in burlap, several sides of it together, and then placed in canvas bags for ease in packing. I usually used one of these bags as a pillow, and it was this the wolf had smelled.

Rifle in hand, I glared at him and he glared right back, growling. He stood over the bacon and seemed of no mind to give it up. On the other hand, bacon was a delicacy out here and all too little remained. Nevertheless I disliked firing at the animal in camp, and knew it would immediately awaken everyone who would spring to arms, believing an attack was in progress.

Tentatively I took a step nearer, looking into the wolf's yellowish eyes, gleaming in the firelight. He snarled more fiercely, bristling and ready to fight, but when I took a step nearer he hesitated, then when I stepped quickly forward, rifle poised, he broke and fled. Gathering up the torn sack, I brought it back into camp.

Glancing at my watch, I saw the hour was thirty minutes past three. The sky was clouded over and I could see no stars. The wind was picking up and the air was cold. I added some sticks to the fire, which blazed up pleasantly, so I tugged on my boots and filled a cup of coffee.

Sleep had left me, and I was as wide awake as if it were morning. The wind worried me for no small sounds could be heard through its rustling and movement. Degory Kemble was on guard and I moved away from the fire to where he watched from some small brush.

"It's a wild night," he whispered, when I was near. "I've had a notion something's moving yonder, but I'd not want to wager upon it.

Sometimes I'm sure I've heard something, and then it seems to be nothing. I'm glad you're here.

Now both of us can be fooled." We were silent, straining our ears against the wind for sound, and then we heard it, a momentary sound through an interval in the rising wind.

A shot... and then another, but far off.

lost upon the wind.

"It wasn't that, but something nearer by." "Who would be shooting? Not many Indians have guns. Captain Fernandez, perhaps?" "At what? That sound was afar off... a half mile or even a mile." We waited, listening, but we heard nothing more.

Suddenly our horses snorted, stamping and tugging at their picket rope. Getting up, I went quickly among them, quieting them, but listening as I moved.

Something was out there... but what?

We did not awaken the others, waiting for what would develop. The horses were wary, apprehensive of something, yet they did not act as they would if there were wolves. As the horses quieted, I left them, listening into the wind to catch the slightest sound.

From the camp of the Cheyennes, there was no sound.

I could see the faint, reddish glow of their fire, but nothing more.

So we waited out the night. Toward morning I dozed near the fire, awakening only to stir it up for cooking our breakfast meat.

Ebitt picked up the canvas pack, hefted it, then looked inside. He glanced at me.

"Did your wolves come back? A slab of bacon's gone." Degory Kemble glanced at me, then walked over and slowly inspected the ground. Our own feet had trod so much upon the grass that no other tracks could be seen.

"It was no wolf," Cusbe said, showing us the rawhide strings. They had been untied, the bacon taken.

"It's them thievin' redskins," Bob Sandy said. "Give 'em a chance an' they'll take the camp away, and everything that's in it." "Is anything else missing?" Talley checked, as we all did. A small sack of meal was gone, and perhaps a half pound of powder that had been left in a sack.

"Odd," Talley muttered. "There was a full sack alongside, and my bullet molds and some lead. That wasn't touched." We exchanged a look, and then Solomon Talley shrugged. "A thief who takes only the small things," he said, "and not much of that." "But a thief good enough to Injun into our camp whilst it was watched," Davy Shanagan said.

"I've a thought it was the Little P." Cusbe Ebitt snorted. "There's an Irishman for you! Something he can't explain and it had to be banshees or the like! I'd say we should move out." We saddled up, and saddling Kemble told of the distant shots we'd heard, and of something moving in the night. Nobody had any comment, but when I rode out to take the point, Buffalo Dog was with me, and he had heard the shots.