“All right, sir. Lead on. We’re with you.”
In time they approached near enough to look down upon that portion of the valley where the unfinished cabins were, and saw two or three fires burning there. Men were lying around on the ground in the light of these fires. Others were staggering about in a peculiar manner. Now and then one of them would utter a wild yell and dance about like a crazy man, sometimes keeping it up until, apparently exhausted, he ended by flinging himself on the ground and seemed immediately to fall asleep.
As Frank and his companions watched these singular movements they saw three men join hands and execute a singular dance in the firelight.
“Cæsar’s ghost!” muttered Merry, “am I dreaming?”
“What’s the matter, pard?” asked Curry.
“Look at those three men—look at them closely. One of them is an Indian.”
“Sure thing,” said Curry.
“And I know him!” palpitated Merry. “If my eyes don’t fail me, it is old Joe Crowfoot.”
“Who is old Joe Crowfoot?”
“A redskin I have believed to be my friend.”