It was not considered necessary to pitch the tent that night, as a very early start was proposed to be taken at the streak of dawn. So each lay down as he was, with a sand-heap for a pillow, and soon the little camp was fast asleep. They needed no rocking. Sleep came almost with the closing of eyes.
As morning broke, Mackintosh was the first to waken. He quickly roused the others, and a swift "eve-of-battle" meal was served out. The business being ended, the pack-horse was once more loaded, and the journey resumed toward Flood Creek, which was now only about five miles distant.
The Dacotah camp was sighted some way off, and it may be imagined how excited the lads felt when they found themselves practically at the end of their journey.
But once there, what would be the result?
That was the question that was exercising the minds of both; and when Bob gave it voice, the Scotsman smiled grimly.
"What'll happen? Well, no one can foresee the future, but I can imagine it."
"And what do you imagine?" asked Bob.
"That there will be a pickle o' bother before all comes out right. Superstition is no' that easy baulked; but if we ever have to fight for it, don't think that the ancient Highland blood of the Mackintosh is water in the veins of the clan."
"I hope it won't come to that," remarked Alf quietly, and the Highlander rejoined—
"That's my hope too. But there's no telling. We've got to conquer——"