Five minutes later he brought the animal to a halt.
Before him rolled the Little Horn with its shady banks, the starlight glinting from the tiny waves that the adverse wind gave rise to.
Long and earnestly Bolly looked at the water.
He had built his schemes upon the river, and being in a contemplative mood, he was wondering whether the morning would see him successful or the reverse.
From this serious state he was abruptly aroused by a sound that to ears of experience like his bespoke danger.
Only a twig snapped by some incautious foot, but it had a world of meaning to the ranger.
As if it affected him like electricity, Bolly slid from the back of Black Bess, and crouched on that side of the horse nearest to the seat of danger.
The rifle he held was laid gently upon the ground, and in its stead he quickly laid hold of the formidable knife taken from the Indian who had been placed over his prison as a guard.
Although these movements were accomplished with all the noiseless powers of a tiger, Bolly was not unobserved.