“Have they any white captives?” asked Barker.
“No, let the dogs alone,” and with those words, he led the way around a low hill.
The four travelers rode slowly and silently over the prairie. The sounds of the summer night began to fill the air. Overhead a pair of night-hawks, swooping with a loud whirr close by the heads of the horses and uttering their harsh “Paint, paint,” followed the riders. In the scattered groves which they passed, some little tree-frogs piped their monotonous trill, while the undefinable songs of crickets and grasshoppers filled the air, seemingly coming from everywhere and nowhere.
An hour they had been riding almost in silence, when there was a thud and a sprawl on the grass. Little Tim’s eyes had closed in sleep and he had fallen off his horse.
“We must find a place to spend the night,” said the trapper. “The little fellow is all in.”
“No, I’m awake now,” piped up little Tim, as he picked up Meetcha and climbed back in the saddle. “I can ride all right now, Mr. Barker.”
The first house they reached had been burnt and the ruins were still smoldering.
Tatanka dismounted and examined the place for wounded or hidden fugitives, but there was only the silence of death and desolation.
A few miles farther, they came to a cabin in a small natural grove.
“That’s Dickman’s place,” the trapper told his companions. “He has a fine field of corn and his wife is a good housekeeper. Let us see what we can find.”