One of the sentries was a rookie. “Gosh,” he soliloquized, “but that’s a lonesome sound!”
Once more came the eerie cry—this time, apparently, from the camp of the scouts.
Number One sentry was a veteran. He stepped quickly from his post to the side of his top sergeant, who lay wrapped in a sweaty saddle blanket with his head on a McClellan.
“H-s-st! McGuire!” he whispered.
“Wot the ’ell?” demanded the sergeant, sitting up.
“Hos-tiles! I just heard ’em signalling to our Siwashes—three owl calls and an answer.”
The sergeant came to his feet, strapping his belt about his hips. He picked up his carbine. “Git back on your post an’ keep your ears unbuttoned,” he directed. “I’ll mosey out that way a bit an’ listen. Maybe it was a owl.”
Shoz-Dijiji and Gian-nah-tah crept silently down the face of the bluff and approached the camp of the scouts. There was no moon, and light clouds obscured the stars. It was very dark. A figure loomed suddenly before them. “Who are you?” it demanded in a whisper that could not have been heard ten feet away.
“We are Be-don-ko-he,” replied Shoz-Dijiji. “We bring a message from Geronimo.”
“What is it?”