About the middle of the forenoon, when the heroic Egbert felt that he was taxing himself beyond his strength, they struck a deserted camp, where a party of United States cavalry, ranging through the country upon a scout, had spent the previous night. Here were found the remains and fragments of their meal scattered all about, and it gave to both, what they so much needed—a nourishing, substantial meal.
“Now,” said he, straightening up like a giant refreshed with new wine, “I am ready for any thing, I don’t care what it is.”
“I think you’ll get enough of it afore long,” was the significant reply of Lightning Jo, adding, “we’re close onto the copper-skins, and if I ain’t mistook more than I ever was in my life, we’ll strike their camp inside of an hour.”
This was startling news, but was singularly verified; for scarcely a half-hour had passed when the scout, who was riding a short distance in advance, ascended a small swell of the prairie and almost the instant he reached the top, wheeled his mustang about and galloped back again, motioning to Egbert to do the same.
“We’ve reached their camp,” he said, in explanation, and cautioning the bewildered man to resist every temptation to stir a foot from the spot until his return, the scout moved up the prairie-swell again. Egbert saw him crouch down like a panther about to leap upon its prey, and then he vanished from view as noiselessly as a shadow, leaving the lover to the trying task of waiting, fearing, hoping, watching, listening, and to despair. Lightning Jo passed down the opposite side of the swell, and, as was his custom in reconnoitering the camp of a foe, he made a circuitous route by a small cluster of stunted trees, which struck him as offering the very shelter he so much needed.
He had no thought of any of his foes being here, but he had scarcely approached the margin when he became certain that he was close upon one or more of them.
In his stealthy manner he insinuated himself among the trees, and the next instant was greeted with the sight of the great Comanche chieftain, Swico-Cheque, reclining upon the ground in a sound slumber!