"Yes," was the thoughtful reply; "we must have travelled a good many miles since the last start, and there is only one danger that troubles me."
"What is that?"
"The probability—nay, the almost certainty—that we are not journeying toward the fort."
"I have thought much of that," replied the husband, giving voice to a misgiving that had disturbed him more than he was willing to admit; "it is as you say, that the chances are against our proceeding in a direct line, but it is equally true that the general course is right."
"How can you know that?"
"Because we have crossed two streams that were in our path, and they remain behind us."
"But," reminded the thoughtful wife, "you forget that those same streams are very winding in their course. If they followed a direct line, we could ask no more proof that we are on the right track."
"True, but it cannot be that they take such a course that we are travelling toward the ranch again."
"Hardly as bad as that, but if we are riding at right angles in either direction, we shall be in a sad plight when the morning comes. The sun will take from us all chance of dodging the Sioux so narrowly as we have done more than once since leaving home."
"We must not forget the peril of which you speak; at such times I trust much to the instinct of the animals."