One minute, two minutes passed, but no report came. Then Brinton heard the suspicious clatter of a horse's hoofs, and peeped over the spine of Jack. He was in time to see Wolf Ear galloping off on the hack of the pony. With inimitable dexterity he had secured the animal during the brief interval at his command, and was now going like the wind over the prairie, after his departed comrades.
The Ogalalla, however, was not too far away to shout back a taunt and the words—
"Wise young man, my gun was not loaded, but it served me as well."
Then he whisked over the elevation and vanished.
There was no help for it, and the chagrined Brinton wheeled and galloped toward the group whom he had left some distance behind on the prairie. They were riding slowly to the camp, supporting a form between them. Dreading the truth, Brinton held back until the others reached the camp. Then he rode forward and asked—
"Was Nick badly hurt?"
"He is dead; he did not speak after we reached him. He was a brave fellow, but he has made his last scout."
Brinton sighed, for he respected and loved the man who had thus died for his country.
But another question was on his lips. He looked around the camp, and his heart sank at his failure to see any of the loved ones whom he was so hopeful of finding there. In a trembling voice he put the query.
The answer was what he dreaded: they had neither seen nor did they know anything of them.