“To-morrow we start,” remarked Micky. “Where is the Gray Fox, Cheemie?”
“Who is that, Micky?”
“Cluke. He is the Gray Fox, because of his smartness and his dirt-color clothes. All the Indians are calling him the Gray Fox. Where is he?”
“I don’t know. He is visiting other forts, getting the soldiers ready.”
And that was true. General Crook was leaving nothing at loose ends, but instead of issuing his orders from headquarters, was overseeing the details in person. He never tired.
“I would rather follow him on the war trail,” continued Micky. “But if he is not here I shall go with Big Mouth and Nan-ta-je and Lieutenant Bourke, and you. It will mean fighting. We will find the Tonto and Yavapai. That I know.”
“How do you know, Micky?” asked Jimmie curiously—for Micky spoke assuredly.
“I know it from Nan-ta-je. Why he knows I cannot tell you now, but you will see.” And with that, the mysterious red-headed Micky became Indian, and refused to utter another word on the subject.
As far as Jimmie could learn from Joe Felmer and Jack Long and the talk at the post, the plan for the campaign was as follows: