“Me don’t know,” replied the Osage. “But me smell fire.”
Adjutant Moylan, Colonel Myers (who was an old plainsman) and Colonel Benteen, arrived; they all sniffed hard, as did Ned; but none of them could smell a trace of smoke.
“Humph!” grunted Colonel Myers. “He’s scared; that’s what ails him. You know, these Indians don’t favor this march, and they’re trying to find an excuse to stop.”
“Me smell fire,” insisted the Osage; and his companion nodded violently.
“Do you smell anything, Joe?” queried the general.
California Joe wagged his head slowly, as he inhaled through his frosted brick-red whiskers.
“No, I don’t, gen’ral. Nor Corbin neither. An’ we got first-class smellers, too, though jest at this moment they’re froze stiff.”
“Very well,” responded the general. “We’ll proceed. Tell the trailers to go slow, and keep their noses and eyes open.”
More than half a mile was covered; and again the Osages had halted. This time they were triumphant, and received the general with conscious dignity. The English-speaking Osage pointed before, to the left.