The trail had left the stream, to cut across a big bend. The guides kept just at the head of the general’s horse. Whenever they came to a rise, one would creep forward and peer over. Seeing that the coast was clear, he would signal for the others to come on. Breathless work was this, and Ned’s heart thumped so that he feared he would be ordered to stay where he was. Now from the crest of a long brushy divide the Osage, reconnoitering, had put his hand to his brow, peering from under it. He crouched lower, and came hastily back. Something had been sighted.
“What is it?” asked the general, eagerly.
“Heaps Injuns down there,” grunted gutturally the Osage, at the saddle flaps. And he pointed ahead.
Off from his horse swung the general; he signed to Ned, and leaving their mounts in charge of the other Osage, with the first one they also stole forward.
“Drop that sabre,” whispered the general to Ned, sternly. Ned unbuckled his belt and dropped it, with the dragging scabbard. He was making too much noise.
Low in the moonlight, peeping over the top of the ridge they scanned the valley before. About half a mile beyond, upon the snow which edged the timber skirting the icy stream was a large blackish mass, like a great mass of animals.
“Buffalo!” hazarded the general, after looking long and earnestly.
The Osage said not a word.
“Why do you think Indians?” whispered the general. “Maybe buffalo.”