“In my opinion Satanta is a rascal, gentlemen,” spoke quietly Wild Bill. “Nobody can deny that he makes a big talk; but deeds count, in this country—and if that fellow doesn’t make more trouble, at his first chance, I don’t know Injuns. He’s smart, and he’s crooked as a prairie dog burrow.”
Ned kept his eyes open for the figure of Pawnee Killer. He hoped that Pawnee Killer would visit, from the village, and might be made to tell General Hancock or General Custer where his, Ned’s, sister was.
“No Injuns will come in till the tenth,” asserted Sergeant Kennedy. “’Tisn’t Injun etiquette to appear before the date of the council.”
“The infarnal rascals may not come anyhow,” declared California Joe, wagging his head. “They’re the onsartinest liars that ever was created. But we’re goin’ to have our hands full without ’em, for some sort of a pesky storm is breedin’. Do ye mark how geese are flyin’ south, ’stead o’ north? Mebbe they think it’s fall ’stead o’ spring; but I never ketched wild honkers bein’ mistook on dates.”
The day was warm and sunny—almost too warm. The evening stayed clear, while the camp peacefully slept, but the morning dawned with a haze and a chill wind from the north. Speedily the haze thickened, the wind grew colder; and before breakfast was over the snow was sifting faster and faster.
It was a big storm for the ninth of April. All day the flakes fell furiously, while the cold increased. By night the snow was eight inches deep. Long before night the officers and men had piled on all the extra clothes that they could find, and were huddled about wrapped in overcoats and blankets, handkerchiefs bent over their ears. California Joe made a comical figure, his wide-brimmed sombrero tied down with a rope into a coal-scuttle shape, so that its brim on either side touched his shoulders. Around his neck was a red tippet that looked as if it once might have encircled an Indian’s waist. The tail of his cavalry overcoat was singed by camp-fires. On his feet were gunny-sacks wrapped tightly about, to make a bundle, and his hands were deeply buried in his overcoat pockets while under the scoop of his hat issued volumes of smoke from his black pipe.
He looked funny, did California Joe; but not all things were funny. Of course, there were no tents or fires for the horses. They were tied along a picket rope stretched from stake to stake; and here they turned tail to the cutting wind and shivered and shrank, as the snow piled upon their backs. Yes, and undoubtedly they would have perished, if General Custer had not ordered that they be given double rations of oats, and that the guards pass up and down, up and down, during the night, whipping them to make them move. Twice Ned stole away to inspect Buckie; and found him doing as well as possible.