“Anywhere we spread our beds, corporal. We bunk and eat with the grading gangs, mostly. You’ll likely find a real camp further on, before night.”
There was another interval, of five or six miles—and then the wagon train. It was moving slowly—a dozen of the great white-canvassed freighter wagons, a number of trudging teamsters, a handful of riders ambling at the head, and a cavalry company guarding the rear and scouting in the fore.
“Supplies from headquarters, I reckon,” spoke the corporal. “Fetching up that powder and some provisions, like as not.”
The two parties approached each other. Jones, the big “buck” private riding behind Terry and George and the corporal, exclaimed shortly:
“Those ain’t the regular cavalry; they’re some o’ them Pawnee scouts.”
“Yes—and they see something, too.” Corporal Williams’ voice issued tensely. “Close up, men. Draw—carbines! That looks like hostiles, somewhere around.”
“I see ’em!” George yelped. “Down to the south! Making ’round that point of hills.”
“And watch those Pawnees go after ’em!” ejaculated Corporal Williams. “Squad, halt! Steady, men, till we see what’s what.”
The wagon train, about two miles before, had changed formation in a hurry. Its escort had suddenly bunched, and now were streaming furiously across country, in wild charge upon another bunch of horsemen skirting the range of hills on the south. The Pawnee yells might be heard faintly, as the scouts urged their ponies with their quirts and heels, and wrestled out of their clothes as they rode.
The quarry had seen, as quickly. They were fifty—Indians, sure, driving a herd of stock.