“I’m here,” Terry answered. “I’ll stay with you, Bill. I’m going to stay till people come. I want to bury my dog.”
“’E was a fine dawg,” Bill agreed.
Finally Terry did manage to sleep, in spite of his shivering and his bad dreams. He awakened stiff and bewildered. Where was he? Oh, yes; here in the brush, still, outside the wreck. He might see about him. The air was thin and gray, morning had come. He cautiously raised higher, to look. The wreck was smoking, the Indians were there—they were moving about, and flocking down track, and climbing over the cars. No rescue had come yet. Oh, dear! The telegraph wires had been used, for tying the tie that wrecked the handcar, to the track, but why didn’t help come from Plum Creek way?
Was Bill dead? No, he spoke.
“’Ello?”
“Hello. How are you?”
“Wish I had a drink. What’s doin’ now?”
“They’re robbing the wreck.”
“Yes, that’s what,” groaned Bill.
The Indians were enjoying themselves. They had broken into some cars loaded with drygoods, and were strewing the stuff right and left. As the morning brightened, that was an odd sight, down there. The Cheyennes wrapped themselves in gay calico and gingham and red flannel and other cloths; they tied whole bolts of the same cloth to their saddle horns and their ponies’ tails, and darted hither-thither over the plain, while the bolts unrolled and other riders chased after, trying to step on the long streamers. They had so much plunder that they seemed crazy.