“Here they come.”
“Who? The Indians?”
“Nope. Those aren’t Injuns; they’re troops—cavalry. General Augur and his escort from Laramie, I reckon.”
“What makes you think they’re soldiers, Sol?” questioned young Mr. Duff. “Maybe they’re Sioux.”
“I don’t think; I know,” Sol retorted. “Don’t you s’pose I can tell the difference ’tween a white man and an Injun, far as I can see?”
Sol’s eyes were the best in the camp; for when Mr. Van Lennep leveled his field-glasses upon the little bunch of moving figures wending down over the rolling ridge of the north, he pronounced them soldiers, sure enough.
They drew on. Presently the cavalry formed to receive them, and Colonel Mizner galloped out to meet them.
It was General C. C. Augur, all right, commanding the Department of the Platte, and an escort of a troop of the Second Cavalry, from the headquarters post, old Fort Laramie.
“Yes, by gosh, and old Jim Bridger! Hooray! Dod rot my cats!” And Sol, striding out, shook hands heartily with the guide.
“Jim Bridger! That’s the man I’ve been wanting to see,” exclaimed young Mr. Duff. “He and Kit Carson are famous, aren’t they? They’re the greatest scouts in the West.”