Now it was just a question of endurance. Noon came, and the buzzards began to gather in the azure.
The sun was blistering hot—there was not a tree, nor a bush, nor a green blade of grass within reach.
The men had ceased to joke and banter. The situation was serious. Some tried to smoke, but their parching thirst was thus only aggravated—they threw their pipes away.
The Indians now kept up an occasional shooting.
They were playing with the soldiers as a cat plays with a mouse.
The Indian is a cautious fighter—he makes no sacrifices in order to win. Now he had his prey secure.
Soon the soldiers would run out of ammunition, and then one more day, or two at least, and thirst and fatigue would reduce brave men into old women, and the squaws could rush in and pound them on the head with clubs.
The afternoon dragged along its awful length. Time dwindled and dawdled.
At last the sun sank, a ball of fire in the West.
The moon came out.