That greeting was echoed. Until now, the Indians had been quiet—as quiet as a flock of scurrying grouse. But the river was between them and their enemy, and they felt secure from pursuit. Moreover, whisky was working. They were boisterous with it. Casting caution aside when they heard that cheer, they answered with defiant whoops.
The cheers of the troopers changed to anguished groans. One, wildly repeating a girl's name, sprang toward the waiting "Buckskin." From headquarters came the sobbing of women, the whimpering of frightened children. And then, nearer and nearer, a dull pounding that swelled into the steady plud, plud of unshod hoofs.
Once more a cheer went up. A moment, and a cavalcade swept in—a riderless cavalcade, with ropes dangling. It was the night-herd, the discarded, second-choice mounts of the regiment's officers, a motley band that had served their country through more than one enlistment, and that, hearing the familiar summons—some limping, some hobbling—had followed the dun cayuse to answer it.
Now, nooses were twisted about the noses of the horses. The troopers mounted. The trumpet sounded the advance.
Again came whoops from across the Missouri. They were farther away than the first.
"They're travellin'!" shrilled a voice.
"Go up—go up for the crossing," Oliver ordered. "Fraser! Fraser!"
But the buckskin mare, with her master, far in advance of the twenty others, was already plunging down the bank and into a black, roily whirl.