Once beyond hearing of the Cheyennes, White Otter struck the piebald with his riding quirt, and the wonderful creature bounded away at marvelous speed. He rode far into the north before he finally came in sight of a dense cluster of trees. They were several arrow flights away. He stopped the piebald, and listened sharply. All was still.
"It is bad," White Otter murmured.
He rode slowly toward the timber. Then the piebald suddenly stopped and raised its head. White Otter peered eagerly into the darkness. A moment later a pony called. It was within bowshot. White Otter drew his arrows, and waited in trying suspense. The piebald was restless. He believed that some one was approaching. Then he heard voices. They were close by. He imitated the bark of the little gray fox. The sounds subsided. He listened anxiously. Many moments passed. Hope gave way to suspicion. Had he betrayed himself to his foes? The possibility startled him. Then he heard an answer to his signal. The bark of the little gray fox sounded a short distance ahead of him. His eyes flashed. His heart bounded with joy.
"Ho, Dacotahs," he cried, eagerly.
"Ho, my brother, come ahead," some one replied.
"My ears tell me who you are, but I must be cautious," said White Otter. "Come, Ogalala, tell me your name."
"Black Moccasin," said the voice.
"It is good," cried White Otter.
He rode forward, and met the famous Ogalala scout. They cantered toward the trees.
"Have you fought the Kiowas?" Black Moccasin inquired, anxiously.