"Seven thirty-three."
Curtis sprang up. "It's a signal of fire!"
At the word "fire" Jennie turned white and rose. Elsie came flying down-stairs, crying:
"The Indians are running!"
A wild shout arose, "Stop that bell!" and a moment later Wilson burst in at the door—"Major, the Indians are signalling from the buttes—everybody is taking to the hills—the mob is coming."
Curtis gave Elsie one piercing look. "I hope you will trust me; you are in no danger, even if this alarm is true. I think it is a mistake. I will return soon and let you know. I beg you not to be alarmed."
The alarum was true. On the buttes horsemen were riding to and fro excitedly crossing and recrossing the same ground—the sign which means an approaching enemy. On every hill-side mounted warriors were gathering and circling. Boys with wild halloos were bringing in the ponies. The women busy, swarming like bees, were dropping the tepees; even as the agent mounted the steps to the office and looked up the valley, the white canvases sank to the ground one by one as though melted by the hot sun. War times were come again, and the chanting cries of the old women came pulsing by on the soft west wind.
A grim smile settled on the agent's lips as he comprehended these preparations. He knew the history of these people and admired them for their skill and their bravery. War times were come again!
"Our cowboy friends have set themselves a memorable task in trying to wipe out this tribe. The ranchers never fight their own battles; they always call upon the federal government; and that is their purpose now, to stir up strife and leave the troops to bear the burden of the war."
"I don't see our fellers," said the sheriff, who was deeply excited. "I'll ride to meet them."