By sundown they arrived at the Cimarron, a clear, babbling stream, where the water was a little brackish, and which the Cheyennes call Ho-to-oa-oa (Buffalo).
There were no trees at this part of the Cimarron in those days, and they were obliged to pitch their camp on the sandy bank of the river. The grass was luxurious, and their animals fairly revelled in it. They soon filled themselves and lay down, as if they realized the hard work which would be their portion for the next few days.
There were plenty of fish in the river, and as Joe had thoughtfully brought some hooks and lines, he and White Wolf with two of the other warriors took dried buffalo meat for bait, and soon caught all they wanted for their supper.
The next morning they broke camp at daybreak, and rode for a grove of timber just visible in the far-distant western horizon, where White Wolf said he believed they would find some wild horses. They always take shelter at night in timber if any is to be found, and wander out on the prairie in the morning to graze.
The party arrived at the grove by two o'clock, and established their permanent camp, as they saw the unmistakable signs that a herd of wild horses made it their nightly rendezvous. Their lodges were put up in the southern edge of the grove, away from the trails of the animals.
The Indians kept very quiet all day, sitting in the shadow of their lodges, smoking and talking. They did not even build any fires, but contented themselves with their dried buffalo meat and the bread which Joe had brought, for fear of making the slightest disturbance, and thus preventing the wild horses from returning to their usual nightly resting-place. Every once in a while, either White Wolf himself or some of the other warriors would venture out of the timber and gaze long and anxiously over the vast prairie, in hope of seeing something of the bunch, which they knew was grazing somewhere not many miles away. Once the chief thought he saw in the distance, moving objects which he took for horses, for he was noted far beyond any other member of his band for his keen sight. He was right in his conjectures, for before half an hour had passed from the time he had first riveted his attention, the bunch—for such it was—had swung around, broadside to, and, approaching nearer the timber, could be counted. There were over forty animals, led by a magnificent black horse which the chief said he would try to capture.
It was a beautiful sight, and Joe stood transfixed as they kicked up their heels, and raced after one another like a group of school children, little suspecting that, before the sun went down the next evening, many of them would be ridden by the Indians who were now gazing at them so covetously.
Night seemed to be very slow in coming to the band of Pawnees, who smoked and smoked incessantly, to pass the long hours before darkness would invite the herd to seek its bed-ground. At last after dark, by the light of the crescent moon, they saw the animals, led by the coal-black stallion, cautiously walk into the timber about a mile from the Pawnee camp. When the neighing and pawing had ceased, the hunters wrapped themselves in their blankets and buffalo robes, intending to be up before it was light, and surprise the herd before it was ready to go out to graze.
The ponies were securely picketed, saddles, girths, and bridles examined, buffalo-hair lariats overhauled, and all made ready for an early start on the hard day's ride.
Long before the sun had showed the faintest indication of his coming; while the stars were still shining brilliantly, the Indians and Joe were up, and hastily breakfasting, or taking their matutinal smoke. They then mounted their ponies, and stealthily walked the animals in the direction of the slumbering bunch of wild horses.