Ambrose's ankles were loosed and, with an Indian's hand on either shoulder, he was guided through the grass around the edge of the trees. He speculated vainly on what this move portended.
No attack, certainly; they were striking matches and lighting their pipes. Suddenly the dim figures in front were swallowed up.
Immediately afterward Ambrose was led down an incline into a kind of pit. The smell of turned earth was in his nostrils; he could still see the stars overhead. They gave him a corner, and his ankles were again tied.
Soon it began to grow light. Little by little Ambrose made out the confines of the pit or trench. It was some twenty-five feet long and five feet wide. When the Indians stood erect, the shortest man could just look over the edge.
Ambrose counted twenty-one men besides Watusk and himself. It was close quarters. When it became light enough to see clearly, they lined up in front of him, eagerly looking over. One was lighting a little fire and putting grass on it to make a smudge.
Ambrose got his feet under him, and managed after several attempts to stand upright. He was tall enough to look over the heads of the Indians.
Stretching before him he saw the valley he had remarked the evening before, with the streamlet winding like a silver ribbon in a green flounce.
But what the Indians were looking at were little pillars of smoke which ascended at intervals all around the edge of the hills, hung for a moment or two in the motionless air, and disappeared. Ambrose counted eight besides their own.
Watusk exclaimed in satisfaction, and ordered the fire put out. This, then, was the explanation of the digging—rifle-pits!
Ambrose marveled at the cunning with which it had all been contrived.
The excavated earth had been carried somewhere to the rear.