"Off to the north," I answered.
Again we heard shots, four or five of them, faint and low, like distant thunder, then one that was sharper, like the crack of a whip.
"That last one was from Far Thunder's rifle!" Pitamakan exclaimed.
"Yes. Great Rider's words have come true: the cut-throats are attacking camp!"
We ran to the horses and fumbled at their hobbles; then we coiled the ropes of our picketed saddle-animals, mounted and drove the little band on the run for camp.
"There is no more shooting!" I exclaimed.
"Not another shot! It looks bad to me! Maybe our people are wiped out!" Pitamakan answered.
He expressed my own fear. We forced the horses to their utmost speed. It was all of three miles to the mouth of the Musselshell, and never were there such long miles. Day was breaking as we neared the valley rim overlooking camp. A hundred yards or so away from the edge we slowed up, dropped the loose stock, and with ready rifles rode slowly on.
When at last we looked down upon the camp, I could have yelled my relief. I saw smoke peacefully rising from the lodges and a couple of women going from the barricade to the river for water. Then we heard the old Mandans singing a song that we had not heard before, a triumphant song in quick, strongly marked time.
"All is well!" I exclaimed.