“It was night when we pulled up about half a mile from their camp. Marsh wanted to see just how things lay for a rush on them; he didn’t ask any of his men to go, but went himself. He’d reckoned on everything, so he thought, but when he’d crept within fifty feet of where the Sioux lay asleep something began to strike the stones—chink—chank—chink—chank!”
“His spurs,” said Miss Knowles.
“He’d remembered his spurs, and taken them off. But his sword had slipped and began to trail; before he could snatch it up the camp was awake, and in two minutes the reds were off. The one thing he hadn’t taken into his calculations,” said the big man, slowly, “was the sword. And that’s what gave him away.”
“Oh, what a pity,” said the girl. She turned her head and looked over her shoulder at Scanlon as she spoke; it was too shadowy to catch the expression in her face, but in her voice was that little break which is apt to appear when one’s breath is short and quickly taken. “Success meant so much to him, too, I suppose.”
“He’d had his chance and missed it,” said Bat. “And,” shaking his head, “who’d ever have thought of such a thing as that giving him away?”
The girl drew the long muffling wrap about her carefully; she shivered a little.
“I had no idea it would be so cold,” she said.
“Perhaps we’d better return,” said Campe, solicitously.
“If you don’t mind,” she said. “I’m really chilled.”
The big man smiled satirically through the gloom as he trailed along behind, but now in the direction of the castle.