But few words were wasted in idle speech. During their tramp the subject had been sufficiently discussed, and each perfectly understood the part allotted to himself. Their search for Edith was to begin at this point, since it was the village of that portion of the Osage tribe to which Seth Garble had allied himself. Since the captive was not at his own private cabin, she must be here.
Boone and Dare lay down beneath the cooling foliage and were speedily sound asleep. Lightfoot, though his eyes had been sleepless for at least forty-eight hours, remained at his post overlooking the village, seemingly as tireless as though a mere machine.
The village seemed unusually lively and bustling, though, as he could see, the crowd consisted mainly of squaws and pappooses, with a few able-bodied warriors—probably a score, in all. Through his watch, he saw nothing of Grable or Edith. Yet there was nothing in that to be wondered at.
The sun had long disappeared when Lightfoot touched Boone and Dare, as a signal that the time was at hand for their work to begin. The sky was clear and cloudless, the stars twinkled brightly though the moon had not yet risen.
"It's all understood, then," said Boone, with an uneasy glance at Abel. "The chief is to enter the village an' find out whether the gal is in there or no. We're to wait for him outside."
"Yes—but it seems to me a coward part to play," muttered Dare, fingering the knife at his belt.
"It's policy. The chief is of thar own color, understands the lingo as well as his own tongue. He kin go unsuspected whar we'd be found out at a glimpse. You must see it's for the best; an', mind ye, Abel, you mustn't strike in out o' turn, or we'll leave you to do the job in your own way."
Dare grumbled something about its being hard to be forced to remain idle while others worked, but agreed to obey. Then the trio cautiously glided down the hillside and neared the outskirts of the Indian village.
This was a permanent place of habitation, where the Osages had lived for many years, and was of a substantial nature. The village was pitched amidst hills, to protect it from the cold winds of winter, close to a creek that wound through the valley, only a few hundred yards from the forest that furnished them with fuel for their meals. Most of the huts were built of mud, with bark roofs—a few were of stone rudely held up with clay mortar. Beyond the huts rose a stout, commodious horse-corral, with boundaries defined by high walls of timber, fallen trees dragged into place, strengthened by stakes planted firmly in the ground.
At the edge of the clearing Lightfoot left his comrades, and glided out from the trees. Crouching low down in the gloom, he glided rapidly toward the corral, then partially skirting the village.