And with an expression of contempt on his eloquent face the young man turned away, while the men around him sent up a murmur of approval for his words of censure.
“Dang me if he ain’t right now,” said Mustang Max. “This government ought to be ashamed to fight a few thousand miserably armed men for nigh onto a hundred years, and get licked half of the time at that. It’s a shame.”
Just as the guide was giving utterance to his sentiments a low whistle came from the prairie.
He had posted men on duty, and knew that this was a signal to the wagons.
He answered the whistle in a manner agreed upon, and then crawled out of the inclosure and slowly worked his way through the grass toward his keen-eared sentry.
He whistled softly, was answered, and in a moment was beside the outpost, who lay length-wise on the ground, his eyes turned toward the camp of the redskins under Van Dorn and the half-breed.
“Danger?” said Max.
“Yes, they’re on the move.”
“What did you see?”
“The light of a pipe as it moved around in a circle.”