The starlight was bright enough to show him what followed.
The tents were taken down with incredible celerity, and put somewhere out of sight, and the neighing of the horses could be heard as the Indians moved among them.
“What does it mean?”
The question came from the outpost.
“Cuss me if I don’t think they are folding their tents like those eastern cusses, what do ye call ’em, Arabs I think, for to silently steal away.”
“I hope so,” said the other.
“So do I,” said Max. “And I really think they will move off without leaving us a lock of their hair.”
But the tall guide was mistaken about the intentions of the redskins.
Their council had decided to strike the tents, pile them upon the backs of the horses, ready to mount and fly in case of defeat, and then to crawl over the prairie and attack the emigrants on foot, hoping to surprise them.
But Mustang Max was on the watch and noted their approach.