It was an invitation that needed no pressing. The hope of being revenged on the hated subchief of the Cheyennes—for deeds done either to themselves, their friends, or the comrades of their calling—beat high in every heart; and, in less than ten minutes’ time, every trapper staying at Saint Vrain’s Fort, with a half-score other hangers-on of the establishment, was armed to the teeth, and on horseback!
In less than five minutes more, they were hastening across the prairie with ’Lije Orton at their head, in search of the Yellow Chief.
They were only five-and-twenty of them in all; but not one of their number who did not consider himself a match for at least three Indians!
As for Black Harris, and several others of like kidney, they would not have hesitated a moment about encountering six each. More than once had these men engaged in such unequal encounters, coming out of them victorious and triumphant!
Twenty-five against fifty, or even a hundred, what signified it to them? It was but sport to these reckless men! They only wanted to be brought face to face with the enemy; and then let their long rifles tell the tale.
It was a tale to be told, before the going down of the sun.