General Splasher sprang to his feet in dismay. “What,” he cried, “not Spotted Lightning, the chief of the Kiomas, the most peaceful tribe in the reservation?”
“The same.”
“Good heavens! You know what this tribe is when aroused?”
The lieutenant cast a swift look of intelligence at his commander.
“They are the most revengeful, murderous, and vindictive Indians in the West when on the warpath, but for months they have been the most peaceable,” he answered.
“Come,” said the general, “we have not a moment to lose. What has been done?”
“There are fifty cavalrymen ready to start, with Bowie Knife Bill, the famous scout, to track them.”
Ten minutes later the general and the lieutenant, with Bowie Knife Bill at their side, set out at a swinging gallop at the head of the cavalry column.
Bowie Knife Bill, with the trained instincts of a border sleuthhound, followed the trail of Spotted Lightning’s horse with unerring swiftness.
“Pray God we may not be too late,” said the general as he spurred his panting steed—“and Spotted Lightning, too, of all the chiefs! He has always seemed to be our friend.”