The Chief was just about to give the order to advance, when another sound caught his ear. It was a chorus of sharp barks mingled with howls that seemed to come from all sides at once. It swelled onward in a deafening clamour that filled the prairies to the horizon. It was a sound to which all old Indian hunters responded with a thrill—that last terrible rallying cry of wolves when their chase is ended, and the prey about to be pulled down; the pitiless summons, "Close in!"
Instantly, Spotted Eagle gave the command, and lifting their shrill war-cry, the Comanaches rushed out to meet their foes.
They were hardly clear of the camp, when they stopped, bewildered by the extraordinary sight before them.
In the clear light of the now fully risen moon, they saw a dense mass of Indians in violent commotion, with their ponies rearing and kicking in the wildest confusion. On the outskirts of the mass, and completely encircling it, was an enormous pack of wolves, which leaped and dashed against its edges like the waves of a living sea.
Here and there a small company of Indians would thrust itself from the main body, forcing their assailants to give way. But before they could gain sufficient headway to get through, and make their escape, it seemed as if a rising tide of wolves overwhelmed them and drove them back. Again and again the Indians made a desperate effort to break through; and each time the waves of the billowing pack surged over them, broke, and surged again.
Amid all the bewildering confusion of the struggle, two objects showed themselves distinctly again and again. One was a huge white wolf whose body, gleaming in the moon, was continually hurling itself against the Indians in the thickest of the fight and goading the packs on. It was in ceaseless movement, first on one side, then on the other. Now it would be lost to view among the dark bodies of its mates; now it would flash into sight at some other point, like a beam of leaping light.
The other object was the figure of a tall Indian boy, who was also perpetually changing his position as he mingled with the wolves, and which the thunderstruck Comanaches realized could be no other than that of Dusty Star himself.
Like the white wolf, his efforts seemed directed to urging the wolves forward at any point where they were in danger of giving way. Now and again as he flung up his arms, he would utter a wild cry, half-human, half-wolf, which, piercing the general uproar, rang like a note of doom.
At length, the Yellow Dogs, driven to a frenzy of desperation, forced a passage through the ring of wolves at a point where it had grown thin. As they burst forth towards the open prairie, it was plain that they had abandoned all intention of attacking the camp, and that their one idea was that of escape.
And now Dusty Star's figure was seen to break away from the wolves and to come running towards his people. As he ran, he shouted loudly, waving his arms excitedly in the direction of their fleeing foes.