“Yes, I’m thinking there is more human than wolf about the cry,” said Town.
At this juncture, the jingle of the ranger’s horn drew our friends’ attention toward him. There was just light enough to see him place the instrument to his lips.
“Don’t you,” cried Old Tumult, but the sound of his voice was drowned in the blast of the horn.
“Ho, you young, traitorous villain!” roared the old scout, and he leaped toward the ranger, but the latter whirled his horse’s head and dashed away.
Then there was hurrying of many feet, the flitting of many dark forms—followed by the blood-chilling war-whoop of two score and ten Arapaho warriors, as they closed in upon our friends.
Where was Mahaska and his warriors, now? Ah! where indeed?
CHAPTER XIII.
THE TRAGEDY AT THE LAKE.
The dark line of Arapaho warriors stopped ere they had got within reach of our two friends, for scarcely had their own war-cry pealed from their own lips, when there arose another yell that seemed to issue from the earth, the sky and the air, so loud and fierce that the earth seemed to tremble beneath them.
Mahaska had been true to his word, and, with his warriors, had come to the rescue; and, after all, the Arapahoes were the surprised party, and like sheep they scattered and fled in every direction. Half of their number, however, fell under the blows of the Sioux.
Tumult and Town. escaped without a scratch.