“I have it!” exclaimed Powell. “Let's kill him.”
“How about the commanding officer?”
“He'd back us—but we'll tell him afterwards. Cutler, can you find Toussaint?”
“If I get the time.”
“Very well, you're off duty till you do. Then report to me at once.”
Just after guard-mounting two days later, Cutler came in without knocking. Toussaint was found. He was down on the river now, beyond the stockade. In ten minutes the wagon-master and the two lieutenants were rattling down to the agency in an ambulance, behind four tall blue government mules. These were handily driven by a seventeen-year-old boy whom Balwin had picked up, liking his sterling American ways. He had come West to be a cow-boy, but a chance of helping to impress Red Cloud had seemed still dearer to his heart. They drew up at the agency store, and all went in, leaving the boy nearly out of his mind with curiosity, and pretending to be absorbed with the reins. Presently they came out, Balwin with field-glasses.
“Now,” said he, “where?”
“You see the stockade, sir?”
“Well?” said Powell, sticking his chin on Cutler's shoulder to look along his arm as he pouted. But the scout proposed to be deliberate.
“Now the gate of the stockade is this way, ain't it?”