Every one else slept soundly, except Little Cayuse, who stood guard the first half of the night, and Chappo, who acted as sentry the last half. Neither of them, so they declared afterward, heard nor saw anything, though their superstitious fears, it seemed to the scout, ought to have been enough to keep them wide-eyed until morning.
But in the morning came a startling discovery, which showed, also, that at some time in the night one of them, at least, had been asleep.
Tom Conover was gone from the camp! And no one had known when he went.
The fact of his disappearance was announced by Nomad, who awoke early, and, looking round for him, did not find him, and had hardly expected that he would find him.
“Whoop!” he shouted, and sprang to his feet; he had lain down with all his clothing on. “Waugh! Me no cumtax this. Onless, mebbe, it’s ther whiskizoos workin’!”
What whiskizoos were was a thing old Nomad had never been able to say to the satisfaction of Buffalo Bill or any one else. But whenever the old trapper came company front with what struck him as much out of the ordinary, or supernatural, or inexplicable, then the whiskizoos had been at work. He never tried to explain beyond that.
His whooping exclamations brought Buffalo Bill and Wild Bill out of their blankets and roused the sleeping Indians, starting also to his feet Chappo, who was on guard, but at the moment was squatting in a growth of sagebrush by the camp fire, hugging his rifle between his brown knees.
“What’s up?” demanded Wild Bill, pulling out his revolver and staring round.
“Lookee thar!” said Nomad, pointing to the spot where all had seen Tom Conover lie down for his night’s sleep. “What is it yer sees thar, anyhow?”
“Nothing.”