CHAPTER XXX.
THE MAD HUNTER.
In the valley a cavalry command was encamped, some hours after the battle in which Lieutenant Dick Danforth and his men had been overwhelmed by Oak Heart’s ambuscade.
It was just sunset, but twilight among the mountains is sometimes four hours long—a man might see to read fine print at nine o’clock.
The command had ridden hard and were a-wearied, so the party had bivouacked early, the guide reporting that the ridge before them afforded no good camping-ground. The horses were soon lariated out, and scores of camp-fires were kindled along the banks of the stream, while the cheerful rattle of dishes and the smell of cooking sharpened the appetites of the troopers.
Leaving his servant to prepare his frugal meal, the commander of the soldiers strode up the hillside toward the summit of the ridge, the better to view the valley and its boundaries while daylight lingered.
“Be careful, captain, for I look for Injuns hereabouts,” called the guide, who was Texas Jack.
“All right, Jack. I’ll signal if I see any signs of the red scamps,” returned the fearless officer, as he strode on up the ascent.
Once or twice he turned to enjoy the scene of beauty spreading below him—the lovely valley, the winding stream, the picturesque bivouac of the troopers, and the distant blue hills, on which the light was fading rapidly. At length he reached the point from which he could view a part of the country through which the morrow’s trail would lead them.
Below him, on that side of the ridge, all was shadow now, for the ridge shut off the last glow of the golden western sky; but the summits of the hills and ridges were still bathed in the departing sun’s radiance. The scene so impressed him that, quite unconsciously, the officer spoke aloud: