Anxious to see what was going on within the council house, for what he heard was unsatisfactory, the scout softly lifted the lower edge of the skin and peered in.
As he did so an Indian dancer whirled with jerky motion right past his face. All about, within the lodge, dancers were hopping, jumping, and gyrating.
The drum beaters were seated not far away in a group, pounding away with such energy that the sweat stood on their painted faces.
The Indian who was doing the boasting continued to tell what great things he would accomplish when he lifted his knife against the whites.
Just at this juncture, when the scout was beginning to think that, perhaps, he might now acquaint himself with something definite concerning the plans of the Indians—though the fact that they were dancing and in war paint showed that they meditated an attack on the camps of the white men—one of the dogs, whose presence Buffalo Bill had feared, came sniffing around the lodge, and discovered him lying there in the shadow.
The scout let the skin of the tent fall, and, turning about, gripped his knife. The dog was sniffing at him with suspicion, though the odor of the Indian blanket and the sight of the familiar headdress, no doubt, somewhat lulled the animal’s suspicion.
The dog could not see Buffalo Bill’s face, for the blanket was pulled rather closely about it. So again the animal advanced, with nose outthrust, sniffing the scout.
The dog seemed to have an intuition that all was not well, and thrusting its sharp, wolflike nose into the air, it gave a long, whining howl, like a veritable wolf.
The scout lay as if he were dead. The howling was heard in the lodge, but seemed to excite no thought that all was not well outside. These dogs were known to be great howlers.
Ceasing its long-drawn howl of suspicion, the dog came forward again, and thrust its nose almost into the scout’s face.