“Pards, we cannot get out of this cañon until they have passed on, for we can’t scale those cliffs, not being birds, and you know this stream tumbles over a precipice at the head of this trap.
“Corporal, you remain here with me, and we’ll see what we can discover more about that band, while the rest of you return up the cañon and take it easy.”
Buffalo Bill and Corporal Milk then remained in hiding, watching the redskins, while the remainder of the band returned up the cañon, which at its entrance was a quarter of a mile in width, but narrowed to a few feet at its end, and there the creek tumbled over a cliff into a waterfall.
The Indians, the scouts saw, were some threescore in number, and their ponies stood with heads lowered as though they had been very hard ridden.
Several fires had been built, and the smell of broiling venison floated up the cañon, while the redskins could be seen gathered about the fire, eating heartily.
There was a thicket near that hid half of their camping place, but Buffalo Bill quickly ran his field glass over the band, and at last said:
“Those redskins have been up to some deviltry, I am certain.
“They have no plunder or scalps, but they have not been on a hunt, or they would have their game with them.
“Then, too, there is so much game in this country they would not have to go after it.”
“They’ve been on a war trail near some of the forts, sir, and look as though they had been worsted in a fight,” said the corporal.