Called “Corey,” and “Billie,” and “Tootsie.”
Tootsie waved his bugle, danced a jig, and wound up with a toot-toot-ta-tar-rum.
“Thet’s ther stuff, Tootsie, wake us up, er I may git ter dreamin’ ergin.”
That night they camped at the mouth of a little ravine which offered water and tender grass for the horses.
It was a beautiful night, and the scout, when the moon arose, was tempted to “stretch his legs a bit,” after a long day in the saddle, and look about the country.
Tootsie asked permission to accompany him and the request was promptly granted.
They set out, keeping a southerly course along the bank of the ravine until they came out on a flat-topped and vertical-sided butte of considerable height.
In the hazy light they could not see far, but the soft evening breezes from the almost limitless plains came sweet and pure and dream-inducing.
Standing well out on the cliff, the scout noticed that under the side of a neighboring butte of like formation, one hundred rods away, a party of Indians were holding some sort of a ceremony. He had no doubt they were warriors and offering some sacrifice to propitiate the Great Spirit because of their intended exploit, or to win protection in expected battles to come.
The scout told Tootsie of his surmise, and the boy was filled with a desire to get near enough to hear and see the ceremonies. So they made their way through a difficult gulch and scaled the butte beyond which the chanting of the red men now could be heard.