Old Nomad, Skibo, Cayuse, and Tootsie let loose a galling fire from their rifles, and the charge was of brief duration.
As the Indians wheeled and dashed away beyond the range of the rifles, Tootsie sounded the “advance” on his bugle.
The Indians immediately huddled together, gesticulating and talking excitedly.
“Give um ernother sample o’ yer tootin’, Tootsie,” said Nomad.
The boy responded sharply on his horn, keeping well out of sight, and the Indians were puzzled as to its source. From their actions the scout judged that it sounded to them as if it came from the top of the butte. They pointed and looked in that direction, and then back toward the fissure where the party of whites and their horses were hidden.
“I guess if I had my ghost fixed up it would finish the job,” said Tootsie.
“Mebbe some o’ them aire ther same fellers ye s’luted berfore,” suggested Nomad.
“Try them with another ‘advance,’” said the scout.
This was sufficient. The Indians wheeled their horses and dashed away, in half an hour disappearing beyond a mound of the rolling plain to the west.
The pards were so intently watching the Indians that they heard no sound until a voice beside them said: