It was a pleasing day for a canter, if there were no necessity of a constant study of the surroundings for signs of the treacherous reds.
Wild Bill was always on the alert, and his eye was as quick as that of any Indian. They had left the fort perhaps three miles in the rear, and Captain Smith had entered deeply into a subject which interested Hickok. It was concerning Price, the former Indian agent, and his affairs, particularly that which concerned Lieutenant Avery. They saw nothing of the hoped-for supply wagons, and the scout was so absorbed by the words of his companion that he at first gave no heed to a row of strange objects along the crest of a hill far to the left of them. Then the habit of years fixed his gaze.
“Do you see anything there?” he asked of the captain.
The captain did not, but Hickok leveled his field glass as he rode, and a moment later announced:
“They are Indians, cap, and they are between us and the fort. How is your horse for a run?”
The captain paled, but answered:
“There is no pony living that can down him in twenty miles.”
“Good! Let’s look to our saddle girths, for as soon as those fellows see that they have been discovered they will come out in full view. They are only waiting now to give others time to cut off our retreat by riding out behind that ridge we have just crossed.”
“What is best for us to do?” asked the captain.
“Keep out of their way, if possible, and when they get too near make it costly for them.”