“They look all right to me, but I fear mine are out for a joke,” returned Hickok.
“Who do you call that pair?” asked the scout.
“Well, if my eyes ain’t lying and these woods are not playing the deuce with my think machine, I’ve been looking at that knave Price and his worse comrade, Bloody Ike. How do they look to you?”
“You’ve expressed my feelings,” said the scout. “Let’s follow them.”
It was an easy matter to trail Price and his partner to the Indian village without being discovered, for the two men seemed to have no thought of interruption.
Hiding in the thick evergreens for several hours the pards studied the village from all sides. They wished to know the strength of the camp and if they had any prisoners. Price and Ike moved about at will and might have owned the village, from all appearances.
The pards decided that the village contained about one hundred people—bucks, squaws, and papooses. With the party they had seen set out in the morning they believed there might be sixty warriors.
The camp was as peaceful as a country village on Sunday. None seemed to expect visitors or to care to exert themselves enough to do guard duty. They evidently considered that the guard in the cañon with the ponies was sufficient.
The camp was admirably located for summer and winter quarters, the forest breaking the cold winds and hot sun and furnishing abundant fuel, while water was convenient and plenty.
One tepee was guarded by two smoking, sleepy bucks, and securing a good position, Buffalo Bill waited patiently, hour after hour, for some one to pull aside the flap and reveal the interior.