From his last position Cayuse was able to see the dark form of the horse, and the upright figures of the men. While he watched, Bernritter turned to his horse and thrust his foot into the stirrup.
“You sabe, eh?” Cayuse heard Bernritter ask the Apache. “Round up the warriors and wait for word from Bascomb. You’ll hear from him in two, three hour, mebbyso.”
“Me sabe,” grunted the Indian.
Bernritter, without speaking further, rode on up the gully. The Apache, whisking up the gully-bank like an antelope, vanished over the rim.
Little Cayuse returned to his waiting pinto, kicked the pony with his heels, and rode on after Bernritter.
When he caught the tinkling sound of the hoofs ahead, he slowed his pace with a grunt of satisfaction.
Then, from the beaded medicine-pouch that swung from his belt, he took some yellow pigment, dabbed one of his fingers into it, and ran a wavering line up and down either side of his face.
This was Cayuse’s war-paint. He put it on, now that he knew he was to take the war-path against foes of his own color.
White men like Bernritter and Jacobs were not worth the trouble of dipping into his medicine-bag. Besides, Cayuse’s grievance against them was not yet well defined.
Pa-e-has-ka had set him on Bernritter’s trail, but that was all. Recent developments had given a fresh twist to the course of events. Who was Bascomb? And why was the Apache to round up more warriors?