Suddenly Charley flung out an arm. He was pointing with a lean forefinger.
"Neche lodge," he said. "Louis Creal him shack."
Kars and Bill were at either side of him searching the dark horizon. A light was shining dimly in the distance. Nor did it need much understanding to realize that it came from behind a primitive, cotton-covered window.
"Good. How far?"
It was Kars who spoke.
"Piece down. Piece up. So. One mile. Bluff. Small piece. Bell River neches—plenty teepee."
Charley spoke with his outstretched hand indicating a brief decline, and the corresponding rise of ground beyond. Again it was the Indian in him that would not be denied illustration by gesture.
Again they moved forward. Again was the scout's rightness and accuracy proved. The ground fell away into a short dip. It rose again in the far side of the moist bottom, and its summit confronted them with a clean cut barrier of tall pine woods. It was the end of the toilsome journey. The screening bluff to the northeast, without which no Indian village, however primitive, is complete.
They were not to pass through it. The scout turned off sharply to the left, and moved down its length with swift, untiring steps. Nor did he pause again till the great bluff was passed, and once more the square, yellow patch of light gazed out at them from the dark vault of night.
With a brief explanation the Indian yielded up his command.