Sergeant Silk had saddled his broncho and was about to mount when he turned sharply at the sound of hoofs.
"Here's Denis Murphy coming in," he announced. "I'll wait and hear if he's seen anything of those Redskins. Something has kept him."
Murphy was descending from the heights by the tracks made by the wagon wheels. As he approached along the level ground the commanding officer strode out from his tent, smoking a cigar. Murphy came to a halt in front of him and saluted.
"I've struck the trail of those Indians, sir," he reported. "Three miles beyond the far end of the cañon, west by south. I calculate there's between thirty and forty of them—bucks, on the warpath."
"How do you make out that they are bucks?" questioned the commandant. "You didn't see them?"
"I didn't see them, sir," Murphy answered, "but I found no marks of any teepee poles, and I reckon they're the lot we're looking for."
"No doubt," nodded the officer, puffing at his cigar. He turned to Silk. "You had better persuade that girl to come into camp, Sergeant," he said. "And then I shall want you to go out scouting, and discover where the Redskins have located themselves for the night. Take Stikeman along with you and send him back with the girl."
"Yes, sir," returned Silk.
He mounted, taking his carbine with him, and Trooper Stikeman followed, carrying the blanket of provisions.
They went down the ravine at an easy trot with their faces to the west, where the sun was setting in a glory of red and gold. When they came within sound of the waterfall, the sergeant looked about for Maple Leaf's pony and the smoke from her camp fire, but he saw neither.