"Well, now, that's a sort of a 'kin-savvy' case," he replied. "It depends on how soon we find the Injuns' camp. Maybe it'll take us a week—maybe two weeks or more—can't tell; but once we get onto their trail we'll soon overhaul 'em. John, here, says that ol' To hausen, the 'Little Mountain,' an' his band is camped right down Walnut Creek, about half-way 'tween here an' Charley Rath's ranch—'bout twenty-five miles from here."
"Yes," said Adkins, "I was up to their camp 'bout a week ago, an since that some of the Injuns was down to the ranch a-trading; but they don't know, for sure, where Satank an' the rest of the tribe is; but they thought we'd be apt to find 'em on the Smoky, or the Saline, or Solomon, or maybe on some of the little timbered creeks in between the rivers."
"Do you think, Adkins," I asked, "that there is any likelihood of To hausen's band moving up this way? For it would bother our wolf-hunting business if they should come near us."
"Oh, they may be a-moving camp now an' then, to get fresh grass for their hosses; but if they get to crowdin' on you, all you've got to do is to go to ol' To hausen an' ask him to keep far enough away so's not to interfere with your wolf poisoning, an' he'll do it, for he's a pretty good ol' Injun, an' always tries to keep on good terms with the whites. There's only about a hundred men in his band, an' they're mostly ol' men what's had experience enough to know that it pays better to keep on good terms with Uncle Sam's people than to be bucking again 'em. But the most of the tribe now seems to be of the other way of thinking an' have split off from ol' To hausen, who used to be head chief, an' taken to following the lead of such devils as Satank, an' Satanta, an' Big Tree; an' they're the ones we've got to look out for."
"Where do you expect to find the Kiowa trail, Bill?"
"Well, from here, we'll follow this ol' lodge-pole trail; it turns off from the Walnut a few miles up the creek an' goes over to the Smoky Hill, which is about twenty miles from here; an' about opposite this point on the Smoky is a mail station on the Denver stage route, an' I reckon we'll be able to find out from the station men whether the Kiowas have gone up or down the river an' lay our course to suit."
"When we first came here," I informed him, "it looked like the last travel over the trail had been about two months before—that would have been about September—and the tracks were going toward the Smoky Hill; but they might have been made by Cheyennes or 'Rapahoes."
"We'll be apt to find an old moccasin, or a broken arrow, or somethin' dropped or thrown away on the trail, before we travel very far, that'll tell what tribe travelled it last," remarked the scout.
"I noticed that you don't carry any picket-pin," I remarked; "how do you picket your horse out?"
"I picket him to a hole in the ground. I dig a hole with my knife about a foot deep; tie a big knot in the end of my lariat; put it down in the bottom of the hole; fill in the dirt an' tamp it down hard as I can with my foot; an' that'll hold him 'bout as good as a picket-pin, an' saves the trouble, an' saves my horse the weight of the iron pin; an' I always try to lighten my horse's load of every ounce I can do away with. An' when I'm out by myself, or where there's nobody to stan' guard at night, I make my bed with my head on my saddle, 'bout half-way 'tween my horse an' the end of my lariat that's buried, an' if anything strange comes in sight the horse'll begin running 'round at the end of his rope, an' dragging it over me'll wake me up."