As the crowd drew around the newcomer, who was a sober, steady cattleman from twenty-five miles up the river, they noticed that there was something out of the ordinary in his manner. Even the fact of his appearance at that place and hour was unusual.
"No, boys," he said, in answer to the many invitations to drink. "I think we'll all need clear heads before daylight."
"Why, what's the trouble?" chorused the crowd.
"The fact is," continued Hodson, hurriedly, "I cached my cattle and then came down to tell you that a big bunch of Indians crossed the river above my place this afternoon, and they looked as if they were on the war path."
All were attentive now, and even the most reckless of these wild men, living continually in the midst of dangers, wore grave faces.
"I didn't stop to investigate. I wasn't taking any chances, you see," he went on. "So I ran my cattle over onto Woody Island and then started down the trail, giving the word to the fellows along the road. Hostiles have been pretty thick across the river lately, and I've had to watch out."
By this time all hands were thoroughly interested. As Hodson went on with his tale, the men drew nearer to him, their faces showing how keenly they realized what his news might mean to all.
Questions followed thick and fast.
"How many were there? Where did they cross?" asked one.