Mackenzie rode with the wagon-train for a short distance, then branched off after giving some final orders, or rather suggestions, for any emergency that might arise.
"So long," he said.
"So long," said the driver of the leading team. (Whether a man was leaving for a trip across the street or across the continent, the parting words were, invariably, "So long.")
Mackenzie went on his way, skirting the town, keeping his eyes and ears wide open. There was nothing within hearing to indicate that the settlement was in danger of attack from the dreaded Indian. The teamsters could still be heard shouting to their mules, and an occasional creaking squeak from the wagons broke the stillness. The sheriff listened in vain for more ominous sounds.
"The reds are still pretty far off, or they are keeping mighty dark," he said to himself, as he put spurs to his horse and galloped towards one of the better-looking houses that stood on a little rise some distance from the Main Street settlement. Messengers had been sent in every direction, to warn sleeping citizens, and all had been arranged for except this household, one of the three families of the town.
Mackenzie rode up to the door and, without dismounting, knocked.
In an instant there was a sound of bustling, for the Westerner sleeps with one eye open, and is ready at a moment's notice for anything that may occur.
"Who's there?" shouted a voice.
"Mackenzie," answered the sheriff.