The Indian shrugged his shoulders and said no more; but presently he stood up on the footboard and, attracting 178 Dumont’s attention, pointed triumphantly to a bluff about a furlong ahead, which had been hitherto concealed by a ridge of rising ground dotted with pine-trees. Coke, who had been riding some way in advance with his friend, now hurried back to Dumont’s side.
“What do you make of this?” he said, pointing to the bluff. “Fred’s ridden off to the right to try and find a slope, and I’m just off the opposite way.”
Dumont rode with him as far as the obstruction and examined it more carefully; it was a sheer precipice, twelve feet high.
“Right you are,” he said. “Try and find a slope, and I’ll wait here for the other fellows.”
Two hours later the men met again; the two scouts had ridden ten miles along the cliff-foot either way, only to find that there was no spot where the waggons could possibly be raised. Meanwhile, two of the Dumonts had scooped footholds for themselves and climbed to the higher level, which they pronounced to be a beautiful grass plain, studded with little conical hills; and by the aid of a telescope they had seen large herds of bison going on ahead towards the Platte River.
“Then we must go on,” said Coke, “even if we have to haul the waggons after us, or cut a roadway.”
The others were of the same mind, but the sun had just set, and whatever their plans might be, they would have to stand over till to-morrow. The fire was lit and all were sitting down to supper when someone asked:
“Where’s the redskin?”
The redskin had gone, bag and baggage (someone else’s baggage).