“They will come; I feel certain of that.”
“Of course they will.”
The day wore wearily on and as the shades of night gathered about the scene, the Pawnee band seemed to gain new life. Ammunition-pouches were carefully inspected, and adjusted for the last time, and Tom Kyle was seen in the midst of eight or ten sub-chiefs, holding, as it were, a pacific council of war.
When, at last, the council broke up, a young Pawnee, bearing a white fabric on the point of his lance, ran down the river.
Opposite the center of the wooded cove, he hesitated.
“Pale faces give up now?”
“No!”
The undaunted reply caused the brave to whirl on his heel and dart back to his brethren.
Then night, as if eager to witness appalling deeds, suddenly swooped like a black eagle down upon the earth.
“They’re swimming the river!” said Frontier Shack, from the loop-hole in the gable. “They were afraid to trust their horses among the sand. Now look out, boy, for they’ve reached my island.”