And, though Blake fretted and fumed at the delay, he knew it would not be best to insist on having his way. Soon, however, they were in the saddle again and once more in pursuit.
“The trail is getting fresher,” declared Hank, about four o’clock that afternoon. “Their horses are tiring, I guess, and ours seem to be holding out pretty well.”
“Which means——” began Joe.
“That we may get up to them before dark,” went on the cowboy. “And then we’ll see what happens.”
“Will they run, do you think?” inquired Blake.
“They will as long as their horses hold out, for they must know that this ghost-dance business is about over and that most of their friends are back on the reservations. But when we come up to them——” and the cowboy paused and significantly examined his revolver.
“Does it mean a fight?” went on Blake, and he could not restrain a catch in his breath. It was one thing to have an Indian fight with some shelter, but different out in the open.
“Well, I hardly think it will be what you might call regular and up-to-date fighting,” replied Hank. “They may fire their guns and revolvers at us to try and frighten us back, but I don’t actually believe that they’ll make trouble. They know the punishment would be too serious. And I believe a lot of those Indians have only blank cartridges that they had when they were in some Wild West show. I know there was mighty little whining of bullets, for all the shooting they did last night. But, at the same time,” he went on, “it’s best to be prepared for emergencies.”
They continued on, and the boys had now become so used to the signs of the Indian trail that they could note the changes almost as well as could Hank.
Here they could see where a rest was made, and again where some animal went out of the beaten path. Bits of the Indians’ finery, too, were noted every once in a while—a bit of gaudy bead trimming, a discarded moccasin or some dyed feathers.