It was near four o’clock in the afternoon, when a party of six men, clad in the rough garments of trappers, and under the guidance of the redoubtable Ned Hawkins, pushed their jaded horses resolutely into the Yellowstone River; now swollen by the rain of the previous night, to a very respectable stream. They did not cross at the regular fording-place—so frequently used as to have received the specific name of “the Great Crossing;” but, fearful that if they did, their trail would be observed by those from whom they wished it to be concealed—the six struck the stream five or six hundred yards further up. Somewhat wearied and worn with a long march, Hawkins led his little command into the thick clump of oziers, and then, without saying a word, threw himself from his horse, his companions following his example. Scarce ten minutes from the time when the last man appeared, two men might have been seen urging their steeds in the same direction. Hawkins, ever watchful, had observed them when they were at least a quarter of a mile away. The trail, recent and plain, had attracted their attention, and one of the two had dismounted from his horse to examine it. Presently his cap was seen to fly into the air, and he waved his hand, as though he had made a pleasing discovery; then he remounted, and, with his comrade following close by his side, pressed upon the trail, bearing straight for the river, and the clump of oziers.
“Sure as death, thar comes Wavin’ Plume and Jack Howell. I thought they’d be makin’ in this direction ’fore long,” murmured Ned, to his friends, who were engaged in scrutinizing the strangers.
“They’re welcome as fair weather! The more the merrier; and if a few more on us turns up we kin jist walk off the Major without sayin’ ‘by yer leave.’”
Ten minutes more brought Night Hawk and his friend into the centre of the little circle, which stood waiting to receive them. A hearty welcome greeted them, and then one of the men asked:
“How did you come to follow us here? You must have made a straight shot to make such a centre hit.”
“I cannot say that it was through my own peculiar sagacity,” said Waving Plume. “A ghost, spectre, wizzard, or something of that kind, but looking, however, like an Indian, stumbled upon us while we were roving about last night, and ordered us to be at the Great Crossing before nightfall of to-day. Knowing no other place of that name, my friend and I journeyed in this direction, and here we are.”
Almost at the same instant, Waving Plume’s eye rested on the same object.
“Here they come,” whispered he. “Is it friend or foe, Ned?”
“Could hardly tell at this distance. Might be mistaken, as the half-breed might be comin’ with twenty or thirty of the Crows. Rather of opinion, though, that it’s Blackfeet; if so, get ready your shootin’-irons, an’ loosen yer knives. We’ll have one pelt at ’em, anyhow.”