That storm-burst along the range had turned for twenty-four hours every mountain stream into a foaming torrent for a hundred miles.  Not a bridge remained along the Platte.  Not a ford was fordable within two days’ march of either Emory or Frayne.  Not a courier crossed the Box Elder, going either way, until the flood went down, and then it transpired that a tide in the affairs of men had also turned, and that there was trouble ahead for some who had thought to find plain sailing.  For two days watchers along the lower Box Elder dragged out upon the shallows the bodies of horses that once upon a time might have borne the “U.  S.” brand, but were not girthed with cavalry saddles now.  Nor were there lacking other bodies to prove that the victims of the sudden storm were not Uncle Sam’s men, much as two, at least, of the drowned had been wanted by Federal authorities but a week before.  What the denizens of Gate City and Fort Emory dreaded and expected to bear was that Dean and his little party had been caught in the trap.  But, living or dead, not a sign of them remained along the storm-swept ravine.  What most people of Gate City and Fort Emory could not understand was the evidence that a big gang of horse thieves, desperadoes and renegades had suddenly appeared about the new town, had spurred away northward in the night, had kept the Frayne road till they reached the Box Elder, riding hard long after sun-up, and there, reinforced, they had gone westward to the Sweetwater trail, and, old frontiersmen though they were, had been caught in the whirl of water at Canon Springs, losing two of their number and at least a dozen of their horses.  What could have lured them into that gloomy rift at such a time?  What inspiration had led Dean out of it?

Singly or in little squads, many of them afoot, bedraggled, silent, chagrined, the “outfit,” described by Trooper Carey had slunk away from the neighborhood of the Box Elder as soon as the storm subsided.  Solemnly, as befitted soldiers, silent and and alert despite their dripping accoutrements, the little detachment of cavalry had pushed ahead, riding by compass over the drenched uplands, steering for the Sweetwater.  Late in the afternoon the skies had cleared, the sun came out, and they camped in a bunch of cottonwoods on the old Casper trail and slept the sleep of the just and the weary.  Early next day they hastened on, reaching the usually shallow stream, with Devil’s Gate only a few miles away, before the setting of a second sun.  Here they feasted and rested well, and before the dawn was fairly red on the third day out from Emory they were breasting the turbid waters and by noon had left the valley far to the south and were well out toward the Big Horn country, where it behooved them to look warily ahead, for from every ridge, though far to the west of their probable raiding ground, Dean and his men could expect to encounter scouting parties of the Indians at any moment, and one false step meant death.

The third night passed without alarm, though every eye and ear was strained.  The morning of the fourth day dawned and the sun soon tinged the misty mountain tops to the far north, and Dean saw before him an open rolling country, over which it would be impossible to march without attracting Indian eyes, if Indian eyes there were within twenty miles.  And with proper caution he ordered his men to keep in concealment, horses grazing under guard in a deep depression near a stream, men dozing soundly by turns until the twilight came, and then the stars ­their night lights for a long, long march.  Dawn of the fifth day found them huddled in a deep ravine of the southern foothills, with Warrior Gap not thirty miles away, and now, indeed, was prudence necessary, for the faint light showed the fresh prints of innumerable pony hoofs on every side.  They were close on Machpealota’s lurking braves.  Which would see the other first?

It must have been somewhere toward five o’clock in the afternoon that Dean, searching with his field glass the sunlit slopes far out to the east, heard the voice of his sergeant close at hand and turned to answer.  Up to this moment, beyond the pony tracks, not a sign had they seen of hostile Indians, but the buffalo that had appeared in scattered herds along their line of march were shy and scary, and old hands said that that meant they had recently been hunted hard.  Moreover, this was not a section favored of the buffalo.  There was much alkali and sage brush along their trail, and only here and there in scanty patches any of the rich, nutritious bunch grass which the roving animals so eagerly sought.  The day had been hot and almost cloudless.  The shimmer of heat along the lazy roll of the land to the south had often baffled their blinking eyes.  But now the sun was well to the west, and the refraction seemed diminishing, and away over to the northeast a dull-colored cloud seemed slowly rising beyond the ridges.  It was this that Sergeant Bruce was studying when he murmured to his young commander: 

“I think that means a big herd on the run, sir, and if so Indians started them.”

One or two troopers, dozing close at hand, sprawled full length upon the ground, with their faces buried in, or hidden by, their blue-sleeved arms, slowly rolled over and came crouching up alongside.  Dean dropped his glasses and peered in the direction indicated by his comrade of humbler rank.  Dust cloud it was beyond a doubt, and a long peep through the binocular proved that it was slowly sailing across the horizon in a northerly direction.  Did that mean that the red hunters were driving the great quarry toward the village of the Sioux, or that the young men were out in force, and with the full complement of squaws and ponies, were slaughtering on the run.  If the former, then Dean and his party would be wise to turn eastward and cross the trail of the chase.  If the latter they would stand better chance of slipping through to the Gap by pushing northward, deeper in among the pine-crested heights.

Behind the watchers, well down in the ravine, the horses were placidly nibbling at the scant herbage, or lazily sprawling in the sun, each animal securely hoppled, and all carefully guarded by the single trooper, whose own mount, ready saddled, circled within the limits of the stout lariat, looped about his master’s wrist.  All spoke of caution, of lively sense of danger and responsibility, for they of the little detachment were picked men, who had ridden the warpath too long not to realize that there was no such thing as trusting to luck in the heart of the Indian country, especially when Machpealota with his Ogallalla braves was out for business.  The cautious movements of the group along the bank had quickly been noted by the wakeful ones among the troopers, and presently the entire party, excepting only the herd guard, had crouched up alongside, and with the comradeship born of such perilous service, were now discussing the situation in low, confidential tones.

For half an hour they lay there, studying the signs to the northeast.  The dun colored cloud hung low over the earth for a distance of several miles.  The herd was evidently one of unusual size even for those days when the buffalo swarmed in countless thousands, and finally the sergeant spoke again.

“It’s a big hunt, lieutenant.  Whatever may be going on about the Gap they’ve found time to send out young men enough to round up most of the buffalo north of the Platte and drive them in toward the mountains.  It’s combining pleasure with business.  They don’t feel strong enough in number, perhaps, to make another attempt on troops armed with breech-loaders, so while they’re waiting until their reinforcements come, or their own breech-loaders, they are herding the buffalo where they can get them when they want them later on.  We are in big luck that no stragglers are anywhere around us; if they were it wouldn’t take such fellows long to spy us out.”

Dean swept the ridge line with his glass.  No sign of life nearer than that far-away, betraying dust cloud.  No symptom of danger anywhere within their ken.  He was thinking at the moment of that precious package in his saddle-bags and the colonel’s words impressing him with the sense of responsibility the night they parted at Fort Emory.  To-morrow, by sunrise, if fortune favored him, he could turn it over to the commanding officer at the new stockade, and then if the Indians were not gathered in force about the post and actually hostile, he could slip out again at night and make swift dash for the Platte and the homeward way, and then within the week rejoin his sister at Fort Emory ­his sister and “Pappoose.”  Never before had the Indian pet name carried such significance as now.  Night and day those soft, dark eyes ­that beautiful face ­haunted his thoughts and filled his young heart with new and passionate longing.  It was hard to have to leave the spot her presence made enchanted ground.  Nothing but the spur of duty, the thrill of soldier achievement and stirring venture could have reconciled him to that unwelcome order.

In one week now, if fortune favored and heaven spared, he could hope to look again into the eyes that had so enchained him, but if there should interpose the sterner lot of the frontier, if the Sioux should learn of his presence, he who had thwarted Burning Star and the brothers of poor Lizette in their schemes of vengeance, he at whose door the Ogallallas must by this time have laid the death of one of their foremost braves, then indeed would there be no hope of getting back without a battle royal.  There was only one chance of safety ­that the Indians should not discover their presence.  If they did and realized who the intruders were, Jessie Dean might look in vain for her brother’s return.  Pappoose would never hear the love words that, trembling on his lips the night he left her, had been poured out only to that unresponsive picture.  Two ways there were in which the Indians could know of his presence.  One by being informed through some half-breed spy, lurking about Frayne; but then who would be dastard enough to send such word?  The other by being seen and recognized by some of the Ogallalla band, and thus far he believed they had come undetected, and it was now after five o’clock ­after five o’clock and all was well.  In a few hours they could again be on their starlit way.  With the morrow they should be safely within the gates of the new stockade at Warrior Gap.

Turning with hope and relief in his face to speak to Sergeant Bruce, who lay there at his elbow, he saw the blue-sleeved arm stretching forth in warning to lie low, and with grave eyes the veteran was gazing straight at a little butte that rose from the rolling surface not more than half a mile away to the southeast.

“Lieutenant,” he whispered, “there are Indians back of that hill at this minute, and it isn’t buffalo they’re laying for.”

Dean was brave.  He had been tried and his mettle was assured, and yet he felt the sudden chill that coursed his veins.  “How can they have seen us,” he murmured.

“May have struck our trail out to the southwest,” said Bruce slowly, “or they may have been told of our coming and are stalking us.  They’ve got a heavy score to settle with this troop, you know.”

For a moment only the breathing of the little party could be heard.  All eyes were fixed upon the distant mound.  At last Dean spoke again.

“When did you see them first and how many are there?”

“Near ten minutes ago.  I saw something fluttering swift along the sky line just beyond that divide to the south.  It skimmed like a bird, all but the quick bobbing up and down that made me sure there was a galloping pony under it.  Then another skimmed along.  It was the bunch of feathers and red flannel on their lances, and my belief is that they struck our trail back here somewhere, and that there’s only a small party, and they don’t know just who we are and they want to find out.”

“You’re right.  Look!” was Dean’s sudden answer, for at the very instant there rode boldly, calmly into full view two young Indians, who with cool deliberation came jogging on at gentle speed, straight toward the concealed bivouac of the troopers.  Instantly Bruce reached for his carbine, and two or three of the men went sliding or crouching backward down the slope as though in quest of their arms.  Full eight hundred yards away were the riders at the moment, coming side by side in apparent unconcern.

“Don’t,” muttered Dean, with hand outstretched.  “They look anything but hostile.”

“That’s when they’re most likely to be full of hell, sir,” was the prompt answer.  “See! others are watching behind that knoll,” and indeed as Bruce declared, a feather-decked head or two could be detected through the glass, peering over the summit.

“Warn them to halt, then,” cried Dean.  “But we cannot fire unless they provoke it.”

Bruce was on his feet in a second.  Standing erect and facing straight toward the coming pair, he raised his right hand, palm to the front, to the full length of his arm, and slowly motioned “stand.”  Every plainsman knows the signal.  In well-acted surprise, the Indians reined their ponies flat back, and, shading their eyes with their hands a moment, remained motionless.  Then, as with one accord, each tossed aside his rifle, and one of them further lifted high and displayed a revolver.  This, too, he tossed out on the turf, and now with both arms bare and extended on high, with empty hands outspread, they slowly advanced as though saying “See, we are without arms.  We come as brothers.”

But the sergeant never hesitated.  Almost on tiptoe he repeated the signal “halt,” and half-turned imploringly to his officer.

“It’s all a bluff, sir.  They want to crawl upon us, see who and how many we are.  Let some of us fire warning shots or come they will, and the moment they find out who we are, away they’ll ride to bring Red Cloud and all his bucks about our ears.”

“I cannot fire,” was the answer.  “That’s their flag of truce and we must not ignore it.  Let them come, sergeant; I’ll meet them.”