Simon Sprott approached them, smiling as Indian medicine men are not supposed to smile.

“You’ll put up in my lodge until we can get your own outfit brought along,” he said. “You’ll both be hungry, after what you’ve gone through. Indian food, cooked by Indians, isn’t at all bad.”

He conducted them into his teepee, and Rube Carter was surprised to see how comfortably furnished it was, with a camp bed and washing-stand, a table and two or three chairs, as well as a stove, and even a shelf of books.

Simon Sprott looked at Kiddie in deliberate scrutiny.

“Friend of Gid Birkenshaw’s, you tell me?” he said very slowly. “And the son of Buckskin Jack. Well, Gid and me, we was pals years and years ago, trapping up on the head waters of the Platte. Yes, and afterwards, when he’d settled down in his ranch on the Sweetwater, I seem to remember a nipper that he’d bought from an Indian and adopted. Dare say it was yourself. What was the name he’d given you? Little Cayuse, was it?”

“Quite right,” answered Kiddie. “That was me, sure. And you mended my wheelbarrow and taught me how to throw the lariat.”

“As for Buckskin Jack,” continued Sprott, “there never was any one like him. Best all-round scout I’ve ever known, Red or White; and the truest gentleman. English, too, he was, and that means a lot to me-a lot it means. I’m proud to meet the son of Buckskin Jack. And if there’s anything I can do for you, just name it.”

“Thank you, Simon,” returned Kiddie. “But you’ve done enough in helping me to rescue young Rube here. We’ll stay the night in your camp and then get back to our canoe and home to Sweetwater Bridge.”

“What’s your all-fired hurry?” questioned Simon. “You’ll stay as long as ever you like. It can’t be as long as I should like. Stay a while for my sake. Just consider. It’s years since I’ve heard my mother tongue spoken as you speak it, and I’m sore longing to have a chat with a friend who isn’t a Crow Indian. Your young partner’d like to stay, if I know anything of boyhood. The adventure would suit him, and to-morrow the Crows are going out on a buffalo hunt. A big herd has been seen, back of Washakee Peak.”

Kiddie glanced towards Rube.

“Like to go buffalo huntin’, Rube?” he asked.

“Wouldn’t I just!” Rube answered. “But you’ll come, too, won’t you?”

“Oh, yes,” Kiddie agreed.

Rube was so hungry after his long fast that he considered the Indian food quite delicious, and he ate heartily.

After the meal he wandered out of the lodge; but there was little for him to see except the dark shapes of the wigwams and here and there a group of silent Indians seated round their camp fire; and so he returned and took comfortable refuge between the blankets and buffalo robes provided for him by one of Simon Sprott’s attendant braves.

Before he fell asleep, however, he listened to the conversation between Kiddie and their host.

“He’s got spies everywhere,” Simon was saying. “Yes, even among the trappers, even working among the cowboys on the ranches. Many of the cowboys themselves are in his pay, stealing horses for him from the outlying corrals, or smuggling firearms into his reservation. For, as a rule, he gets others to do his dirty work for him. Naturally, we’ve got scouts as well as he, and we’re not ignorant of his strength or his intentions.”

Rube knew by now that it was of Broken Feather that they were speaking.

“If all I’ve heard of him is true,” said Kiddie, “he has as strong a following as any chief within a week’s ride. As for his intentions, I don’t pretend to have any special knowledge, excepting that he’s a man who thinks a tremendous lot of himself and has the ambition to be a great military genius like Sitting Bull or Red Cloud.”

“That’s just the point,” resumed Simon Sprott. “And to achieve his ambition, he’s aiming at conquering the smaller tribes, one by one-Crows, Blackfeet, Arapahoes, Pawnees. But the Crows first of all. Any day he may lead his army on the war trail against us, here in the Falling Water Reserve.”

“If you’re certain of that, why not be the first to attack?” suggested Kiddie. “You could take him by surprise.”

Short Nose grunted deep in his throat and shook his head.

“Unfortunately,” he answered, “the Crows have no warrior capable of planning and carrying out such an enterprise. It’ll be as much as we can do to defend our village when we ourselves are attacked. Now, if Buckskin Jack were here !”

There was a long spell of silence in the lodge, broken only by the crackling of the fire. Rube had closed his heavy eyes when he again heard Kiddie’s voice.

“Tell me this, Simon,” said Kiddie, seeming to change the subject from warfare to hunting. “Exactly how did you learn of that herd of buffalo, back of Washakee Peak?”

Simon Sprott was meditatively puffing at his tobacco pipe; but he paused to answer-

“Word was brought in by one of our scouts.”

“Did that scout see the herd with his own eyes?” Kiddie pursued.

“Well, no; I believe not,” Simon answered absently. “A lone trapper on Box Elder Creek gave him the information; said it was the biggest herd seen on these hunting grounds for many summers back.”

“Trapper might have been one of Broken Feather’s spies,” Kiddie suggested very quietly.

“Eh?” Simon Sprott looked up sharply and blew a long, slow jet of smoke from his lips.

“It’s possible,” he acknowledged; “quite possible, but not just likely. And why should the trapper, if he was a spy, tell the scout that the buffalo were there, and even recommend the hunt?”

“Yes, why?” Kiddie asked. “For my own part, I don’t believe that there’s a herd of buffalo within a hundred miles of Washakee Peak. I guess the trapper had his instructions to tell that story, just to get your warriors out on the buffalo trail, leaving your village undefended for Broken Feather to make his unopposed attack upon it in your absence.”

Simon Sprott stared at Kiddie in amazement.

“That’s cute,” he said, “very cute indeed of you to hit upon such an idea. It’s just the sort of idea that Buckskin Jack himself might have sprung out of that wonderful brain of his. I believe you’re right. Broken Feather would do a cunning thing like that. It’s quite in his line. Nothing more likely. In any case, the Crows are going to alter their programme. All preparations for the buffalo surround are complete. You and friend Rube there were to have had a great time. But that buffalo hunt isn’t going to come off.”

When Rube Carter awoke the following morning he found himself alone in the teepee, and might have believed himself to be back in Kiddie’s camp on Sweetwater Lake but for the medley of sounds that came to him through the open door-flap.

He heard the neighing of horses, the barking of dogs, and the high-pitched voices of squaws and children.

He listened sleepily for a while. Just outside of the lodge a party of young braves were quarrelling for possession of a cooking-pot.

“For people who have the reputation of bein’ silent, Injuns are capable of makin’ a heap of noise,” Rube said to himself, “I never heard such a racket in all my days.”

He sat up and reached for his moccasins, and was surprised to find his lost fur cap, with the bedraggled eagle’s feathers in it, lying beside them. His revolver also had been restored to him.

He was examining the injury done by the fire to his leggings and moccasins when he heard Kiddie’s voice from outside raised almost to a shout of command, as if he were drilling a company of soldiers. Rube flung his blankets aside and crept across the floor to look out. What he saw astonished him greatly.

The wide open space in front of the chief’s lodge was now crowded with mounted Indians, in full war paint, drawn up in regular ranks. Apart from them, and halted in a group facing them, were Falling Water and his principal warriors, all wearing their feathered war bonnets and armed with rifles, clubs, and tomahawks.

Falling Water, mounted on a fine black mustang, carried his great staff of high office, decorated with coloured beads and fringed with scalp-locks. He looked very magnificent and dignified, and younger than Rube had at first supposed him to be.

But it was the rider at the chief’s side-a rider astride of a lank, piebald prairie pony-who arrested Rube’s closest attention. There were but two feathers in his simple war bonnet, which was partly hidden by his blue-and-white blanket. His back was towards Rube, who could not see his face or know if it was painted with vermilion, but by his seat on horseback and the way he held himself Rube instantly knew that it was Kiddie.

Kiddie was giving commands to the Crows in their own language. Clearly he had been placed in authority over them as their general and field-marshal-he who, hardly twelve hours before, had crept secretly into their camp, an unknown trespasser!

Rube Carter marvelled at the strangeness of the situation, though not for an instant did he doubt Kiddie’s fitness and ability. In Rube’s estimation there was nothing great and honourable that Kiddie was incapable of doing.

Rube wanted to go up to Kiddie now and ask him how this transformation had all come about; but he did not dare. Instead, he stood watching Kiddie riding slowly along the files, inspecting them, followed by Falling Water, Short Nose, and the principal warriors.

It was not until after Rube had washed and made himself tidy that he had a chance of speaking with Kiddie. They were then at breakfast, or what passed for breakfast in the Indian encampment. As a matter of fact, it was an enormous feast that was served to them, of buffalo steak, beaver tail, prairie chicken, stewed berries, and great quantities of rich new milk, with all the other luxuries that the attentive Crows could lavish upon them.

“Looks as if they’d bin turnin’ you into a boss war chief, Kiddie,” Rube began. “Some sudden on their part, ain’t it?”

“Well, yes,” returned Kiddie, “it’s certainly sudden, seeing that I’m just a stranger among ’em. But you see, it’s this way. After you’d gone to sleep last night, one of Falling Water’s scouts came in, reportin’ that the story of the herd of buffalos was all a made-up affair. He’d been on a big scout round about the Broken Feather Agency, and he was able to prove that Broken Feather and his warriors and braves were busy gettin’ ready to come out on the war-path against the Crows. The expedition’s timed to start so as to be right here while the Crows are out huntin’ imaginary buffaloes.”

“Just your own idea,” commented Rube, “the same idea to a tick! And so the Crows are fixin’ up things to be ready for the defence, I conclude?”

“Not exactly that,” Kiddie corrected. “They’re goin’ ter strike the first blow by makin’ a surprise attack on the Sioux. They’re not figurín’ to wait until Broken Feather makes the assault.”

“But then,” Rube objected, “didn’t Short Nose-otherwise Simon Sprott-say last night that the Crows hadn’t a warrior capable of undertakin’ such an expedition?”

“Seems he’s changed his mind,” said Kiddie.

Rube scratched the back of his ear, which was his habit when thinking deeply.

“Somethin’ new, eh, t’ get a English nobleman ter lead a band of painted Redskins on the war-path?” he said. “Though I reckon you c’n do it if anyone can. ’Tain’t as if you was a tenderfoot at the business.”

“Feel inclined to come along with us, Rube?” Kiddie casually inquired. “You c’n keep in the rear, you know.”

“I shall keep right back in the rear if that’s where you are goin’ t’ be yourself, Kiddie,” returned Rube. “I’m figurín’ t’ be alongside o’ you wherever you are. When d’ we make a start?”

“As soon as you’re ready,” Kiddie intimated, “for I see you’re determined to be with us. I oughtn’t to allow you; but I think you may be of use, and if you come through it all right it will be a great experience for you. I’ve found a good pony for you and an apology for a saddle. Your own rifle would have been handy if you’d brought it. The Crows have none light enough. Don’t neglect to take cartridges for your six-shooter. And if the battle comes off, don’t expect me t’ be looking after you all the time.”

“I understand,” Rube acquiesced. “You’ve gotter concentrate on defeatin’ Broken Feather, and you mustn’t be worried thinkin’ of my safety. Well, all right. I shall not interfere with you any.”

Rube was certainly determined to be present in the expected battle. He considered it a more than ample substitute for the mythical buffalo hunt.

He did not speak with Kiddie again for many hours. But he saw him frequently, riding at the head of the long procession of mounted Indians.

The Crows were divided into three armies-the first commanded by Kiddie, the second by Falling Water, and the third by Short Nose. They rode in single file, with scouts in front and rear and on either flank. Towards noon there was a halt on the banks of Poison Spider Creek, and the march had not yet been renewed when Kiddie sent Rube out alone to scout for possible signs of the enemy outposts.

Rube had not gone many miles in advance when on crossing the ridge of a range of foothills he looked down upon the wide rolling prairie beyond and saw a vast, well-ordered army of the Sioux, moving very quickly and in numbers far surpassing the forces of the Crows, whom it was evident they had come out to meet.

Making a rapid calculation of their strength, Rube rode back at top speed and reported his significant discovery to Kiddie.

This unexpected news that the enemy were out of their reservation and making a forced march towards Falling Water’s encampment caused an entire change of plan. The coming conflict was not to be a mere surprise attack on Broken Feather’s village, but a pitched battle in the open. Kiddie, however, was equal to the occasion.