“Buffalo!” hazarded the general, after looking long and earnestly.
“Why do you think Indians?” whispered the general. “Maybe buffalo.”
“No. Me heard dog bark,” he asserted, softly.
Again they listened. The freezing air was very quiet. Ned’s heart thumped; he wished that he need not breathe. Then, clear, through the night did sound the yappy bark of a dog, from the timber near the black mass.
“That’s right,” murmured the general. “Wait! Isn’t that a bell—a pony bell? Yes. Ponies those are. Buffalo aren’t in the habit of wearing bells in this country.”
He turned quickly, and took a step, to carry the news to the column. But he stopped short. The bell had ceased, no dog barked, but high and plaintive welled through the lonely waste the cry of a baby. Ned fairly started; it sounded so like home and fireside. Of course, the Indians had their babies.
“That’s tough,” muttered the general. “Those Indians have not spared our women and children—but I wish that village held only men.”
With Ned he hurried back to the scouts while the two Osages remained on lookout over the sleeping village.
“My compliments to the adjutant, and tell him to have all the officers join me here,” he directed, to Ned. And Ned carried the message.
Speedily the word was passed, and from along the column filled with rumors the officers promptly gathered in a circle about their colonel.
“The village is ahead, about three quarters of a mile, gentlemen,” spoke cautiously the general. “Remove your sabres, and come forward with me, as quietly as possible, and from the top of that rise yonder where the two Osages are I’ll show you the lay of the land.”
This they did, gladly. From the rise they reconnoitered, in a cautious knot. The pony herd was as plain as before; still ruled the lonely night; somewhere down there the Indian village slept. They believed that they could trace a collection of tipis.
After pointing and explaining, and receiving nods of understanding, the general as quietly withdrew. All followed.
Now a council of war must be held, where the sabres had been left. California Joe listened approvingly; Little Beaver and Hard Rope anxiously, trying to comprehend the white chief’s plan. The Osages had loosened their buffalo robes, as if prepared for instant action. But that was not the scheme.