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“Yes. Guns.”

Cut Nose grunted. Now Lame Buffalo, sub-chief, came scouring back. He had seen the three men. It was as Tall Bull had said. Two of the men were large, one was small. They were riding mules, and were dressed in “whoa-haw” clothes, so they were not trappers or hunters, but probably belonged to that “whoa-haw” train of many men that the column had sighted travelling east. They were riding as if they wished to catch it. But they could be reached easily, said Lame Buffalo, his black eyes blazing. Blazed the black eyes of all; and fiercest were the snappy black eyes of the two squaws. The three “whoa-haws” could be reached easily by following up a side ravine that would lead out almost within bow-shot. Then the white men would be cut off in the midst of a flat open place where they could not hide.

“Good,” grunted Cut Nose; and he issued short, rapid orders. Little Dave had not understood the words but he could understand the gestures and signs that made up more than half the talk; and he could understand the bustle that followed. The Cheyennes, the few Arapahoes and Sioux, were preparing themselves for battle.