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Thus urged, up the slope galloped Cut Nose, Lame Buffalo, Bear-Who-Walks; galloped all. At the top, emerging, Cut Nose flung high his hand, shaking his war bow. Over the top after him poured the racing mass, savage in paint and cloth and feather and decorated weapon. Swept onward with them rode little Dave, jostled between the two squaws, who whipped his pony as often as they whipped their own.

The halloo of Cut Nose rose vibrant.

“Hi-yi-yi-yi-yi; yip yip yip!” he whooped, exultant and threatening.

“Hi-yi-yi-yi-yi; yip yip yip!” yelped every rider, the squaws chiming in more piercingly than any others.

Out from the plum tree grove and into the plateau they had burst, and went charging furiously.

The sun was shining bright, for the day was glorious June. The plateau lay bare, save for the grass dried by weather and the few clumps of sage and greasewood. And there they were, the three whites, stopped short, staring and for the moment uncertain what to do.

They were alone, between bending blue sky and wide plain; a little trio in the midst of a vast expanse. As the scouts had claimed, no shelter was near. At the other edge of the plateau flowed the North Platte River, but too distant to be reached now.