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Cut Nose signalled his band to council again. Four warriors had fallen, and two ponies. Now at a safe distance from that venomous, spit-fire little fort, they all dismounted, except for a few scouts, and squatted for a long confab.

“Kill! Kill!” implored the two squaws.

“Shut up!” rebuked Cut Nose; and they only wailed about the dead.

On the outskirts of the council, and annoyed by the wailing of the squaws, Dave could not hear all the discussion. Cut Nose asked the sub-chiefs for their opinion what to do; and one after another spoke.

“There is no use in charging white men behind a fort,” said Bear-Who-Walks. “We lose too many warriors, any one of whom is worth more than all the white men on the plains. It is not a good way to fight. I like to fight, man to man, in the open. If we wait long enough, we can kill those three whites when their hearts are weak with thirst and hunger.”

“They have medicine guns,” declared Yellow Hand. “They have guns that are never empty. No matter how much they shoot, they can always shoot more. The great spirit of the white people is helping them. It is some kind of magic.”