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“See,” he bade. “The fort is stronger than ever. But by night the wind will change and we can make the whites eat fire. That is a good plan.”

“Yes,” they agreed. “Let us wait till dark. White men behind a fort in daytime are very hard to kill. There is no hurry.”

The afternoon passed. The Indians chewed dried buffalo meat, and squads of them rode to the river and watered the horses. While lounging about they amused themselves by yelling insults at the mule fort; and now and again little charges were made, by small parties, who swooped as close as they dared, and shot a few arrows.

The two men and the boy rarely replied. They, also, waited. Their barricade was so high, that in the trench behind it they were completely sheltered.

But over them and over the field of battle constantly circled two great black buzzards. Lame Buffalo had ceased to crawl, and lay still. The squaws begged the young warriors to go out and bring him in—him and the other stricken braves. The young men only laughed and shook their heads. One did dash forward; but a bullet from the gun of the boy grazed his scalp-lock, and ducking he scurried back faster than he had gone!