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Davy obeyed. It was warmer lying down than sitting up. Thankful that the three whites were still unbeaten, and too smart for the Cheyennes, he fell asleep. When again he wakened, it really was morning. The sky was pink, and stars pale, the brush showed plainly. But he had no time to meditate, or invite another “forty winks.” The squaws had sprung to their feet; the air was full of clangor and shouting and shooting; the Indians were making a charge, the little fort was holding them off.

It was the angriest charge yet, all in the chill, pink dawn flooding high sky and broad plain. However, it didn’t work. The two men and the boy were just as ready as ever, and the charge split. Cut Nose waved his hand and motioned. The circle of galloping horsemen spread wider, and dismounting, the riders, holding to their ponies’ neck-ropes, sat down to wait like a circle of crows watching a corn-field.

The two squaws were disgusted. They grumbled, as they prepared breakfast; and under their scowls Davy felt afraid. He wondered what the Indians would do next.