"What makes you think so?" I asked, eagerly.

"What Jondo said about his _feeling Indians_, I guess, but he reads
these prairie trails as easy as Robinson Crusoe read Friday's footprints
in the sand, and he hasn't read anything in 'em yet. Indians don't
fight at night, anyhow. That's one good thing. Get hold of that rope,
Bev, and pull her up tight," Bill replied.

Every night our four wagons in camp made a hollow square, with space
enough allowed at the corners to enlarge the corral inside for the
stock. These corners were securely roped across from wagon to wagon.
To-night, however, the corral space was reduced and the quartet of
vehicles huddled closer together.

At dusk the hot wind came sweeping in from the southwest, a wild,
lashing fury, swirling the sand in great spirals from the river bed. Our
fire was put out and the blackness of midnight fell upon us. The horses
were restless and the mules squealed and stamped. All night the very
spirit of fear seemed to fill the air.

Just before daybreak a huge black storm-cloud came boiling up out of the
southwest, with a weird yellow band across the sky before it. Overhead
the stars shed a dim light on the shadowy face of the plains. A sudden
whisper thrilled the camp, chilling our hearts within us.

"Indians near!" We all knew it in a flash.

Jondo, on guard, had caught the sign first. Something creeping across
the trail, not a coyote, for it stood upright a moment, then bent again,
and was lost in the deep gloom. Jondo had shifted to another angle of