behind them and the grass rippled and clashed, but now and then the
breeze died away for a few moments, and there was a curious and almost
disconcerting stillness. At last, in one of these intervals, the
Canadian, partly rising, lifted his hand.

"Listen!" he said. "Guess I hear a team."

A low rhythmic drumming that suggested the beat of hoofs rose from the
waste, but it was lost as the branches rattled and the long grass
swayed noisily before a rush of breeze. George thought the sound had
come from somewhere half a mile away.

"If they're Indians, would they bring a wagon?" he asked.

"It's quite likely. Some of the bucks keep smart teams; they do a
little rough farming on the reservation. It would look as if they were
going for sloo hay, if anybody saw them."

George waited in silence, wishing he could hear the thud of hoofs
again. It was slightly daunting to lie still and wonder where the men
were. It is never very dark in summer on the western prairie, and
George could see across the sloo, but there was no movement that the
wind would not account for among the black trees that shut it in.
Several minutes passed, and George looked around again with strained
attention.

Suddenly a dim figure emerged from the gloom. Another followed it, but
they made no sound that could be heard through the rustle of the
leaves, and George felt his heart beat and his nerves tingle as he
watched them flit, half seen, through the grass. Then one of the