in an hour of his
coming, rode the old trader whom the Indians had so long sworn by, and
he started none too soon.

Reno was some ninety miles away, and not until late the next evening did
the grays reach the lonely post. Not a sign of hostile Indian had been
seen or heard, said the officer in command. Small bands of hunters were
out toward Pumpkin Butte two days before.--Yes, Ogallallas--and a
scouting party, working down the valley of the Powder, had met no band
at all, though trails were numerous. They were now patroling toward the
Big Horn. Perhaps there'd be a courier in to-morrow. Better get a good
night's rest meantime, he said. But all the same he doubled his guards
and ordered extra vigilance, for all men knew John Folsom, and when
Folsom was anxious on the Indian question it was time to look alive.
Daybreak came without a sign, but Folsom could not rest. The grays had
no authority to go beyond Reno, but such was his anxiety that it was
decided to hold the troop at the cantonment for a day or two. Meantime,
despite his years, Folsom decided to push on for the Gap. All efforts to
dissuade him were in vain. With him rode Baptiste, a half-breed
Frenchman whose mother was an Ogallalla squaw, and "Bat" had served him
many a year. Their canteens were filled, their saddle-pouches packed.
They led along an extra mule, with camp equipage, and shook hands
gravely with the officers ere they rode away. "All depends," said
Folsom, "on whether Red Cloud is hereabouts in person. If he is and I
can get his ear I can probably stave off trouble long enough to get
those people at the Gap back to Kearney, or over here. They're goners if
they attempt to stay there and build that post. If you don't have word
from us in two days, send for all the troops the government can raise.
It will take every mother's son they've got to whip the Sioux when once
they're leagued together."

"But our men have the new breech-loaders now, Mr. Folsom," said the
officers. "The Indians have only old percussion-cap rifles, and not too
many of them."

"But there are twenty warriors to every soldier," was the answer, "and
all are fighting men."

They watched the pair until they disappeared far to the west. All day
long the lookouts searched the horizon. All that night the sentries
listened for hoof-beats on the Bozeman road, but only the weird chorus
of the coyotes woke the echoes of the dark prairie. Dawn of the second
day came, and, unable to bear s