The long hours dragged past without bringing any alarm. Shagbark kept moving around the camp, pausing at different points to talk with the sentinels, and twice he crept out from the wagon circle and pressed an ear to the ground. He was almost certain the Indians had withdrawn and nothing more would be heard from them. When at last the increasing gray in the east told of the approaching day, the camp was astir. The light was an unspeakable relief, for brief as had been the hours of slumber, no one felt any disposition to stay inside the wagons after it was safe to venture out. Before the sun rose, Shagbark had scanned every part of the horizon. No sight of the redmen was seen. The warriors must have gone back to their ponies, and leaping upon them, skurried off in quest of more inviting prey. Beyond a doubt two or three of the assailants had fallen, but, as is the custom among Indians, their former comrades carried them away. Hardly a trace of the attack remained. The women busied themselves in preparing the morning meal, a fire having been rekindled, and all ate with appetites such as come only to those who live in the open. A feeling of profound gratitude filled the hearts of all, for their deliverance was markedly providential. “We’ve been a good deal luckier than I expected,” said Shagbark during the meal. “We had more than one close call,” remarked Fleming; “I had something of the kind myself.” It was found that three others had escaped by chances fully as narrow. “That warn’t what I war most afeard of,” continued the guide; “we all had such good kiver that there never was much danger of being hit, but there’s one thing I don’t yet understand.” In answer to the inquiring looks, Shagbark explained: “With all them bullets whistling round us some of ’em oughter reached the hosses and oxen, but there hain’t one of ’em been so much as scratched.” “Was not that because all were lying down?” asked Fleming. “That had a good deal to do with it, but some of the hosses kept gitting on their feet and I had to watch ’em close and make ’em lay down agin; there warn’t any such trouble with the oxen, fur they was glad ’nough to lay down and chaw their cuds.” “If we had lost a pony or two,” suggested Alden, “it would not have been so bad, for we could get on without them.” “That ain’t what I’m driving at, but if a hoss had been wounded or killed, he would have kicked up such a rumpus he’d stampeded all the others; they’d have scattered over the perarie and upset things so promiscuous that we’d never got ’em agin. More’n that, thar would’ve been such times in camp that the varmints would have sailed in, and if we’d managed to stand ’em off, a good many of ye wouldn’t be left to talk about it this morning.” The listeners shuddered at the picture brought up by the words of the grizzled guide. None of them had once thought of the terrifying peril named, but they saw that it had been real and beyond the power of exaggeration.