By this time the heavily-snoring Captain Van Alstyne had finally roused from his deep slumbers. He now bustled up, with evident irritation. “What goes on here?” he demanded testily. “What’s the cause of this infernal racket?” “Injuns, Cap’n!” explained Bill Brown. “Indians, humph! I don’t see any.” “Well, Tom here saw one, with his own eyes, tryin’ to stampede the horses.” “Bosh, boy,” cried the moon-face officer, “most likely a shadow. Get your nerves under control, if you’re to be any good out here on this wild border.” “Oh, I saw a warrior, sir,” protested the boy. “He was in full array, feathers and war-paint.” “I wouldn’t be surprised if you dreamed the whole thing,” snapped Van Alstyne. “Probably asleep at your post. In the future, I want guards set who will stay awake and keep their wits about them.” “I was the second guard, sir,” broke in Jim Martin. “I never set eyes on the red jack-a-napes, but I heard him howl.” “Heard him howl?” “Aye, sir,--just like a wild wolf.” “No doubt was a wolf. That explains it all.” “But the lariat on one o’ the horses was cut with a knife, Cap’n,” observed Bill Brown, choking back his anger. “Come, I’ll show you.” “I’ve lost enough sleep now,” objected the Captain, stalking off toward his waiting blanket. “Maybe the wolf bit the lariat in two. I understand that the beasts have teeth of extraordinary sharpness. Post fresh guards and get this camp settled down again. And be lively about it.” When morning came, and while the troopers were getting ready to break camp, Bill Brown quietly took the keen-eyed Pottawattomee, Bright Star, and the two Gordons to the edge of the camp area. “I want to look fer tracks,” he told the young brave. For a moment or two Bright Star moved about at random, for all the world like a beagle-hound on a rabbit trail, head bent low and eyes fixed to the ground. Then he suddenly set off, straight toward the west. “Indian,” he said, pointing to a faint print, “one Indian.” “By cracky,” said Bill Brown, “I should get Van Alstyne an’ rub his long nose in it.” The single track led on for upwards of a half-mile, where they came upon a hurriedly abandoned campsite. There was a broken tepee-pole, some scraps of deer meat, fragments of clothing, an old moccasin, and a few stray feathers from a war-bonnet. Bright Star ran busily about the place, looking intently at the ground. “Maybe six, seven, eight Indian,” he told the others, after a time. “Also one pale-face. Big man.” “Hear that, fellows,” cried Tom, his eyes glinting. “That’s our old pal, Pat Fagan, for sure. He’s turned renegade and joined up with Prairie Wolf and the Sacs, just as we figured.” “Shall we tell Captain Van Alstyne about this?” inquired Ben. “Naw,” replied Bill Brown, deep resentment in his tone, “he won’t believe ther’s an Injun war on, till he gits a flyin’ tomahawk in the back o’ his skull.” CHAPTER 10 Horsemen of the Prairie