“That’s all right, old bragger,” he muttered, “but you’ll find out, when you go against them, that the white men don’t run worth a beaver’s skin!” Anxious to see what was going on within the council house, for what he heard was unsatisfactory, the scout softly lifted the lower edge of the skin and peered in. As he did so an Indian dancer whirled with jerky motion right past his face. All about, within the lodge, dancers were hopping, jumping, and gyrating. The drum beaters were seated not far away in a group, pounding away with such energy that the sweat stood on their painted faces. The Indian who was doing the boasting continued to tell what great things he would accomplish when he lifted his knife against the whites. Just at this juncture, when the scout was beginning to think that, perhaps, he might now acquaint himself with something definite concerning the plans of the Indians--though the fact that they were dancing and in war paint showed that they meditated an attack on the camps of the white men--one of the dogs, whose presence Buffalo Bill had feared, came sniffing around the lodge, and discovered him lying there in the shadow. The scout let the skin of the tent fall, and, turning about, gripped his knife. The dog was sniffing at him with suspicion, though the odor of the Indian blanket and the sight of the familiar headdress, no doubt, somewhat lulled the animal’s suspicion. The dog could not see Buffalo Bill’s face, for the blanket was pulled rather closely about it. So again the animal advanced, with nose outthrust, sniffing the scout. The dog seemed to have an intuition that all was not well, and thrusting its sharp, wolflike nose into the air, it gave a long, whining howl, like a veritable wolf. The scout lay as if he were dead. The howling was heard in the lodge, but seemed to excite no thought that all was not well outside. These dogs were known to be great howlers. Ceasing its long-drawn howl of suspicion, the dog came forward again, and thrust its nose almost into the scout’s face. Discovering now that the man under the Indian blanket was not an Indian, it started to leap back, at the same time giving a short bark, like a dog that has treed game. “Curse you!” muttered the scout. At the same time his left hand shot out like lightning from under the blanket. The dog was about to bark again when that hand caught it. Then it yelped, as a cur does when trodden upon. But it was the dog’s last yelp, and it was cut short. The hand that held the keen-bladed knife shot out from under the blanket; and, as the dog was drawn forward by the other hand, the knife ripped its throat open. The yelp and the flouncing of the dog had brought some Indians out of the lodge. The scout, lying quiet again, with the bloody knife in one hand and one of his ready revolvers in the other, heard the warriors talking. One of them, after a few words, began to walk around the lodge, in the direction of the scout.