He did not wish to fire his gun and so call every Indian in that part of the valley to the spot. He gripped instead his rifle by the muzzle, and the instant one of those savages came within reach he would whirl up the gun and bring its stock with crushing force down upon the man’s head! Then the knife for the second brave! That was all he could do. If he were not shot or tomahawked first, he could finish both of the reds without making much disturbance. The main difficulty would be to stifle their death-yells, as he had that of the chief at his feet. So he waited, his body sweating, although it was a chill night, uncertain as to what the warriors would do. They were talking in low tones; this in itself gave the scout some hope. Had they intended attacking him their plans would have been made before they came so near, and there would be no need of conversation. The seconds numbered as the warriors came on seemed centuries long to the scout. But at length he saw that they were passing him quietly. They glanced at him, but he stood haughtily aloof, and the braves were not encouraged by his manner to speak. He saw them go with a relief that almost unnerved him! He could not risk their coming back. The instant they were out of sight the scout stooped, stripped the dead man of his gun, bow and arrows, and knife, and in a crouching position ran agilely forward to where a clump of young trees loomed up in the path, a hundred yards to the front. There he dropped down and lay a moment, listening. Not a sound from those behind; not a sound from any redskins before him. Had he at last gotten through the lines completely? He could not really believe this good fortune was his so easily. He stood up at last and peered all about. And suddenly, just as he was about to move forward once more toward the fort, he heard the stamp of a pony’s hoof on the other side of the clump of trees! The sound dropped Texas Jack to the ground like a rifle-shot. Had he been seen by the rider of the pony? Or did the pony have a rider? It might be one escaped from the herd and roaming at will about the valley. The pony stamped again. There was no other sound. “I’ve got tuh find out what’s doin’ there before I make another break,” muttered the scout. “And here goes!” The thicket was a closely woven one. Did he try to pass through it with his guns and other accouterments he might make some disturbance. So he left everything but his pistols, knife, and the bow and arrows he had taken from the dead chief on the ground, and began to worm his way through the brush-clump. Once he made some little noise by catching a part of his clothing on a brittle branch. Instantly he halted and made the squeaking grunt of the porcupine. His imitation of animals was perfect, and a porcupine might easily be on the still hunt in the thicket-patch.