It seemed evident that our cook had some foundation for his fears, as his terror was too great and his account too circumstantial for the matter to be simply one of an excited imagination. If there were Indians close by, it was necessary that we should know it at once, and avoid the danger of an attack at dawn. We organized a reconnoissance immediately, and, six men strong, moved toward the timber. Scattering as much as possible, that concealed savages might not have the advantage of a bunch-shot, we cautiously reached the border of the trees, and entered their shadows. We breathed more freely; if tree-fighting was to be indulged in, we now had an equal chance. It is a trying experience, reader, to advance within range of a supposed ambuscade, and the moment when one reaches the cover unharmed is a blessed one. The logs and stumps which seemed so hideous, when death was thought to be crouching behind, suddenly glow with friendship, and one is glad to know that he can hug such friends, should danger glare out from the bushes ahead. As we walked forward, Shamus' witch suddenly appeared before us. It was the body of a papoose, fastened in a tree. The spot was evidently an Indian burying-ground. The corpse had been loosened by the wind, and now rocked back and forth, staring at us. It was dried by the air into a shriveled deformity, rendered doubly grotesque by the beads and other articles with which it had been decked when laid away. We had neither time nor inclination to explore the grove for other bodies, preferring our supper and our blankets. As Shamus stoutly held to the story of the phantom pacer, we were forced to conclude that some stray Indian, from motives of either curiosity or reverence, had been visiting the grove when frightened out of it by our cook. In the gathering gloom, a red shirt or blanket would have answered very well for bloody garments. These burial spots are held in high reverence by the Indians, and their hatred of the white man receives fresh fuel whenever the latter chops down the sacred trees for cord-wood. On one occasion, a contractor destroyed a burial grove, a few miles above Fort Wallace, to supply the post with fuel. The first blow of the axe had scarcely fallen upon the tree, when some Indians who chanced to be in the neighborhood sent word that the desecrator would be killed unless he desisted. Messages from the wild tribes, coming in out of the waste, telling that they were watching, ought to have been warning sufficient. But he was reckless enough to disregard them, and continued his work. The trees were felled and cut up, and the wood delivered. The contractor went to the post for his pay, and as he took it, spoke in a jocose vein of the threat which had come to naught.