St. Vrain, the _mayordomo_, and some others appeared suddenly out of the gloom. St. Vrain held up a dark lantern which he had been carrying under his cloak, and in the barely perceptible light looked at Steven. “Come on into my tent. He’s relieved from guard duty.” He nodded to one of the trappers, and Steve followed him a trifle uncertainly. In the tent the colonel drew out a kit with bandages and salve, a rude equipment but skillfully handled with the deftness of long practice. “Tomahawk cut; leetle further and he shave off your ear. Leetle further and he shave off the top of your head--Kiowa,” the colonel explained when he had finished the job. “Treacherous and fierce. Out scouting. You put fear in the spy. He run, run his horse, but we get him. Morning is nearly come now; you will go to catch some sleep.” Steven managed to reach his bunk in the wagon just in time. Clambering over the seat, he sank with a reeling head to his couch on the bales and his senses swam off to blissful unconsciousness the moment his head touched the blanket pillow. How much time had passed when he was waked he could not imagine. The sun was shining straight in his face, but he could have slept the clock around. “Breakfast,” he could hear the cry. “We’re off in a half hour.” He had been asleep but a few hours and ached in every muscle. Then he remembered his tussle with the Indian the night before. He dragged himself out to the camp fire, where scalding coffee and corn bread were being passed out hurriedly. The coffee was bracing, and St. Vrain’s hearty reception even more so. Steven noticed for the first time that the front of his coat and his sleeve had literally been soaked with blood, and his poncho was still damp and stained a dull red. The _arrieros_ were shouting to the mules, which came running and stood each beside his own equipage and cargo, waiting to be saddled, except a few unruly ones who kicked up their heels and dashed off before the pursuit of their drivers. The oxen went readily into their yokes, and in an incredibly short time the caravan was once more moving over the prairie, not so smoothly this morning, for the road was gummy and slippery with mud. It was heavy and the ruts became deep. “There’ll be no nooning today,” St. Vrain announced as he rode by on a mule. “We’ll make Cottonwood Creek by night and go into camp there.” But an unexpected occurrence was to set even the captain’s decision aside. They had passed out of the storm-soaked area into a dry region where apparently not a drop of rain had fallen. Almost unperceived by Steven, a vibrating trembling of the earth became apparent. It developed rapidly into a roar like distant thunder. Steven listened, surprised; there was something elemental, alarming, in the tremor. A number of hunters and trappers were riding by at a dead run.