"No doubt. But we don't. They know our number. What they want now is to find out our strength--who we are, in short. Now there isn't a red on the Northern Plains who doesn't know me, by sight or intuition, and this time I'm going to let them entertain a Tartar unawares; if they try fighting, that is." Finding no notice whatever was taken of their signals, the savages again gathered in consultation. Then the warrior who had hoisted the white flag advanced from among the rest, and yelled out in broken English: "Ha-yah, ha-yah! Golden Face Injun's brudder! Good hoss, ole debbil Satanta--make big trail. Golden Face bring out lily white gal. Good squaw for Injun brudder! Ha-yah!" The whole band screamed with laughter, but the insolent buck grinned rather too soon. Long as the range was, a ball from Vipan's rifle crashed through his shin-bone, and both he and his pony rolled upon the ground; the latter in the throes of death. Their mirth changed into a yell of rage; the band scattered, and withdrawing to a more respectful distance, began circling frantically around the position, waving their weapons and bawling out such expletives and coarse expressions as their limited knowledge of Anglo-Saxon allowed. Finally, their vocabulary having given out, they once more collected together, and with a parting jeer rode leisurely away. "There go sixteen as disgusted reds as are to be met on the Plains this day," said Vipan as the last of the warriors disappeared over the far rise. "And now, Miss Santorex, sorry as I am to disappoint you, we must put off our picnic _a deux_, or rather _a trois_, and get back to camp as soon as possible. Those chaps might fall in with a lot more of their tribe, and double back on us sharp, or half-a-hundred things might happen. So we've no time to lose." Vipan was not the man to leave anything to chance, but although no square foot of the surrounding country escaped his keen glance, as they cantered merrily away from the scene of the late _fracas_, not a sign of their recent foes was visible. The vast rolling plains shimmering in the afternoon heat lay silent and deserted, and save that a film of smoke in the far distance, marking the site of the emigrants' camp, was faintly discernible, might have been untrodden by human foot. "By the way, Mr--er?" began Vipan. "--Vallance." "Well, Mr Balance." "Er--Vallance." "Oh, Vallance, I beg your pardon. Well, Mr Vallance, I was going to say, what do you think of Indian fighting? Never saw `Mr Lo' [Note 1] on the war-path before, I take it?" "No, never. And I don't particularly care if I never see him again," answered Geoffry, flurriedly. "Er--you have saved my life, Mr--er--?" "Vipan." "--Mr Vipan," he stuttered; "and but for you I should be a dead man at this moment."