“No, that’s over in east, if it can be called a trail. Fort Sill—that’s what they call the camp where the soldiers stop, in west toward the Wichita Mountains—is the nearest white settlement. It’s only a camp; there is no actual Army post there yet.” “My notion, soldiers mostly ride around and don’t do nothing much.” “They’d do more if they were let alone by the Indian Department. Those men are doing what Captain Marcy advised fifteen years ago—figuring on an Army post north of the Red, to watch the Comanches. “The worst Comanches, as you know, are the Quahrada bands—that’s old Yellow Hand. Their right range is north of the Buffalo Gap and west into the Staked Plains; that’s their big buffalo country. But I think word has gone out for some kind of a council between them and the Kiowas, and that’s what has brought Yellow Hand in here. “The policy of the Indian Department now, as you may know,” he went on explaining, “is to round up all these Indian tribes and get them on reservations. That’s going to mean war, next year probably. This whole country in here is just as like as not to be on foot right now. The best hope we’ve got is that none of them get together with Rudabaugh.” “That’s fine, ain’t it? And you done told me that Rudabaugh was heading in ahead to meet us.” “He doesn’t know where we are any more than we know where he is. If we keep on north and he keeps on up the Washita we’d naturally intersect at the crossing of the Washita, two or three days’ drive north of here. I don’t know which will get there first. He travels light.” “What d’you think I’d ought to do?” demanded Nabours, after a time. “There is not much you can do. When you go into camp every night set your wagon tongue so that it points toward the North Star. Line out on that course the next morning. Keep on going north for a month. What comes, comes. But keep your herd closed up.” “Well, I done sont my cook cart on ahead a ways,” admitted Nabours. “I told Sam to kill a buffalo and pick out a good camping place, if it looked anything like a bed ground.” “What comes, comes,” said McMasters once more. They separated, since he would talk no more. He rode apart from the herd, would accept no duties, no friendships, never cast a glance toward the closed cart where Taisie had taken refuge. * * * * * Nabours hardly had resumed his place at the head of the column before he found cause enough for actual alarm. On ahead there was coming toward him the white top of the cook cart, its oxen lashed to a gallop by the negro driver. Buck made no attempt to stop his vehicle, but thundered by with the evident intention of getting as far to the rear as possible. The shrieks of Milly, who had gone on in the cart, rose continuously. Nabours was obliged to ride ahead to bring the cart to a halt. “What in hell do you mean by this?” demanded he of the frightened negro.