The general dropped to hands and knees, as example to the others, and thus crept to the nearest of the little bunch of lodges. Occasionally he stopped, and listened; and then stopped and listened all, holding their breaths. Still from the trees sped no arrow, belched no sudden shot, pealed no shrill, exultant voice; and from the lodges issued not a sound. “I believe every soul has fled,” spoke the general, more in ordinary tone, and somewhat as if relieved. He arose to stooping posture. Guerrier advanced quickly to the first of the lodges, pulled aside the mat that closed the entrance, and stepped within. One after another they followed. The lodge was empty of inmate. The familiar odor of Indian—of smoked skins and kinnikinnick or the leaf and tobacco mixture used by the Indian in pipes, of dogs and of grease, smote Ned’s nostrils. Yes, he had been saturated with it, himself, in his days of captivity. A fire was still burning low in the center of the lodge, shedding a faint light, so that they could see about them. And gaze about them they did, the doctor the most curiously of all. Things had been left as if the owners had just stepped out. Soft buffalo robes covered the ground; the robe beds were in place, with the head rolls for pillows; the parfleches or boxes of hard bull-hide were carefully stowed away along the edges of the tent, as customary, and they were full of Indian handiwork. Paint-bags, hide ropes, moccasins—everything was there, awaiting use. And over the smouldering fire was hanging a kettle, which gently simmered with a steam that smelled extremely good. This attracted the inquisitive doctor’s nose and eye, and he proceeded to investigate. “Great Scott!” he said. “What is it—soup? Where’s a ladle, or spoon, or something? Here; I’ve found one. You fellows dragged me out without any lunch. I’m hungry. Wait. I’ve always wanted to try Indian cooking. It ought to be first class.” He probed about in the kettle, and with his horn spoon extracted a chunk the size of his fist. “What do you suppose this is,” he queried, holding it up and turning it about. “Um-m! Delicious smell.” “Taste it,” bade the general. “I will.” And the doctor did. He smacked his lips. “Excellent! Excellent!” he exclaimed, and munched it down with great satisfaction. “Must be buffalo, cooked by a new process.” “Here’s Guerrier,” spoke the lieutenant. “He’ll know.” Guerrier had vanished, on further tour of inspection; now he re-entered. “What’s this meat, Guerrier?” asked the doctor, eagerly. “Try it. Take my spoon.” Guerrier willingly enough plunged the spoon into the kettle, and hooked a piece the largest yet. He set his teeth into it. “Why, it’s dog, of course,” he informed, eating away. “Dog!” gasped the doctor. “Thunder and Mars! Ugh! Why didn’t somebody say so?” And out he rushed. Ned had suspected the same, but he had not been asked. Now chuckled and swayed the general and the lieutenant, smothering their glee.