“By fours, right! For-r-r’d—march!” “By fours, right! For-r-r’d—march!” was repeated down the column the command. The Seventh Cavalry was off, on its first independent scout. The fan-shaped line of the scouts, with Wild Bill and Fall Leaf to the fore, held the advance, that they might read the trail. After, came the cavalry, the general and his adjutant at its head, baggage wagons toward the rear, and a rear-guard of one troop behind. General Custer had again donned his buckskin hunting-coat, which was so comfortable for him, and which would indicate hard work ahead. He looked as he had when Ned had first seen him. And hard work ahead was the expectation, for the Indians had gained a good start. At rapid walk of the horses rode they all. The trailing lodge-poles of the fleeing village made a trail plain to every eye. A feeling of satisfaction spread when, after a time, the scouts before started on at a gallop, with wave of rifle and flutter of blanket, for a little grove ahead. A faint curl of smoke could be sighted; and there was a glimpse of moving forms. “Sound the trot,” promptly bade the general. At Ned’s bugle signal, “Trot—march!” was repeated down the eager column. Away they spurred, ready to deploy into action. But after a brief pause, to reconnoiter, the scouts had proceeded boldly. When the column reached the place they found only the still burning fires where the Indians had halted for hasty breakfast, and several ponies, with packs, left tethered to the trees. And here was a strange Indian, strutting about arrayed in a panoply of bright crimson feathers, while the scouts looked on and laughed. However, this was only the Delaware General Jackson, Fall Leaf’s nephew, who had arrived first at the grove and had made a capture of the ponies. “Roman Nose!” he proclaimed. “Heap feather. Ugh!” “One o’ these pony packs belonged to Roman Nose, the Delawares say,” explained Wild Bill, to General Custer. “That youngster’s as proud as if he’d captured the chief himself.” There was nothing for which to stop here; and paying no more attention to the ponies or the breakfast camp, allowing the Delawares to do what they pleased with the packs, the Seventh Cavalry pressed on. Jackson rode exultant, his braids ornamented with the Roman Nose feathers. “We’re out-trailing them,” asserted the general, to Lieutenant Moylan. “The only question is, can we overtake them before dark? We’ve got to do it.” The baggage wagons were dropped behind, with a squadron of two troops to guard them. The three other squadrons traveled the faster, and ever the trail led northward, as for the Smoky Hill Fork, or the Platte beyond.