“How is it, Joe? Cleared off, hasn’t it?” invited the general, as on a short tour of inspection in the gray of the next morning he encountered that worthy. “Yep, trav’lin’s good overhead to-day, good mornin’, gen’ral,” answered the ready Joe. “An’ I’ve got an infarnal chronical cough that’s been nigh scuttlin’ me this two days, an’ I’ve bin thinkin’ that I cotched the glanders, an’ they might as well shoot a fellow to onct as to have that botherin’ him.” “Sorry, Joe,” laughed the general. The march was south, up the valley of Wolf Creek. Patches of willows and timber were full of deer and elk and buffalo that had been driven there by the storm. Maida and Blucher the general’s stag-hounds had great fun chasing them; and the column secured plenty of meat. Now the march left the valley of the Wolf, and crossed to the valley of the Canadian, a day’s march southward. Beyond the Canadian lay the country of the Washita River, where, everybody believed, were the winter villages of the hostile Indians. The Cheyennes, the Kiowas, the Comanches, the Apaches—there might they be found, snugly encamped until the call of spring. This was the third day. The Yellow Hair and his cavalry were sixty miles into the Indian’s own country, where white cavalry never before had been. Around-about stretched the snowy wilderness of plains and water-course. It was time that some trace of the Indians be found. On a scout up along the Canadian was sent the gallant Major Joel Elliot, who never did things by halves. He was given three troops. He was to travel light, without wagons, but with one hundred rounds of carbine ammunition to the man, one day’s rations, and horse forage. If an Indian trail was discovered, he was to pursue at once, and to send back a courier with the news. With soldiers and scouts, both red and white, west along the snowy banks of the Canadian, from whose red soil the wind had blown the snow, rode Major Elliot. California Joe had found a ford, and aiming for the Washita, through the floating ice of the swift current crossed the horses and the wagons. Helping, the men must wade waist-deep. This was cold, mean work, but it was done in three hours. The high round Antelope Hills loomed ahead. These were the landmarks of the march and Little Beaver and Hard Rope and their followers had struck them exactly. Up the further slope of the Canadian Valley toiled the hooded, heavy army wagons. Major Elliot had been gone three hours or more. From a little knoll the general had been surveying and directing, while Ned sat his horse beside him, and Adjutant Moylan bustled hither-thither. The rear guard finally had crossed, below. For this they were waiting. “All right,” remarked the general, shortly, to Ned. “Sound to horse.” And—“No! Wait!” he thundered. “Here comes somebody.” He pointed, and leveled his glasses. Down from the north was approaching at steady gallop a figure black against the white background.