After them rode in single file the white and red scouts, California Joe on his mule to the fore. His old Springfield musket lay in the hollow of his left arm; but for the once the reek of his pipe did not drift back. The orders forbade any smoking. Beside California Joe rode the general himself, to be on hand to catch the first word or signal. Close behind him rode Ned, trumpeter orderly. At a quarter of a mile the column cautiously followed. Now and then one of the officers advanced at a trot, and whispered to the general, making suggestion or query; but even this did not break the silence. Ever the march continued, as if for hours and hours. Suddenly California Joe pointed, significantly. The two Osages picking the trail had halted; at short command from the general Ned must fall out and tell Adjutant Moylan to halt the column also. When he returned, at trot, the general was with the two Osages. One of them could speak a little English. “What’s the matter?” asked the general. “Me don’t know,” replied the Osage. “But me smell fire.” Adjutant Moylan, Colonel Myers (who was an old plainsman) and Colonel Benteen, arrived; they all sniffed hard, as did Ned; but none of them could smell a trace of smoke. “Humph!” grunted Colonel Myers. “He’s scared; that’s what ails him. You know, these Indians don’t favor this march, and they’re trying to find an excuse to stop.” “Me smell fire,” insisted the Osage; and his companion nodded violently. “Do you smell anything, Joe?” queried the general. California Joe wagged his head slowly, as he inhaled through his frosted brick-red whiskers. “No, I don’t, gen’ral. Nor Corbin neither. An’ we got first-class smellers, too, though jest at this moment they’re froze stiff.” “Very well,” responded the general. “We’ll proceed. Tell the trailers to go slow, and keep their noses and eyes open.” More than half a mile was covered; and again the Osages had halted. This time they were triumphant, and received the general with conscious dignity. The English-speaking Osage pointed before, to the left. “Me told you so,” he uttered, in whisper. Sure enough. In front, one hundred yards beside the trail, at the edge of the timber, was low gleam of a camp-fire almost dead. It was only a handful of embers, and still Ned could not smell it; but there it was. Truly, those Osages had good noses. Although through the drifting clouds of winter the moon shone brightly upon the long column waiting in the snow, from the fire no movement was made. The Indians who had built the fire must be sleeping. “Joe, you and Little Beaver take a few of your men and scout around that camp,” whispered the general. A quaver in his voice told of his excitement. “Find out all you can. We’ll wait here.”