"There's one chance yet," he said, "the night-herd." He turned to his trumpeter. "Sound the recall, and _keep_ a-sounding it!" Again and again, the familiar strain rang out. All looked northward to where they knew the herd had been, to where the long curves of the prairie-fire were still moving. But the minutes went, and there was no answering beat of hoofs. Where were the herders? Why did they not obey? Again--again--and again! Then, to the south, a reply! Above the spiteful crackling of the tindery buildings, out of the thinning dark, came a clear, eager neigh! That way the troopers rushed. Gathering at the flagstaff they saw, by the light of the burning piles, a single horse come galloping toward them from the direction of the stockade. Her dun neck was arched like a charger's. As she swung proudly into an imaginary line, the men greeted her with a cheer. That greeting was echoed. Until now, the Indians had been quiet--as quiet as a flock of scurrying grouse. But the river was between them and their enemy, and they felt secure from pursuit. Moreover, whisky was working. They were boisterous with it. Casting caution aside when they heard that cheer, they answered with defiant whoops. The cheers of the troopers changed to anguished groans. One, wildly repeating a girl's name, sprang toward the waiting "Buckskin." From headquarters came the sobbing of women, the whimpering of frightened children. And then, nearer and nearer, a dull pounding that swelled into the steady _plud, plud_ of unshod hoofs. Once more a cheer went up. A moment, and a cavalcade swept in--a riderless cavalcade, with ropes dangling. It was the night-herd, the discarded, second-choice mounts of the regiment's officers, a motley band that had served their country through more than one enlistment, and that, hearing the familiar summons--some limping, some hobbling--had followed the dun cayuse to answer it. Now, nooses were twisted about the noses of the horses. The troopers mounted. The trumpet sounded the advance. Again came whoops from across the Missouri. They were farther away than the first. "They're travellin'!" shrilled a voice. "Go up--go up for the crossing," Oliver ordered. "Fraser! Fraser!" But the buckskin mare, with her master, far in advance of the twenty others, was already plunging down the bank and into a black, roily whirl. CHAPTER XXXVII THE FLIGHT TO MURPHY'S THROAT For all that the way was hard, rough with stones and choked by a tangle of rank growth, the three in the coulee made fast progress over the first two miles. Charley led. After him came Marylyn, to whom the loathed split in the plain was become a place of refuge. In the rear, covering her sister against possible attack, followed Dallas.