He was glad enough to seek rest, and so rapidly was he becoming used to danger that he lay down calmly before one of the fires and went to sleep again. He awoke two or three hours later to a crisp fresh morning, and to the news that the train would promptly resume its advance, whether or not Comanches tried to bar the way. With the intoxicating odor of victory still in their nostrils, the hardy frontiersmen were as willing as ever for another combat. But the enemy had disappeared completely. A brilliant sun rose over the gray-green swells, disclosing nothing but a herd of antelope that grazed far to the right. "The antelope mean that no Comanches are near," said Arenberg. "The warriors will now wait patiently and a long time for a good opportunity. Sometimes much harm iss done where much iss intended." "That is so," chanted Bill Breakstone. "Over the plains we go, Our rifles clear the way. The Indians would say no. Our band they cannot stay. "As I have often remarked before, Phil, my poetry may be defective in meter and some other small technicalities, but it comes to the point. That, I believe, was the characteristic of Shakespeare, also. I agree, too, with Arenberg, that the Comanches will not trouble us again for some time. So, I pray thee, be of good cheer, Sir Philip of the Merry Countenance, Knight of the Battle beside the Unknown River, Slayer of Comanches in the Dark, Guardian of the Public Weal, et cetera, et cetera." "I am cheerful," said Phil, to whom Breakstone was always a tonic, "and I believe that we can beat off the Comanches any time and every time." "Jump on your horse," said Breakstone, a little later; "we’re all ready." Phil leaped into the saddle with one bound. The train moved forward, and he and Breakstone joined Middleton and Arenberg at its head. Middleton had powerful glasses, and he swept the plain far ahead, and to right and left. His gaze finally settled on a point to the south-west. The others followed his look with great interest, but the naked eye could see nothing but the rolling gray-green plains and the dim blue horizon beyond. Middleton looked so long that at last Bill Breakstone asked: "What do you see?" "I do not see anything that I can really call living," replied Middleton, "but I do see a knoll or slight elevation on the plain--what would be called farther north a butte--and on that knoll is a black blur, shapeless and unnamable at this distance." "Does the black blur move?" asked Bill Breakstone. "I cannot tell. It is too far even for that, but from it comes a beam of brilliant light that shifts here and there over the plain. Take a look, Bill." Breakstone eagerly put the glasses to his eyes, and turned them upon the knoll. "Ah, I see it!" he exclaimed. "It’s like a ball of light! There it goes to the right! There it goes to the left! Now it falls in our direction! What in the name of Shakespeare’s thirty-five or forty plays is it, Cap?"