“Just as you like. Have you got fresh sign to follow anywhere?” “Yes; I’ve got the trail they left when Boston Dick went under, last night.” “That’s enough; now boys, listen to me. There must be no straggling until we find out where these fellows hive. They think to drive us out of the Indian country, but if they do they must fight for it. What do you say?” A ringing cheer was the only reply, and the men broke up into knots, canvassing the chances of meeting with the murderers soon. The brigade altogether numbered about seventy men, far less in number than the band of Velveteens, but every man was a dead shot, brave as a lion, and knew the country by heart. Like all trapper bands they were composed of a sprinkling of all nationalities—chiefly, however, of American birth. From the gray-haired mountaineer of sixty years to beardless boys scarcely twenty, but upon whose youthful faces the wild life of the border had set its mark. Massy and Pat Dada stole out of the camp, and as night came on Dave set his guards and took precautions which the others had neglected, and which had resulted so fatally. He felt tolerable certain that the calamities which had fallen upon them could be laid only to the blame of Velveteens and Rafe Norris, but was not sure. Scarcely had the sun gone down, when the moon rolled up in the sky and shed a mellow radiance on the scene. Dave made the circuit of the pickets about the edge of the strip of timber in which the camp was made, when he noticed, out upon the plain, a sort of wavering which rested on the grass and seemed to move slowly up. These black spots whatever they were puzzled him extremely, and he called the attention of the guard to them. “I’ve hed my eye on those spots for the last ten minnits,” replied the man, “and I’ll be cussed if I can make ’em out. What was that?” Both had caught the gleam of some metallic substance in the moonlight. Dave uttered a low exclamation, and caught the guard by the arm. “There they come, by heaven! Stand firm now, and don’t fire unless they make a rush.” Dave was right, for those dark shadows creeping up so slowly were the forms of their enemies gathering for a rush upon the camp. They were crawling along the short prairie grass, shading themselves as much as possible behind the hummocks, and getting as near as was safe to the line of woods before the rush was made. Velveteens was there, crouching upon the sod, and nursing in his heart the most bitter hatred of all who were dear to Myrtle. There, too, crouched the two men who had been flogged by the borderers, crouching like tigers ready for the spring, each man with a rifle in his grasp and his revolvers in the belt. Mixed with these were their red allies, the Modoc Sioux, eager for scalps, and caring but little from whom those scalps were taken. It seemed impossible that the trappers could withstand the rush of this powerful body.