, which they do, without further delay.

Hastening down the ravine and on to the river ford, they discover that
the Indians have crossed it. The tracks of their horses are on both
banks. Beyond, the hunters cannot tell which way they have taken. For
though still only twilight it is dark as night under the thick standing
trees; and he keenest eye could not discover a trail.

Thus thrown off, they have no choice but continue on to the settlement.

Beaching this at a rather late hour, they do not enter the
mission-building nor yet any of the huts of the _rancheria_. Their own
residence is a tent, standing in the grove between; and to it they
betake themselves. Once under canvass their first thought is supper,
and they set about cooking it. Though they have brought back no buffalo
meat a twenty pound turkey "gobbler" has been all day dangling at the
horn of Hawkins' saddle--enough for a plentiful repast.

Oris, who acts as cook, sets to plucking the bird, while Hawkins
commences kindling a fire outside the tent. But before the fagots are
ablaze, the old hunter, all along abstracted, becomes fidgetty, as if
troubled with the reflection of having neglected some duty he ought to
have done.

Abruptly breaking off, and pitching aside the sticks, he says:--"This
wont do, Cris, nohow. I've got a notion in my head there's something
not right about them Indyens. I must up to the house an' tell the
Colonel. You go on, and get the gobbler roasted. I'll be back by the
time its ready."

"All right," rejoins Tucker, continuing to make the feathers fly.
"Don't stay if you expect any share of this bird. I'm hungry enough to
eat the whole of it myself."

"You needn't fear for my stayin'. I'm just as sharp set as yourself."

So saying, Hawkins strides out of the tent, leaving his comrade to
continue the preparations for their repast.

From the hunter's tent, the house is approached by a narrow path, nearly
all the way running through timber. While gliding silently along it,
Hawkins comes suddenly to a stop.

"Seems to me I heard a cry," he mutters to himself; "seems, too, as
'twar a woman's voice."

After listening awhile, without hearing it repeated, he adds:

"I reckon, 'twar only the skirl o' them tree-crickets. The warm night
makes 'em chirp their loudest."

Listening a little longer, he becomes convinced it was but the crickets
he heard, and keeps on to the house.

CHAPTER FORTY NINE.

WAITING THE W