or the rest there was
nothing but watching and waiting, and wondering what would happen in
the morning. They had scarcely two dozen cartridges.

At last the day dawned, lowering and dark and wet. No Indians were in
sight; nothing was in sight but the sodden grass and the equally
cheerless sky. George was dead; four out of their remaining five were
so sore and stiffened that they could barely move.

"I'm going to leave you, boys," spoke Billy Dixon. "I'm not hurt yet,
and it's up to me to take the back trail and find Miles. If I get
through I'll find him within thirty-six hours. If you don't hear from
him with relief soon after that, you'll know I didn't get through. But
there's a chance."

They agreed. Scout Dixon refused to take more than four cartridges.
That gave them five or six apiece, for the defence of the wallow. As
he explained, if once he was surrounded fifty cartridges would be the
same as four. He could shoot only one at a time, and the Indians would
kill him.

So he strode bravely away, in a drizzle, and presently vanished.
Sergeant Woodall, shot in the side; Private Harrington, shot in the
hip; Private Roth, shot in the shoulder; and Scout Chapman, his ankle
shot off, peered and listened and waited.

They had waited about an hour when through the mist they saw an Indian
cautiously riding in. He was reconnoitering the wallow. Their hearts
sank. They kept quiet until he was within point-blank range--they
could see his red blanket, rolled beneath his saddle.

"I'll get him," Sergeant Woodall uttered; took good, long aim, and
fired. But he was shaky, the light was poor, and he killed only the
horse.

"No matter. An Injun afoot is an Injun out of business and needs
another Injun to give him a lift," Scout Chapman consoled.

Listen! Scarcely had the crashing report of the carbine rolled across
the prairie and the horse fallen kicking, when from the spot where the
rider had been pitched there welled the clear notes of a cavalry
trumpet: "Officers' Call!"

What? Private Roth scrambled to his feet.

"That man was no Indian, sergeant! He's a trumpeter--he's a cavalry
trumpeter--he's signaling us! Thank God you didn't hit him."

"I see others," Amos cried, craning and squinting. "Yonder; out
beyond. Coming at a trot--one man ahead--another man holding his
stirrups. It's Billy Dixon! Billy's back, with a troop of cavalry,
and they sent that trumpeter on before to find us."

"Give