but
would go on after his meal. In twenty minutes it would be the thing
to swim or wade the stream, and crawl up the mud bank to take a look.
Meanwhile, Cutler dipped in water some old bread that he had and sucked
it down, while the little breeze from opposite hook the cottonwood
leaves and brought over the smell of cooking meat. The sun grew warmer,
and the doves ceased. Cutler opened his big watch, and clapped it shut
as the sound of mud heavily slopping into the other river reached
him. He crawled to where he could look at the Laramie from among his
sagebrush, and there was Toussaint leading his horse down to the water.
The half-breed gave a shrill call, and waved his hat. His call was
answered, and as he crossed the Laramie, three Sioux appeared, riding to
the bank. They waited till he gained their level, when all four rode up
the Chug Water, and went out of sight opposite the watching Cutler. The
scout threw off some of his clothes, for the water was still high, and
when he had crossed, and drawn himself to a level with the plain, there
were the four squatted among the sage-brush beside a fire. They sat
talking and eating for some time. One of them rose at last, pointed
south, and mounting his horse, dwindled to a dot, blurred, and
evaporated in the heated, trembling distance. Cutler at the edge of the
bank still watched the other three, who sat on the ground. A faint shot
came, and they rose at once, mounted, and vanished southward. There was
no following them now in this exposed country, and Cutler, feeling sure
that the signal had meant something about Toussaint's horses, made his
fire, watered his own horse, and letting him drag a rope where the feed
was green, ate his breakfast in ease. Toussaint would get a fresh mount,
and proceed to the railroad. With the comfort of certainty and tobacco,
the scout lolled by the river under the cottonwood, and even slept. In
the cool of the afternoon he reached the cabin of an acquaintance twenty
miles south, and changed his horse. A man had passed by, he was told.
Looked as if bound for Cheyenne. "No," Cutler said, "he's known there";
and he went on, watching Toussaint's tracks. Within ten miles they
veered away from Cheyenne to the southeast, and Cutler struck out on a
trail of his own more freely. By midnight he was on Lodge-Pole Creek,
sleeping sound among the last trees that he would pass. He slept
twelve hours, having gone to bed knowing he must not come into town
by