lain--anon they were
lowered, and apparently peering into the tube. He was drawing the data
of his problem from facts--he was trusting to his divinity for the
solution.

For a long time he kept up this singular process of conjuration--
alternating his glances in equal distribution between the hollow
cylinder and the circle of vision that comprehended within its
circumference the Comanche encampment.

The others began to grow impatient; all were interested in the result,
and not without reason. Standing upon the limits of a life-danger, it
is not strange they should feel anxiety about the issue.

Thus far, however, none had offered to interrupt or question the queer
old man. None dared. One or two of the party had already had a taste
of his quality when fretted or interfered with, and no one desired to
draw upon himself the sharp "talk" of the earless trapper.

Garey at length approached, but not until Rube, with a triumphant toss
of his head and a scarcely audible "wheep" from his thin lips, showed
signs that the consultation had ended, and that the "joss" who dwelt at
the bottom of his rifle-barrel had vouchsafed an answer!

I had watched him with the rest. I liked that expressive hitch of the
head; I liked the low, but momentous sibillation that terminated the
_seance_ between him and his familiar spirit. They were signs that the
knot was unravelled--that the old trapper had devised some feasible plan
by which the Indian camp might be entered.

Garey and I drew near, but not to question him; we understood him too
well for that. We knew that he must be left free to develop his purpose
in his own time; and we left him free--simply placing ourselves by his
side.

"Wal, Billee!" he said, after drawing a long breath, "an yurself, young
fellur! whet do 'ee both think o' this hyur bizness: looks ugly, don't
it--eh, boyees?"

"Tarnal ugly," was Garey's laconic answer.

"Thort so meself at fust."

"Thar ain't no plan o' gettin' in yander," said the young trapper, in a
desponding tone.

"The doose thur ain't! what greenhorn put thet idee inter yur brain-pan,
Bill?"

"Wal, thar are a plan; but 'tain't much o' a one: we've been talkin it
over hyar."

"Le's hear it," rejoined Rube, with an exulting chuckle--"le's hev it,
boyee! an quick, Bill, fur time's dodrotted preecious 'bout now. Wal?"

"It's jest this, Rube, neyther less nor more: the capt'n proposes to
take the Injun's hoss; and ride straight into