"AY, WHERE WERE THEY?"  
By the unaccountable disappearance of his parents and the horses, Brinton was left in a state rather of perplexity than alarm. The time was so brief since they left him, that he could not understand how they had gone far, nor why they did not answer the guarded calls he made.
 
He noticed that when in obedience to his urgent entreaties the couple rode away, followed by his own pony, they went down stream, that is, in the direction of the current. Surely they could not have passed any distance, and he believed they heard his voice when, making a funnel with his mittened hands, he pronounced the words—
 
"Father! Mother! where are you?"
 
If they did not reply, it was because of the danger involved in doing so. It was incautious on his part to shout, even in a suppressed voice, at such a time.
 
The bank on his left was a little higher than his head, and so sloping that the horses could climb out with little effort; but, as will be recalled, the night was unusually dark, and he might pass over the plainest trail without knowing it.
 
He ran some distance further, keeping close to the water, but still failed to find them.
 
"They have climbed out of the bed of the stream; something unexpected has occurred, or they would not leave me in this manner."
 
He felt his way to the bank, and easily placed himself upon the level ground above. There he strove to pierce the gloom, but nothing rewarded the effort.
 
"Well, I'll be hanged!" he muttered, "if this isn't the greatest surprise I ever knew. It looks as if the ground had opened and swallowed them."
 
In the northern sky the heavy gloom was relieved by a faint glow, which at first he took for the aurora borealis, but a few minutes' scrutiny convinced him that it was the light of some burning building, the dwelling evidently of some ranchman, whose family had probably paid with their lives the penalty of tarrying too long.
 
"A few hours more, and father, mother, and Edith would have shared the same fate. It may still be theirs to do so."
 
The sound of a whinny from behind caused him to turn his head. He could see nothing, but he was sure that it was one of his father's ponies that thus made known his presence.
 
It would have been the height of imprudence, however, had he acted upon such a belief, after what had so recently occurred, and when a safe and certain test was at his command.
 
He emitted a low tremulous whistle of such a musical tone that it reached a goodly distance in spite of the gale.
 
"That can be heard further than the neigh, and, if it finds the ear of Jack, no one can restrain him from coming to me."
 
But though the call was repeated there was no response. The alarming conclusion was unavoidable: the sound had been made by an Indian pony near at hand.
 
Aware that his own situation, despite the darkness, was perilous, the youth sat down on the frosty earth, near the edge of the bank, until he could gain some idea of his bearings.
 
Within the next ten seconds the whinny was repeated, and this time seemingly within a dozen feet, but below the bank, and consequently between him and the water.
 
He knew what it meant: the hostiles had crossed the stream lower down, and were ascending it in the search for the fugitives. But for the fact that one of their ponies showed a strange lack of training, the youth would have run right into them.
 
It might be that the reckless horse was a captured one!
 
They were so close, however, that Brinton did not dare to flee, especially as he did not know in which direction safety lay. He lay flat on the earth, with his head just above the edge of the bank, so that had there been any light he could have seen what was going on below.
 
It is rare that a night is totally devoid of the least ray of illumination. Brinton, therefore, could never believe he was mistaken when, peering down into the gloom, he fancied he discerned the shadowy outlines of a horseman move slowly in front of him, like the figure of the magic lantern. It melted in the gloom, and then came another and another, until he counted six. The sounds of the hoofs on the hard ground removed the doubt which otherwise he might have felt.
 
"The same party," was his thought; "one is missing, and, if I am not mistaken, I had something to do with his disappearance."
 
A different noise came to his ears. One of the bucks was making his pony climb the bank where the slope was abrupt. The labour was hard, but after a strenuous effort he stood on the earth above. He was followed by the others in Indian file, the ascent taking but a few minutes.
 
The disturbing feature about this business was that the whole party had climbed the bank within a dozen feet of where Brinton was lying, and they halted when so near that he was half afraid some of the horses might step on him.
 
Had there been any light in the sky he would have felt they were trifling with him, as a cat plays with a mouse.
 
But, if the hostiles could not see or detect his presence, their horses were sure to discover that a stranger was near.
 
"It's too bad!" thought Brinton, who, believing that his own people were safe, was able to give more thought to himself; "it looks as if there's no getting rid of them. I think this is a good time for me to leave."
 
For a single moment he was certain he was discovered. One of the warriors uttered an exclamation, and a slight sound showed that he had dropped from his horse to the ground. The youth was on the point of rolling over the edge of the bank and taking to his heels, in the hope that the darkness would allow him to escape, when, to his dismay, a tiny point of light flashed out of the gloom.
 
One of the hostiles had dismounted to light a cigarette, placing himself so that his horse's body kept off the wind.
 
Brinton's position gave him a good view of the operation. The savage drew the match along a portion of his blanket. The youth saw the slight streak of light and heard the tiny sharp explosion followed by the bursting into flame. The buck shielded it with his curving hands, which were raised to meet the stooping head, as it bent forward with the cigarette between the lips.
 
The glare of the diminutive flame gave a peculiar tint to the fingers, which caused them to glow as if with heat. Then the reflection showed the arched nose, the broad face, the serpent-like eyes, and a few straggling hairs on the upper lip, with a glimpse of the dangling locks, thrown forward by the stoop of the head.
 
The glimpse was momentary, but it was clear enough for Brinton to recognise the young Indian as Wolf Ear, who he knew was fond of cigarette smoking, that being one of the habits he had acquired among civilised folk.
 
"I am sorry it wasn't you I shot from his horse in mid-stream," was the resentful reflection of him who had once been a devoted friend of the Ogalalla.
 
The cigarette being lighted, the buck vaulted upon the back of his pony, where he could be seen by the fiery tip in the dense darkness.
 
Brinton wondered why the group of horsemen remained where they were, instead of riding away. That, like many other actions of theirs, was incomprehensible to him.
 
But while he lay flat on the ground, debating what he should next do, if indeed he could do anything, he was frightened by the discovery that gradually but surely the figures of the Indians and their ponies were coming into view.
 
The explanation was that the sky, which had been overcast all day and a portion of the night, was slightly clearing—not to any extent, but enough to increase the peril of his own situation to an alarming extent.
 
"It won't do to stay here any longer; I wonder why they have not discovered me before; they will do it in five minutes, if I remain."
 
His position was an awkward one for the movement necessary, but he had no choice, and he began stealthily working himself to the edge of the bank, with the purpose of letting himself noiselessly over to where he would be concealed from sight. All might have gone well had he not forgotten a simple thing. The edge of the bank gave under his weight, and he slid downwards, as if taking a plunge into the river, with the dirt rattling after him.
 
The noise, slight as it was, was certain to attract the notice of the Indians, a few feet away. Brinton knew this, and he did not wait to see the results. With the nimbleness of a cat, he turned at the moment of striking the bottom of the low cliff, and bounding to his feet, ran along below the bank at his utmost speed.
 
Had he continued his flight, quick disaster must have followed; but with a thoughtfulness and self-possession hardly to be expected, he abruptly stopped after running a hundred feet and again threw himself on his face, at the bottom of the bank, and as close to its base as it was possible for him to lie.
 
He knew that he could reach this point before the hostiles would comprehend what had taken place, and consequently before they would attempt to pursue him. Since he had no chance against their fleet ponies, he would have been speedily run down had he continued his flight down the river bed, for he heard the sound of their hoofs as they dashed after him.
 
The pursuers were cunning. Their ears had told them the course he had taken. Several forced their animals down the bank, to prevent his turning back over his own trail, while the others galloped close to the edge above, all the party taking the same direction. Thus it would seem that but one desperate hope remained to him, which was to dash into the river and struggle to the other side. But the splash would betray him. The water was probably deep enough to force him to swim. With the thermometer below zero, and encumbered by his clothing, he must perish with cold, if he did not drown.
 
Where then was the hope of eluding the hostiles, who were clinging so persistently to his track?
 
There was none excepting in the trick to which he had resorted, and Brinton knew it.
 
He was no more than fairly nestled in his hiding-place, when the clatter of hoofs showed that one of the horsemen was almost upon him. He could only hug the base of the bank, and pray for the danger to pass. It did pass, but it was sure speedily to return. It was this belief which led the youth to resort to another artifice, that would have done credit to an experienced ranger of the plains.
 
Instead of turning about and running upstream under the bank, he waited until the horsemen above had also passed, and were invisible in the gloom. Then he hastily clambered up the slight bluff, rattling down the dirt again in a way that sent a shiver through him. Had they been as near as before, they must have certainly discovered him; but if the noise or the crumbling dirt reached the ears of any, they supposed it was caused by some of their companions, for no effort at investigation was made.
 
Upon solid ground once more, Brinton sped straight out over the plain, and directly away from the river, until he dared to pause, look around and listen.
 
He saw and heard nothing to renew his fear.
 
"Can it be that I have shaken them off at last?" he asked himself; "it begins to look like it. Where under heaven can the folk be? I hope they have pushed toward the Agency, and nothing will happen to them."
 
Now it was that he detected something, so faint and indistinct that at first he could not identify it; but, while he wondered and listened, it resolved itself into the sounds of a horse's hoofs. They were not such as are made by an animal galloping or trotting, but by walking. Furthermore, he heard but the one series of footfalls.
 
A sudden impulse led Brinton to repeat the whistle which he had vainly emitted some time before, when groping along the bank of the Big Cheyenne. Instantly a faint neigh answered, and a pony assumed shape in the darkness as he approached on a joyous trot.
 
"My own Jack!" exclaimed the overjoyed youth, flinging his arms about the neck of his favourite and kissing his silken nose; "Heaven be thanked that you are restored to me at last. But where are the folk?"
 
Ay, where were they?