In the last open spot of the timber, screened from view from the prairie by clumps of willows and other bushes, were six horses, picketed for grazing.

There were two grays, a black, two bays and a chestnut sorrel--the latter clearly a race-horse.

They were all good horses.

There were rifles leaning against the trees within reach of the sleeping men; and from under the coat which one of them was using for a pillow there stuck out the butt of a navy revolver.
Something--perhaps it was that consciousness which horses have of the approach of other beings, scent, hearing, or a sense of their own which we can not understand--made the chestnut race-horse lift his head and nicker.

One of the men rose silently to a sitting posture, and reached for his rifle.