But the days grew longer and longer for all that.

Every morning when I woke I cut a notch in a long stick to mark its coming.

I had cut twelve of these notches when one morning I was awakened from a sound sleep by the touch of a hand on my shoulder.
Instantly concluding that Harrington had returned, I was about to cry out in delight when I caught a glimpse of a war-bonnet, surmounting the ugly, painted face of a Sioux brave.
The brilliant colors that had been smeared on his visage told me more forcibly than words could have done that his tribe was on the warpath.
It was a decidedly unpleasant discovery for me.
While he was asking me in the Sioux language what I was doing there, and how many more were in the party, other braves began crowding through the door till the little dugout was packed as full of Sioux warriors as it could hold.
Outside I could hear the stamping of horses and the voices of more warriors.

I made up my mind it was all over but the scalping.
And then a stately old brave worked his way through the crowd and came toward my bunk.

It was plain from the deference accorded him by the others that he was a chief.