Many of them were excited.
But, despite the alarm, no Indians made their appearance.

Upon going to the post where the picket said he had seen them, none were to be found, nor could the faintest trace be discovered.
The sentinel, an Irishman, insisted that there certainly had been redskins there.
"But you must be mistaken," said the colonel.
"Upon me sowl, I'm not.

As sure as me name's Pat Maloney, wan iv them red devils hit me on th' head with a club, so he did," persisted the picket.
When morning came we made a successful effort to clear up the mystery.
Elk tracks were found in the vicinity, and it was undoubtedly a herd of elk that had frightened the picket.

When he turned to flee he must have hit his head on an overhanging limb, which he supposed was the club of a redskin, bent on his murder.

It was hard, however, to convince him that he could have been mistaken.
Three days' march brought us to Beaver Creek, where we encamped and where scouts were sent out in different directions.