Banion could not yet locate Woodhull in the train.
The scouts crept out ahead of the last picket line, for though an attack in mass probably would not come before dawn, if the Sioux really should cross the river, some horse stealing or an attempted stampede might be expected before midnight or soon after.
The night wore on.

The fires of willow twigs and _bois des vaches_ fell into pale coals, into ashes.

The chill of the Plains came, so that the sleepers in the great wagon corral drew their blankets closer about them as they lay.
It was approaching midnight when the silence was ripped apart by the keen crack of a rifle--another and yet another.
Then, in a ripple of red detonation, the rifle fire ran along the upper front of the entire encampment.
"Turn out! Turn out, men!" called the high, clear voice of Banion, riding back.

"Barricade! Fill in the wheels!".