His horse trotted steadily forward, as keen on the trail as Buddy himself; keener, for he would be sure to give warning of danger.

So they rounded a bend in the creek and came upon the scattered fringe of the remuda cropping steadily at the meadow grass there.
Bud circled them, glancing now and then at the ridge beyond the valley.
It seemed somehow unnatural--lower, with the stars showing along its wooded crest in a row, as if there were no peaks.

Then quite suddenly he knew that the ridge was the same, and that the stars he saw were little, breakfast camp-fires.

His heart gave a jump when he realized how many little fires there were, and knew that the dance was over.

The Indians had left the reservation and had crossed the ridge yesterday, and had camped there to wait for the dawn.
While he gathered his horses together he guessed how old Colorou had planned to catch the Tomahawk riders when they left camp and scattered, two by two, on "Circle." He had held his band well out of sight and sound of the Big Creek cabin, and if the horses had not strayed up the creek in the night he would have caught the white men off their guard.
Buddy looked often over his shoulder while he drove the horses down the creek.