One, led by Cully, ascends the cliff by a lateral ravine, and pursues its way along the upper table-land.

The other, under the command of the captain, is to remain below until a certain time has elapsed, its length stipulated between the two leaders before parting.
When it has passed, the second division moves forward up the creek, again halting as a light shines through the trees, which, from its reddish colour, they know to be the glare of log fires.
They need not this to tell them they are close to an encampment--that of the savages they have been pursuing.

They can hear their barbarous jargon, mingled with shouts and laughter like that of demons in the midst of some fiendish frolic.
They only stay for a signal the guide arranged to give as soon as he has got round to attack on the opposite side.

The first shot heard, and they will dash forward to the fires.
Seated in their saddles, with reins tight drawn, and heels ready to drive home the spur--with glances bent greedily at the gleaming lights, and ears keenly alert to catch every sound--the hearts of some trembling with fear, others throbbing with hope, still others thrilling with the thought of vengeance--they wait for the crack that is to be the signal-- wait and listen, with difficulty restraining themselves.
It comes at length.

Up the glen peals a loud report, quickly followed by another, both from a double-barrelled gun.
This was the signal for attack, arranged by Cully.
Soon as hearing it, the reins are slackened, the spurs sent home, and, with a shout making the rocks ring, and the trees reverberate its echoes, they gallop straight towards the Indian encampment, and in a moment are in its midst.
They meet little resistance--scarce any.