pond, had its setting of ducks.  The teal, the mallard, the widgeon, the shoveller, the canvasback—­all mingled in the loud-voiced throng that arose before the leader’s approach, then, like smoke, vanished with almost unbelievable swiftness into the hazy distance.  Prairie dog towns, populous as cities of man a minute before their approach, went lifeless, desolate, as they passed through.  In the infrequent draws and creek beds between the low, rolling hills, great-eyed cotton tails scampered to cover or, like the antelope, just out of harm’s way, watched the passage of this strange being, man.  Wonder of wonders that display of life would have been to another generation; but of it these grim-faced riders were apparently unconscious, oblivious.  Their eyes were not for things near at hand, but for the distance, for the possibility that lurked just beyond that far-away rise which formed their horizon, when they had reached that for the next beyond, and the next.

Hour by hour the morning wore away.  Hotter and hotter rose the sun above them.  Instead of drops of dew, tiny particles of sun-dried grass flew away from beneath the leaders’ feet, mingled with the dust of prairie, became a cloud shutting the leaders from the sight of those in the rear.  From being a mere breath, the south wind augmented, became positive, insistent.  Hot with the latent heat of many days, it sang in their ears as they went, bit all but scorching, at their unprotected hands and throats.  Under its touch the horses’ necks, dark before with sweat, became normal again:  between their legs, under the, edges of the great saddles where it had churned into foam, dried into white powder, like frostwork amid the hair.  Gradually with the change, their breathing became audible, louder and louder, until in unison it mingled with the dull impact of their feet on the heavy sod like the exhaust of many engines.  No horseman who values the life of the beast between his legs, fails to heed that warning.  Landor did not, but at the first dawdling prairie creek that offered water and, with its struggling fringe of willows, a suggestion of shade, he gave the word to halt, and for four mortal, blistering hours while, man and beast alike, the others slept, kept watch over them from the nearest rise.  Relentless to others this man might be, but not even his dearest enemy could accuse him of sparing himself.

It was three by the clock when again they took up the trail.  It was 3.45 when they swam what is now the Vermilion River, the last water-course of any size on their way.  The dew was again beginning to gather when, well to the south, they approached the bordering hills that concealed the site of Sioux Falls settlement.  Then for the first time since they began that last relay Landor gave an order.

“It’ll be a miracle if we don’t find Sioux there in the bottom, men,” he prophesied.  “Perhaps there are a whole band, perhaps it’ll only be stragglers; but no matter how many or how few there may be, charge them.  If they run you know what to do—­this is no holiday outing.  If they stand, charge them all the harder.”  He faced his horse to the north and gave the word to go.  “It’s our only chance,” he completed.