On I went, veering to the northwest from instinct that I should find my journey’s end soonest that way.  Over the divide which hid the wide valley of the Arkansas, and into the deep draws and low bluffs of a creek with billowy hills beyond, I found myself still instinctively smelling my way.  I grew more cautious with each step now, knowing that the chance for me to slip along unseen gave also the chance for an enemy to trail me unseen.

At last I caught that low breathing sound that goes with the sense of nearness to life.  Leaving my pony by the stream, I climbed to the top of a little swell, and softly as a cat walks on a carpet, I walked straight into an Indian camp.  It was well chosen for outlook near, and security from afar.  There was a growing light in the sky that follows the darkness of moonset and runs before the break of dawn.  Everything in the camp was dead still.  I saw evidences of war-paint and a recent war-dance that forerun an Indian attack.  I estimated the strength of the enemy—­possibly four hundred warriors, and noted the symbols of the Kiowa tribe.  Then, thrilled with pride at my skill and success, I turned to retrace my way to my pony—­and looked full into the face of an Indian brave standing motionless in my path.  A breath—­and two more braves evolved out of gray air, and the three stood stock-still before me.  Out of the tail of my eye, I caught sight of a drawn bow on either side of me.  I had learned quickness with firearms years ago, but I knew that two swift arrows would cut my life-line before the sound of my ready revolver could break the stillness of the camp.  Three pairs of snaky black eyes looked steadily at me, and I stared back as directly into them.  Two arrow-points gently touched my ears.  Behind me, a tomahawk softly marked a ring around my scalp outside of my hat.  I was standing in a circle of death.  At last the brave directly before me slowly drew up his bow and pointed it at me; then dropping it, he snapped the arrow shaft and threw away the pieces.  Pointing to my cocked revolver, he motioned to me to drop it.  At the same time the bows and tomahawks, of the other warriors were thrown down.  It was a silent game, and in spite of the danger I smiled as I put down my firearms.

“Can’t any of you talk?” I asked.  “If you are friendly, why don’t you say so?”

The men did not speak, but by a gesture toward the tallest tepee—­the chief’s, I supposed—­I understood that he alone would talk to me.

“Well, bring him out.”  I surprised myself at my boldness.  Yet no man knows in just what spirit he will face a peril.

One of the braves ran to the chief’s tent, but the remaining five left me no chance for escape.  It was slowly growing lighter.  I thought of Jondo and his search at sunrise, and the moments seemed like hours.  Yet with marvelous swiftness and stillness a score of Indians with their chief were mounted, and I, with my pony in the center of a solid ring, was being hurried away, alive, with friendly captors daubed with war-paint.