“Thank the Lord,” said Wingate, “they’ll just clear now if the bottom is hard all the way.”

One by one the teams were urged into the ticklish crossing.  The line of wagons was almost all at the farther side when all at once the rear guard came back, spurring.

“Corral!  Corral!” he called.

He plunged into the stream as the last driver urged his wagon up the bank.  A rapid dust cloud was approaching down the valley.

“Indians!” called out a dozen voices.  “Corral, men!  For God’s sake, quick—­corral!”

They had not much time or means to make defense, but with training now become second nature they circled and threw the dusty caravan into the wonted barricade, tongue to tail gate.  The oxen could not all be driven within, the loose stock was scattered, the horses were not on picket lines at that time of day; but driving what stock they could, the boy herders came in at a run when they saw the wagons parking.

There was no time to spare.  The dust cloud swept on rapidly.  It could not spell peace, for no men would urge their horses at such pace under such a sun save for one purpose—­to overtake this party at the ford.

“It’s Bill Jackson!” exclaimed Caleb Price, rifle in hand, at the river’s edge.  “Look out, men!  Don’t shoot!  Wait!  There’s fifty Indians back of him, but that’s Jackson ahead.  Now what’s wrong?”

The riddle was not solved even when the scout of the Missouri train, crowded ahead by the steady rush of the shouting and laughing savages, raised his voice as though in warning and shouted some word, unintelligible, which made them hold their fire.

The wild cavalcade dashed into the stream, crowding their prisoner—­he was no less—­before them, bent bows back of him, guns ready.

They were stalwart, naked men, wide of jaw, great of chest, not a woman or child among them, all painted and full armed.

“My God, men!” called Wingate, hastening under cover.  “Don’t let them in!  Don’t let them in!  It’s the Crows!”

CHAPTER XXXI

HOW, COLA!

“How, cola!” exclaimed the leader of the band of Indians, crowding up to the gap in the corral where a part of the stock had just been driven in.  He grinned maliciously and made the sign for “Sioux”—­the edge of the hand across the throat.

But men, rifles crosswise, barred him back, while others were hurrying, strengthening the barricade.  A half dozen rifles, thrust out through wheels or leveled across wagon togues, now covered the front rank of the Crows; but the savages, some forty or fifty in number, only sat their horses laughing.  This was sport to them.  They had no doubt at all that they would have their will of this party of the whites as soon as they got ready, and they planned further strategy.  To drive a prisoner into camp before killing him was humorous from their point of view, and practical withal, like driving a buffalo close to the village before shooting it.