“Well, Murphy, you are the older hand at this business.  What do you advise doing?”

“Me?  Why, push right ’long—­while we kin keep under cover.  Then—­after dark—­trust ter bull luck an’ make—­’nuther dash.  It’s mostly luck, anyhow.  Thet canyon just ahead—­looks like it leads a long way—­toward the Powder.  Its middling deep down, an’ if there ain’t Injuns in it—­them fellers out yonder—­never cud git no sight at us.  Thet’s my notion—­thet ivery mile helps in this—­business.”

“You mean we should start now?”

“Better—­let the cattle rest—­first.  An’—­if ye ever feed prisoners—­I ’d like ter eat a bite—­mesilf.”

They rested there for over two hours, the tired horses contentedly munching the succulent grass of the coulee, their two masters scarcely exchanging a word.  Murphy, after satisfying his appetite, rested flat upon his back, one arm flung over his eyes to protect them from the sun.  For a considerable time Hampton supposed him asleep, until he accidentally caught the stealthy glance which followed his slightest movement, and instantly realized that the old weasel was alert.  Murphy had been beaten, yet evidently remained unconquered, biding his chance with savage stoicism, and the other watched him warily even while seeming to occupy himself with the field-glass.

At last they saddled up, and, at first leading their horses, passed down the coulee into the more precipitous depths of the narrow canyon.  This proved hardly more than a gash cut through the rolling prairie, rock strewn, holding an insignificant stream of brackish water, yet was an ideal hiding-place, having ample room for easy passage between the rock walls.  The men mounted, and Hampton, with a wave of his hand, bade the old scout assume the lead.

Their early advance was slow and cautious, as they never felt certain what hidden enemies might lurk behind the sharp corners of the winding defile, and they kept vigilant eyes upon the serrated sky-line.  The savages were moving north, and so were they.  It would be remarkably good fortune if they escaped running into some wandering band, or if some stray scout did not stumble upon their trail.  So they continued to plod on.

It was fully three o’clock when they attained to the bank of the Powder, and crouched among the rocks to wait for the shades of night to shroud their further advance.  Murphy climbed the bluff for a wider view, bearing Hampton’s field-glasses slung across his shoulder, for the latter would not leave him alone with the horses.  He returned finally to grunt out that there was nothing special in sight, except a shifting of those smoke signals to points farther north.  Then they lay down again, Hampton smoking, Murphy either sleeping or pretending to sleep.  And slowly the shadows of another black night swept down and shut them in.