“Some of your long-horns, Hughes?” asked the Sergeant finally, pointing as he turned and glanced back.  “Quite a bunch of cattle, it looks to me.”

“Them thar ain’t cows,” returned the other positively.  “Tha ’re too closely bunched up.  I reckon it ’ll be Black Kettle’s pony herd.”

“Then his village will lie in beyond the big bend there,” and Hamlin rose in his stirrups, shading his eyes.  “The herders have n’t driven them far since the storm broke.  You don’t see any smoke, do you?”

Hughes shook his head.

“You would n’t likely see none against thet gray sky; them ponies is two er maybe three miles off, an’ ther camp is likely a mile er so further.  Thar ‘s a big bend thar, as I remember; a sort o’ level spot with bluff all ’round, ‘cept on the side o’ ther river.  We hed a cattle corral thar onc’t, durin’ a round-up.  Most likely that’s whar they are.”

“And Le Fevre is heading straight for the spot.  Well, he ’ll have to come out on this bench first.”

“Yep, there sure ain’t no valleys lying between.  How many o’ these yere gulch openings have we got past already?”

“Three; there ’s the fourth just ahead.  That’s the one they were trailing through.  No doubt about that, is there?”

“Not ’less them Injuns took to the ridge.  They wus sure in the fourth valley when we fust sighted the outfit back thar.  Whatcher goin’ ter do, Sergeant?  Jump ’em a hoss-back, an’ just pump lead?”

Hamlin had thought this over as he rode and already had planned his attack.  The opening to the valley, along which Le Fevre’s exhausted party were slowly advancing toward them, seemed favorable—­it was narrow and badly choked with snow.  It offered an ideal place for a surprise and was far enough away from the Indian encampment—­if the latter was situated as Hughes believed, in the great bend above—­so that no echo of shots would carry that distance, even through the crisp atmosphere.  There were two things the Sergeant had determined to accomplish if possible—­the rescue of Miss Molly uninjured, and the capture of Le Fevre.  No matter how deeply he despised the man he could not afford to have him killed.  So far as the Indians were concerned there would be no mercy shown, for if either one escaped he would carry the news to the village.  With all this in his mind the Sergeant swung out of the saddle, dropping the rein to the ground, confident that the tired cow-pony would remain quiet.  His belt was buckled outside the army overcoat, and he drew his revolver, tested it, and slipped it back loosely into the holster.  Then he pulled out the rifle from under the flap of the saddle, grimly handling it in his gloved fingers.  Hughes, his head sunk into his fur collar, his hot breath steaming in the cold atmosphere, watched him curiously.

“Lookin’ fer a right smart fight, I reckon,” he said, a trifle uneasily.  “Believe me, yer ain’t goin’ ter find thet fellar no spring chicken.  He ’s some on ther gun play.”