Northern Indians do not roll cigarettes; they smoke pipes. It is only
the Indians of the Southwest who take their solace from tobacco through
the little homemade paper tubes.
"That's a fellow who has been a cow-puncher," said Ted. "He's a white
man disguised as an Indian. Probably one of the Whipple gang. I've got
my opinion of a white man who will play Indian, and live with the dirty
scoundrels," said Ted to himself, with disgust.
He had seen all that was necessary, and had laid his plan of attack in
his mind.
Creeping down the hill, he threw his hand in the air as a signal for the
boys to come to him, also signaling for silence.
In a few minutes they were by his side, and, while one of the fellows
held Bingo safely, Ted sprang into the saddle.
"Now, fellows, we're going to ride around the end of this hill and plump
into the Indian camp. The snow will deaden the hoofbeats of the ponies,
but keep as still as possible. We'll surprise them, and probably be able
to settle the whole thing without firing a shot. But don't bet on it,
and keep your hands on your guns, but don't fire until they make the
first crack, then rush them and drive them into the hills, and bring
down all you can."
With this advice they rode forward by twos, Ted and Ben in the lead.
It did not take long to round the hill, and then, as suddenly as if they
had opened a door and stepped into a room, they were in the midst of the
Indians.
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