After he had covered half a mile, he found himself between two
sandhills, the pass leading into a little hollow, within which were
a large number of Indians camped around the fire whose light he had
followed. The ponies were in the background.

Will's position was somewhat ticklish, as, without a doubt, an Indian
sentinel was posted in the pass; yet it was his duty, as he understood
it, to obtain a measurably accurate estimate of the number of warriors
in the band. Himself a very Indian in stealth, he drew nearer the
camp-fire, when suddenly there rang out upon the night air--not a
rifle-shot, but the unearthly braying of his mule.

Even in the daylight, amid scenes of peace and tranquillity, the voice
of a mule falls short of the not enchanting music of the bagpipe.
At night in the wilderness, when every nerve is keyed up to the
snapping-point, the sound is simply appalling.

Will was startled, naturally, but the Indians were thrown into dire
confusion. They smothered the campfires and scattered for cover, while a
sentinel sprang up from behind a rock not twenty feet from Will, and was
off like a deer.

The scout held his ground till he had made a good guess at the number of
Indians in the party; then he ran for his mule, whose voice, raised in
seeming protest, guided him unerringly.

As he neared the animal he saw that two mounted Indians had laid hold of
it, and were trying to induce it to follow them; but the mule, true to
tradition and its master, stubbornly refused to budge a foot.