Ought to be fifteen or twenty in that camp.

Only squaws about.

The braves apparently are in town painting things up a bit." A quarter of a mile past the Indian encampment the trail made a sharp turn into what appeared to be the beginning of the main street of the town.
"By Jove!" cried Cameron.

"Here they come.

Sit tight, Mandy." He pointed with his whip down the trail to what seemed to be a rolling cloud of dust, vocal with wild whoops and animated with plunging figures of men and ponies.
"Steady, there, boys! Get on!" cried Cameron to his plunging, jibing bronchos, who were evidently unwilling to face that rolling cloud of dust with its mass of shrieking men and galloping ponies thundering down upon them.