As they came nearer, a strange, rhythmic throbbing crept to his ears; nearer still, he resolved it into the slow, regular beatings of a flat-toned drum.

The measure, deliberate, incessant, changeless,--the same tones, the same intervals,--worked upon his strained nerves, at first soothingly and then as a pleasant stimulant.
The wagons now pulled up near the largest camp fire, and the arrivals were greeted by a dozen or so of the Saints, who, with Major Lee, had been directing and helping the Indians in their assaults upon the enemy.
Several of these had disguised themselves as Indians for the better deception of the besieged.
At the right of their camp went the long line of the Indians' fires.
From far down this line came a low ringing chant and the strangely insistent drum-beats.
"They're mourning old Chief Moqueetus," explained Lee.

"He fell asleep before the fire just about dark, while his corn and potatoes were cooking, and he had a bad nightmare.

The old fellow woke up screaming that he had his double-hands full of blood, and he grabbed his gun and was up on top of the hill firing down before he was really awake, I guess.

Anyway, one of the cusses got him--like as not the same one that did this to-day while I was peeking at them," and he showed them a bullet-hole in his hat.
At fires near by the Indians were broiling beef cut from animals they had slaughtered belonging to the wagon-train.