Flett and the Methodist preacher seemed convinced that there were a number of these undesirables hanging about Sage Butte, ready for mischief.
"Well," he said, "I suppose the first thing to be done is to stop this liquor-running." They had no further conversation for another hour.

The poplars rustled behind them and the grass rippled and clashed, but now and then the breeze died away for a few moments, and there was a curious and almost disconcerting stillness.

At last, in one of these intervals, the Canadian, partly rising, lifted his hand.
"Listen!" he said.

"Guess I hear a team." A low rhythmic drumming that suggested the beat of hoofs rose from the waste, but it was lost as the branches rattled and the long grass swayed noisily before a rush of breeze.

George thought the sound had come from somewhere half a mile away.
"If they're Indians, would they bring a wagon ?" he asked.
"It's quite likely.