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Cook-fires smoldered in the open glades; cavalry horses grazed in the grassy streets, and wood- smoke drifted over them. The second evening brought O'Reilly and Miss Evans safely through, and at news of the expedition's success a pack-train was made ready to go to its assistance. Norine's letter from the New York Junta was read, and the young woman was warmly welcomed.
By the time I was ready to approach these new arrivals, they had their plans for encampment under way with the celerity of old campaigners. Their horses were hobbled, their cook-fires of buffalo "chips" were lit, their wagons backed into a rude stockade. Guards were moving out with the horses to the grazing ground.
And this evening, just as the sun disappears over the low bluff line to the west and the horses are being picketed for the night, while from a score of cook-fires the appetizing savor of antelope-steak and the aroma of "soldier coffee" rise upon the air, a little dust-cloud sweeps out from the ravine into which disappears the Sidney road and comes floating out across the prairie.
Sigurd's eyes wandered wistfully beyond the cook-fires and the storehouses to the last hut in the line, before which a dozen men were buckling on cloaks and arming themselves, in a bustle of joyful anticipation. He thrust out his palm with sudden resolve. "By Saint Michael, I will!
Cook-fires are smouldering in little pits dug in the yielding soil, but the cooking is over for the present; the men have had their substantial dinner and are now smoking or sleeping or chatting in groups in the shade, all but a squad of a dozen, commanded by a grizzled veteran on whose worn blouse the chevrons of a first sergeant are stitched.
"I have a feeling that this land has always been watching for us; and that now that we are come, it is glad," Helga said, happily, as she paused where the jarl's son leaned in a doorway, watching Kark's cook-fires leap and wave their arms of blue smoke. "Is it not a wonderful thought, Sigurd, that it was in God's mind so long ago that we should some day want to come here?"
In the crisp, chill air of the late autumn morning tiny smokes from the cook-fires sailed straight aloft, melting speedily into the blue. For nearly half a mile along the stream horses and pack-mules were scattered upon the "bench," browsing eagerly on the dew-laden bunch grass.
While the rest feasted noisily at the long table before the provision sheds, the Silver-Tongued hurried between sleeping house and store-room, rummaging out his heaviest boots, his stoutest tunic, his oldest mantle. At the last moment, the edge on his knife was found to be unsatisfactory, and he went and sat down by one of the cook-fires and fell to work with a sharpening stone.
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