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"It's over the ponies' heads down thar, Sergeant," he said, pointing sideways into the dark hollow, "an' we 're bound to strike a cross-ridge afore we come to the bluffs." "What bluffs? The Canadian?" "Yep; it 's badly broken kintry a long ways west o' yere. Bad lands, mostly, an' a hell o' a place for cattle to hide out." "Hughes, do you know where Black Kettle's camp is?"
Thar animals are 'bout played, it looks ter me just able ter crawl. Ain't had no fodder is 'bout the size o' it. We ought to be able ter head thet bunch off 'fore they git to the Canadian at thet rate o' travel hey, Sergeant?" Hamlin's eyes followed the long sweep of the cross-ridge, studying its trend, and the direction of the intervening valleys.
The plucky Blackfeet had "forted." They were in a natural fort of rock wall. On either side of them a rock out-crop in a ridge four feet high extended up hill, to meet, near the top, a cross-ridge ten feet high. While half the warriors defended with guns and bows, the other half were busily piling up brush and boulders, to close the down-hill opening.
And to right a capsized sledge, weighing about eight hundredweight, is no fun. So, instead of running this risk, he gives his whole attention to what is before him. From the starting-place the Barrier rises very slightly, until at a cross-ridge it passes into the perfect level. Here on the ridge we halt once more.
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