These, still
vague in the first real darkness of early night, moved steadily in a
scattered group behind a leader that was undoubtedly Johnny of the erstwhile
tinkling bell. He circled the campfire just without its radius of light, so
that they could not tell whether an Indian lay along his back, and beaded
straight for the water-hole. The others followed him, and not one came into
the firelight--a detail which sharpened the suspicions of the men crouched
there in the edge of the bushes, and tingled their nerves with the sense of
something sinister in the very unconcernedness of the animals.
They splashed into the water-hole and drank thirstily and long. They stood
there as though they were luxuriating in the feel of more water than they
could drink, and one horse blew the moisture from his nostrils with a sound
that made Happy Jack jump.
After a few minutes that seemed an hour to those who waited with fingers
crooked upon gun-triggers, the horse that looked vaguely like Johnny turned
away from the water-hole and sneezed while he appeared to be wondering what to
do next. He moved slowly toward the packs that were thrown down just where
they had been taken from the horses, and began nosing tentatively about.
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