*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 62479 ***

                         Buffalo Bill Entrapped

                                  OR,

                              A CLOSE CALL


                                    BY

                        Colonel Prentiss Ingraham

 Author of the celebrated “Buffalo Bill” stories published in the BORDER
                 STORIES. For other titles see catalogue.

[Illustration]

                       STREET & SMITH CORPORATION
                               PUBLISHERS
                     79–89 Seventh Avenue, New York




                            Copyright, 1915
                           By STREET & SMITH

                         Buffalo Bill Entrapped

               (Printed in the United States of America)

    All rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign
                 languages, including the Scandinavian.




                   IN APPRECIATION OF WILLIAM F. CODY
                            (BUFFALO BILL).


It is now some generations since Josh Billings, Ned Buntline, and
Colonel Prentiss Ingraham, intimate friends of Colonel William F. Cody,
used to forgather in the office of Francis S. Smith, then proprietor of
the _New York Weekly_. It was a dingy little office on Rose Street, New
York, but the breath of the great outdoors stirred there when these
old-timers got together. As a result of these conversations, Colonel
Ingraham and Ned Buntline began to write of the adventures of Buffalo
Bill for Street & Smith.

Colonel Cody was born in Scott County, Iowa, February 26, 1846. Before
he had reached his teens, his father, Isaac Cody, with his mother and
two sisters, migrated to Kansas, which at that time was little more than
a wilderness.

When the elder Cody was killed shortly afterward in the Kansas “Border
War,” young Bill assumed the difficult rôle of family breadwinner.
During 1860, and until the outbreak of the Civil War, Cody lived the
arduous life of a pony-express rider. Cody volunteered his services as
government scout and guide and served throughout the Civil War with
Generals McNeil and A. J. Smith. He was a distinguished member of the
Seventh Kansas Cavalry.

During the Civil War, while riding through the streets of St. Louis,
Cody rescued a frightened schoolgirl from a band of annoyers. In true
romantic style, Cody and Louisa Federci, the girl, were married March 6,
1866.

In 1867 Cody was employed to furnish a specified amount of buffalo meat
to the construction men at work on the Kansas Pacific Railroad. It was
in this period that he received the sobriquet “Buffalo Bill.”

In 1868 and for four years thereafter Colonel Cody served as scout and
guide in campaigns against the Sioux and Cheyenne Indians. It was
General Sheridan who conferred on Cody the honor of chief of scouts of
the command.

After completing a period of service in the Nebraska legislature, Cody
joined the Fifth Cavalry in 1876, and was again appointed chief of
scouts.

Colonel Cody’s fame had reached the East long before, and a great many
New Yorkers went out to see him and join in his buffalo hunts, including
such men as August Belmont, James Gordon Bennett, Anson Stager, and J.
G. Heckscher. In entertaining these visitors at Fort McPherson, Cody was
accustomed to arrange Wild-West exhibitions. In return his friends
invited him to visit New York. It was upon seeing his first play in the
metropolis that Cody conceived the idea of going into the show business.

Assisted by Ned Buntline, novelist, and Colonel Ingraham, he started his
“Wild West” show, which later developed and expanded into “A Congress of
the Roughriders of the World,” first presented at Omaha, Nebraska. In
time it became a familiar yearly entertainment in the great cities of
this country and Europe. Many famous personages attended the
performances, and became his warm friends, including Mr. Gladstone, the
Marquis of Lorne, King Edward, Queen Victoria, and the Prince of Wales,
now King of England.

At the outbreak of the Sioux, in 1890 and 1891, Colonel Cody served at
the head of the Nebraska National Guard. In 1895 Cody took up the
development of Wyoming Valley by introducing irrigation. Not long
afterward he became judge advocate general of the Wyoming National
Guard.

Colonel Cody (Buffalo Bill) died in Denver, Colorado, on January 10,
1917. His legacy to a grateful world was a large share in the
development of the West, and a multitude of achievements in
horsemanship, marksmanship, and endurance that will live for ages. His
life will continue to be a leading example of the manliness, courage,
and devotion to duty that belonged to a picturesque phase of American
life now passed, like the great patriot whose career it typified, into
the Great Beyond.




                        BUFFALO BILL ENTRAPPED.




                               CHAPTER I.
                           IN A TIGHT PLACE.


One June night in the early seventies, the sole occupant of a lonely
cabin high up in the Rockies had a bad dream. Pursued by a legion of
monsters, he found himself on the verge of a bottomless pit. While he
choked with terror, a terrific noise as of the bursting of a bomb
dissipated the horrible illusion to which his brain had been subjected,
and he awoke gasping and wild-eyed. His face was covered with a cold
perspiration, and for some moments he was incapable of movement. With
the return of his wits came sounds that he could distinguish. They
brought him to his feet instantly. Not far away had come a succession of
pistol and rifle shots.

As he hurriedly dressed, a bright light streamed in at the window. The
room was brilliantly lighted up, and the man could hear the crackling of
timbers, and knew that the cabin of his nearest neighbor was in flames.

Opening the door, he stepped out into the open air. The sky for a great
distance presented a lurid spectacle.

Looking toward the lower end of the small flat upon which he was
located, he saw, as he expected, a cabin on fire.

The crack! crack! of a rifle greeted his ears as he was on the point of
starting for the cabin. What did all these shots mean? Was the fire the
work of an incendiary, and had murder been added to arson?

Bart Angell, hunter, scout, and Indian fighter, as brave a man as ever
stood six feet two without boots, compressed his lips tightly, and into
his sharp, homely, honest face there crept an expression of grim
resolution. Rifle in hand, he started on a run for the burning cabin,
and was about halfway to the spot when he caught sight of a man, a
stranger, running from the fire and toward the brush at the outlet of a
ravine.

Crack! went Angell’s rifle, and the runner, with an unearthly scream,
fell to the ground.

The cabin was in ruins as the scout passed it to reach the form of the
man he had shot.

He was near the victim, who was lying on his face, when he heard a faint
voice calling him from the bushes on his right. He stopped, said loudly,
“Who’s that?” and, receiving no answer, walked quickly toward the place
whence the voice had come.

The light was still strong enough for Angell to see about him, and he
was near the bushes when he saw a section of the buckskin habiliments of
a man who was lying on the ground.

“That you, Bart?” asked a faint voice, as the scout reached the bushes.

“Great Cæsar’s ghost!” ejaculated Angell, as his eyes rested on the face
of the prostrate man in buckskin. “Buffalo Bill!”

The king of scouts tried to rise, but the effort was a failure. “I—I am
all right, Bart,” he said, with an attempt at a smile. “Lost blood that
I need in my business, that’s all.”

Angell quickly made an examination of Buffalo Bill’s hurt. He had been
shot in the side, and it was impossible then to tell how serious was the
injury. But after the wound had been washed and bandaged and a generous
stimulant had been administered, the king of scouts diagnosed his case,
and, as it proved, correctly.

“The bullet did not go straight into my anatomy, Bart. That’s a cinch.”
He felt along his side. “It struck a rib, glanced and shot upward. I can
feel it under the skin near the armpit.”

“Then I’ll purceed ter seperate it from yer person, old son,” remarked
Angell, and with his hunting knife he deftly performed this bit of
surgery.

The operation over, he said: “I’ve shore got ter ask yer ter excuse me
fer a few minutes. Thar’s a measly rickaroon at the edge of ther flat
that is claimin’ my attention.”

“Come to remember, I did hear your Peter Erastus speak just before I
called to you, Bart. Did you bring down your man?”

The homely scout snorted. “Do I know how ter shoot? Buffalo, I’m ashamed
on ye.”

With these words he walked away, and was soon bending over the form of
his victim. The man was not dead, but the end was not far off.

Angell raised the victim’s head and gazed sharply into the pale face.
The man was an utter stranger. He had a large mouth, a retreating chin,
and little eyes set close together. Upon his face was a stubby, reddish
growth of hair.

The eyes opened after some whisky had been poured down the man’s throat.

“Got me fer keeps,” was the hoarse remark, the little eyes blinking
furiously.

“Yer shore goin’ ter peter,” replied Angell gravely; “an’, bein’ ez that
aire so, it’s up ter you ter tell ther truth. Why d’ye fire ther cabin
an’ shoot Buffalo Bill, an’ whatever hev become of Matt Holmes, who
lived in ther cabin?”

“I never shot no one,” said the dying man. “I sot ther cabin on fire,
an’ that’s all I did. I aimed ter do ther killin’, but it war done—war
done—by——” The voice ceased, and a few seconds later Bart Angell was
looking at the face of a dead man.

With a sour face, the slayer left the body and returned to the king of
scouts.

“I didn’t git thar in time fer a satisfactory auntymottim, as them aire
crowner fellers would say,” he announced. “Ther skunk went up ther flume
without tellin’ all he knowed about ther fire an’ ther shootin’.
But”—his countenance lighting up—“mebbe you kin fill in ther blanks.”

“Who was the man you killed?” inquired Buffalo Bill eagerly.

“Hanged ef I know. Some ornery cuss that looks as ef he war three parts
idjut.”

“Is he well dressed and a good looker in the face?”

“Not by a jugful. He aire as homely as a hedge fence, and he wears the
clothes of a scarecrow.”

“Then the villain who is responsible for this night’s work has escaped.”

“Do ye know him?”

“No, I don’t know him, but”—and there was a world of determination in
the tone—“I am going to know him, and——”

He paused, and his eyes flashed ominously.

There was silence for a while, and then Angell said:

“It’s mighty queer ter find you here, Buffalo. I didn’t know you war in
this yer neck o’ woods. When did ye come, an’ what’s all this business
about? War you visitin’ Matt Holmes when ther cabin war sot afire?”

“I was, and I have a pretty long story to tell, Bart. Suppose we defer
explanations until I get to your shack and have rested a bit.”

“That proposition is shore all right,” replied Angell. “Ye can’t walk,
but I’ll tote ye along ther trail ’thout any trouble.”

“There is no hurry, Bart. Before we leave, I want to make sure that Matt
Holmes is dead.”

“Ther galoot I laid out allowed ther war killin’ done,” said Angell,
“an’ so I reckon that Holmes war murdered. Whar’ll I look fer him?”

“I saw him go out the front door and start for the brush.”

“Then I’ll shore do some projeckin’ in ther brush.”

Angell went away, and soon returned with the statement that he had found
the dead body of the owner of the cabin. The murdered man had been
discovered at the mouth of the ravine. He had been shot a number of
times. One bullet had penetrated the brain.

Buffalo Bill sighed. “I would have prevented the murder if the fiend had
not surprised us. I was shot just before Holmes made for the door.”

As he spoke, the king of scouts noticed that Angell had his hand behind
his back. “Found something, Bart?” he said quietly. “Trot it out.”

Angell brought to view a white handkerchief. He had found it near the
body of the murdered man.

The king of scouts took the handkerchief and examined it carefully.

In one corner was a Chinese laundry mark.

“I am not a detective, Bart,” said Buffalo Bill, as he scrutinized the
mark, “or I might trace this wipe to its owner.”

“It would be a hard job”—with a shake of the head—“fer ther nearest
chink joint is in Denver. Hold yer horses,” he added suddenly. “I’m
clean off my base. Thar’s one in Taos. It shore opened up six months
ago. I war in ther town when ther chink piked in from Austin. I’ll bet a
quirt ther rag came from Taos.”

Buffalo Bill put the handkerchief into his breast pocket. “I’ll try Taos
if I don’t make the riffle in these mountains. The evidence I want may
be on the body of the man you killed. Go back again and search the
pockets. Bring everything here.”

Angell went away for the second time, and when he returned he brought a
purse containing a few dollars in silver, a knife, a revolver, a plug of
tobacco, and a match box with the initials “T. D.” engraved upon an
oval.

The king of scouts was disappointed. The match box was the only clew to
the identity of the dead man, and even it might prove valueless. The
initials might belong to somebody else. The box might have been found or
stolen.

“Do you know any one whose name will fit these initials?” he asked.

“Lemme think,” replied Angell, as he stroked his chin. “It’s more’n
likely that it stands fer Tom. As fer ‘D’—jumpin’ Jehosophat! Ther
galoot is Tom Darke; Lanky Tom, that ther sheriff of Santa Fe was achin’
ter catch when I war down that way three months ago. I seen ther bills
describin’ ther critter, an’ thar’s no mistook about it.”

“I reckon you’re right,” returned Buffalo Bill quietly. “I remember the
case. Darke was implicated in a dastardly murder. He was the tool, not
the principal. Jared Holmes, a merchant of Santa Fe, was assassinated at
his home. It was after dark, and he was sitting in front of an open
window. A shot was fired from without, and the bullet entered his brain.
A man answering the description of Tom Darke was seen running away from
the house; there was other circumstantial evidence connecting him with
the crime, and so the officers tried to overhaul him.”

Bart Angell nodded. “Tom war a tinhorn gambler, and ther sheriff told me
that, onct whilst how-come-ye-so, Tom let out ter a feller he war
drinkin’ with that he war workin’ fer a boss that war shore comin’ in
fer all kinds of money.”

Buffalo Bill’s face was grave. “Do you know,” he said, “that Jared
Holmes was the brother of Matt Holmes, whose dead body lies out there in
the brush? The motive that prompted the killing of Jared was the same
that prompted the taking off of Matt. But I won’t go into details now.
Help me to get to your cabin, and after a while I’ll talk more.”

But there was no revelation that night. The king of scouts was in a
fainting condition when Angell’s cabin was reached. A second dressing to
his wound was given, and he was put to bed. Next morning he awoke with
mind clear and only a slight physical weakness.

After breakfast, he said: “I realize that you are anxious to know
exactly what happened at the cabin of Holmes, and I believe you will
work better after I have relieved your curiosity. By this you will
understand that there is work for you to do. The bodies down on the flat
must be buried. We are many hundreds of miles from a town and a coroner,
and so we must act as if we represented the government of the
Territory.”

Angell went outside, and presently appeared with a pick and shovel.
Resting the implements against the wall, he said as he came forward to
sit on a stool by Buffalo Bill’s bunk: “Go ahead. You aire ther judge
an’ I’m ther sheriff.”

“I was in Hayes City a few weeks ago,” the king of scouts began, “and
was figuring on going up to Laramie for a spell to look after my
interests near the place, when an old army friend, Major Kent, met me
and asked a service. A young woman, daughter of a West Point classmate,
was in town, and it was her desire to proceed at once to the cabin of
Matt Holmes, in these hills. The matter was important, and she needed a
guide and protector. Would I act in that double capacity? I did not give
an answer until I had taken a look at the young woman. Then I
capitulated. I have seen many pretty women, Bart, but none prettier than
Myra Wilton. And, best of all, she is as good as she is pretty. I would
have been a brute if I had not consented to take charge of her and see
her safely to her destination.

“Two days sufficed for preparations, and one fine morning, mounted on
ponies, we set out across the plains for the mountains. It was not long
before I had her full confidence. She told me something that both
surprised and vexed me. She had journeyed from her home in Pennsylvania
on the say-so of a letter written by a man who was an utter stranger to
her. The letter was from Santa Fe, and was signed ‘James Loftus,’ and
set forth that, as the attorney of Matt Holmes, her uncle, it was his
duty to inform her that her uncle had but a few months to live. He had
met with an accident while out hunting, and was now waiting for the end
to come. His brother Jared was dead, and she was his only living
relative. There was something of the utmost importance, relating to his
possessions, which he desired to communicate to her. He dared not trust
to the post, for he had an enemy who possessed satanic craft. Therefore,
he asked that she come to him, and at once. She could find a guide in
Hayes City. The journey was not a hard one, and he hoped to see her
before a month had passed.

“I know all the law sharps in Santa Fe, or in the Territory, for that
matter, and no one of them answers to the name of Loftus. The statement
that Holmes had an enemy also made me regard the letter as shady. But I
did not voice my suspicions for fear of alarming Miss Wilton. I would
guide her to Holmes’ place, and see to it that she met with no harm. I
know now that I made a mistake. Better for her had we turned back and
never attempted to cross the mountains.”

“What! Did ye lose her?” queried Angell, with marked concern written on
his homely face.

“Yes, I lost her,” replied Buffalo Bill despondingly. “We were within
half a mile of her uncle’s cabin, and I had begun to think that my
suspicions were groundless, when I heard shots coming from the direction
of the cabin. I spurred on ahead, and did not look behind me until I was
in sight of the cabin. Then I turned. Miss Wilton was not in sight.
Supposing that she had failed to make good time and would soon show
herself, I waited.

“Soon a shout from the cabin made me turn and face the door. There stood
Matt Holmes, as well as ever. I had known him for years, and when he
shouted, ‘Look out, Cody, or they’ll get you,’ I ducked my head, and
thus escaped a bullet fired from the brush.

“The next moment I was on the ground. I got to the cabin, and as soon as
I entered, Holmes closed the door. ‘My enemy has found me,’ he
explained, ‘and we are goin’ to have a picnic.’

“Hurriedly I informed him that his niece was outside, and that she had
come in response to the instructions of a lying letter. The statement
was no sooner made than we heard a woman’s scream. I was about to dash
for the door, when a bullet fired from behind—the back door must have
been open—brought me to the floor. As I fell I heard other shots, saw
Holmes rush out of doors, and then I fainted. I came to my senses to
find the cabin on fire.

“How I got outside in time to prevent cremation I do not know. But I
managed it somehow, and in the brush fainted again. I was opening my
eyes when you came, Bart. Now you know all I have to tell. The enemy of
Matt Holmes has won the first moves in the diabolical game he is
playing. He has committed two murders, and he has carried off Myra
Wilton.”

“I shore hope he ar’n’t aimin’ to murder her,” said Angell, with a white
face.

“It is not likely,” was the confident response. “He has other designs.
She is too pretty to kill.” As he spoke a frown came to his brow, and he
bit his lip viciously. “Confound this wound of mine. I won’t be able to
get about and do business for hours.”

“But yer humble sarvint ain’t in ther same fix,” responded Angell
quickly. “I am shore on deck, an’, what’s more, I’m pinin’ ter git on
ther trail of ther pizen hounds that’s moseyed off with ther gal.”

“Good!” said the king of scouts, his face clearing instantly. “Start as
soon as you like. I am able to look out for myself.”

Ten minutes later Bart Angell was on the flat with pick and shovel. The
duty of burial performed, he set out up the ravine which had brought
Buffalo Bill and Myra Wilton to the flat.

He had been gone an hour when a tall man, with face covered by a black
mask, stole up to the cabin that held the king of scouts.

Through the small window on the side, he peered in and saw Buffalo Bill
propped up on the bunk and calmly smoking a pipe.

The door was open, and a few minutes later the man appeared in front of
it. In his hand was a revolver, and the king of scouts looked up to gaze
into the muzzle of the weapon.

A moment of silence followed:

Then Buffalo Bill spoke coolly: “Looks as if you had the drop.”




                              CHAPTER II.
                         THE TABLES ARE TURNED.


The man with the mask emitted a soft chuckle. “Appearances in this case
are not deceitful, William,” he suavely replied. “I have the drop, and
you are exactly where I want you.”

With the words he stepped into the room, but did not close the door.
Placing a stool on one side of the opening, he coolly sat down, his
revolver the while still pointed at the head of the king of scouts.

Buffalo Bill went on smoking, and, though his face was pale, there was
no sign of fear upon it.

There was silence for a few moments, and then the scout said quietly:
“If you are in no hurry to shoot, why not lower that gun of yours? It
might go off accidentally and bring my partner here.”

The masked villain smiled evilly. “Your partner won’t come here to-day.
He has gone where you are soon to go.”

Buffalo Bill could draw but one conclusion from the words. Bart Angell
had been surprised and killed. And a knife, instead of a pistol, had
been used.

Gazing steadily at the masked man, the intrepid border king thus voiced
his opinion of the murderer: “I have met with all sorts of reptiles in
my time, but never one who was so meanly detestable as yourself. You
slimy, rotten, crawling apology for a human being, why don’t you blaze
away? I’d rather slip up the flume than remain a minute longer in your
company. The vilest degenerate that ever sucked air into his lungs is a
saint alongside of you.”

Quick as a flash, the now thoroughly incensed villain raised the
revolver, which had been slightly lowered while the king of scouts was
speaking, and fired. The bullet cut a lock from the wounded scout’s
temple, whereat he laughed.

“This is no laughing matter,” growled the assassin. “You escaped that
time, but I’ll get you with the next bullet.”

“Maybe you will,” composedly responded the other, “but you’ll get
through with your business with me before you really try to kill me. I’m
on to you, Mister Man, and if I hadn’t guessed that you are not yet
ready to extinguish my light, I would never have invited you to cut
loose.”

The murderer lowered his pistol. His expression of hate gave way to one
of admiration. “You are the limit, Cody,” he grudgingly remarked. “You
are sharp, all right, but you’ll need all your wits, and a cartload
besides, to get out of the fix you are now in.”

“Think so?” said Buffalo Bill calmly.

“I do. I have you where I want you. Your partner is dead, and we are
hundreds of miles from a human habitation. When our little séance is
over, one man will be the only living thing in these solitudes.”

“How about the girl? Isn’t she near by?”

The masked man scowled. “Yes, she is not far away,” he admitted, “and
much good may the information do you.”

“You have left her up the ravine somewhere, I suppose?” insinuated the
scout.

“No matter where I have left her. You’ll never see her. But a truce to
this profitless chin music. I am going to ask you a few questions, and I
have an idea that you will answer them promptly, for as long as you
continue on that line I’ll hold back the bullet meant for your brain.”

“I am in the humor for frankness,” said Buffalo Bill easily. “Fire
away.”

The masked murderer showed surprise, but he quickly repressed the
emotion.

“You were a friend of Matt Holmes, were you not?” he asked.

“He had no better friend. I had known him for twenty years.”

“Did you know all his secrets?” The question was eagerly asked.

“Maybe I did and maybe I didn’t.”

As he spoke, the king of scouts was feeling about his person for a match
with which to relight his pipe.

“I’ll come down to cases. Did he tell you when you met him last night
that he was looking for the coming of an enemy?”

“Yes.”

The masked man started slightly.

“What did he say about me?”

The questioner leaned forward, the eyes behind the mask winking rapidly.

The hands of the king of scouts were now out of sight under the blanket,
which reached to his waist. So intent was the murderer upon the matter
of the answer he expected his victim to make that, for one short moment,
he lost caution. The lapse was fatal to his plan of ultimate murder.

There were two lightninglike movements on the part of Buffalo Bill. His
hands came into view. In each of them was a revolver, and the masked
murderer, starting back, found himself covered.

“Drop that gun of yours!” commanded the scout harshly, “and be mighty
quick about it.”

The beaten villain allowed the weapon to fall to the floor of the cabin.
There was an explosion, but the bullet did no other damage than to make
a hole in the wall under the bunk.

The situation was reversed. The king of scouts now held the whip hand.

Holding his pistols in a menacing way, he kicked off the blankets and
sat on the edge of the bunk, with his feet resting on the floor.

“The party of the first part has had his innings,” he coolly remarked,
“and now it is up to the other party in the controversy to do a little
stunt in the way of examination. Need I state that a failure to answer
questions will result in some effective pistol play, or are you wise to
the dangerous position in which you stand?”

The masked murderer was trembling with fear and rage. He did not reply.

“Take off that mask,” was the stern command. “Take it off or I will
shoot it off.”

The mask was removed with celerity, and the face of a young man was
revealed. It was dark and smooth, and not unhandsome, but the thin lips,
the glint of the light-blue eyes and a certain hardness of expression,
betokened a selfish and cruel nature.

The king of scouts looked long and intently at the man. Suddenly his
face lightened. He smiled.

“I remember you,” he said quietly. “Wild Bill reformed Dodge City a few
years ago. Gave the tough ones twenty-four hours’ notice to leave town.
The chief of the disreputable outfit, a man who tried highway robbery
when the money did not flow in rapidly enough from card cheating, was
one Rixton Clay. You are the hombre.”

The murderer showed his teeth. His face was as pale as death.

Buffalo Bill went on calmly: “Clay is not your real name. I’ll bet it’s
Holmes, and that you are the cousin of Myra Wilton.”

The expression that came to the villain’s face showed that the king of
scouts had made a correct guess. The latter proceeded with increased
confidence: “You are in a scheme to capture a rich estate. That’s plain.
Somebody, relative of Jared and Matt Holmes, Myra Wilton, and yourself,
has died recently. With the Holmes brothers and the girl out of the way,
you will become the sole heir to the fortune. I am right, eh?” No
answer. “Of course I am right. Come, own up, for you are on the
toboggan, and a close mouth won’t save you from the fate that awaits the
murderer.”

“I have nothing to say,” replied Rixton Clay slowly.

“Oh, but you have,” said Buffalo Bill, as he brought his revolver nearer
the head of his victim. “You have a whole lot to say. You are going to
tell me all about your game. You are going deep into details. You are
going to tell me how Jared Holmes was killed, by your orders, in Taos,
and how you afterward killed the slayer when you had no further use for
his services. You are going to do a whole lot of talk, and you are going
to begin right now. One, two, three——”

“All right”—the words were jerked out—“I’ll talk. Curse, you! I wish I
had killed you when I first caught sight of your face.”

Buffalo Bill shrugged his shoulders and grinned. “You were a fool, and
no mistake. But as I am the winner by your bad break, I’ll not raise a
kick. Now, what is your true name?”

“Rixton Holmes.”

“Myra Wilton is your cousin, is she not?”

“Yes.”

“What is this fortune you are scheming to get?”

“It’s a mine in Colorado.”

“Who owned it?”

“My uncle, Peter Holmes.”

“Brother of Jared and Matt, and the mother of Myra, eh?”

“Yes”—surlily.

“When did Peter die?”

“Last month.”

“How?”

“How? Why”—he hesitated, and then said with lowered head—“some one
killed him while he was down in the mine inspecting a new lead.”

“Ah, I see. You began with Peter and finished with Matt.” There was
disgust and repulsion on the scout’s honest face.

“I’ll never say I killed him,” returned Rixton Holmes defiantly. “The
mystery of his death will never be cleared up.”

“There you’re wrong,” was the cool response. “The mystery has been
cleared up. But it won’t be necessary to try you for the crime. When the
court gets through with you for your other offenses, there won’t be
anything left of you for further trial.”

Rixton Holmes shivered, then suddenly straightened up and looked
resolutely at the king of scouts. “I am ready to die now,” he said, as
he tried to steady his voice. “I have got through talking. Kill me. I
don’t care.”

Buffalo Bill appeared to consider the matter. “Why not?” he said. “In
these wilds I can be judge, jury, and executioner, and no one would
blame me. It is the safe thing to do.” He tightened his grip on his
pistols. The victim stiffened, expecting a report to come. But neither
trigger was pressed.

“But,” the scout went on, “there is the poetic side of the case to
consider. If I were to kill you now, your suffering wouldn’t amount to a
hill of beans. You ought to suffer agonies; and, by the crawling
catamount, you shall. I’ll take you to Taos, and there you shall stay in
jail until the scaffold is ready for you to drop from. You shall hear
the carpenters as they hammer the thing into shape. Every nail driven
will be a nail in your coffin. Yes, to Taos you go.”

The speaker rose to his feet. “I am not in the best of condition,” he
continued, “and, therefore, I must ask you to assist me a little. Here
are some rawhides”—tossing them. “Please tie your wrists for me. I think
I will be able to do the rest.”

Rixton Holmes regarded the king of scouts in contemptuous surprise. “Do
you take me for a blanked idiot?” he said. “If you want me tied, you’ll
have to do the tying yourself.”

A bullet scraped the villain’s ear. “You must take another look at your
hand,” remarked the shooter sharply. “You spoke without taking stock of
your situation.”

With an angry expletive, Holmes took the cords and began to follow the
scout’s directions. He was thus occupied when a noise in the bushes
outside made him cease operations and look queerly at Buffalo Bill.

The king of scouts walked quickly to the door and looked out with one
eye. The other he kept glued to the face of Rixton Holmes. He had the
forethought not to expose his body, but stood upon one side of the
opening.

A peculiar, hissing sound from the bushes brought a similar sibilant
exhibition from within the cabin.

Buffalo Bill, instantly alive to the new danger that menaced him, leaped
across the room and dealt Holmes a crushing blow behind the ear.

As the villain collapsed in a heap on the floor, the king of scouts
started for the door for the purpose of closing it, when a series of
bloodcurdling yells broke upon his ears.

The yells were followed by the appearance of a score of painted savages.
They were in full view from the door before Buffalo Bill could reach it.
Instantly his revolvers cracked, and howls and screams announced the
result of his shots. Having fired several times with the effect of
driving the redskins back to the bushes, he closed the door and shot the
bolt. This done, he turned his attention to the villain on the floor.

Before Holmes’ senses returned, he was bound hand and foot.

No gag was applied. The king of scouts desired a little further
information from his victim.

It would probably be some time before the Indians made a new
demonstration, and the scout had a faint hope that the lull might
furnish something that would take the edge off the grave danger that
confronted him.

“You know these savages,” he said harshly to Holmes. “Their coming was
not unexpected. Do they play a part in this villainous scheme of yours?”

“It can do me no harm to answer that question,” replied the villain,
with a malicious grin. “They are friends of mine, and I knew they were
coming.”

“Why have they come? You did not need them to aid you in the murder of
Matt Holmes, nor in the abduction of Myra Wilton.”

“No”—the grin broadening—“but I need them to assist me in taking care of
the girl. She is to be the bride of Raven Feather, the chief.”

“Then I reckon she is with them now.”

“If she isn’t she ought to be. I left her with them when I made my sneak
to prospect this cabin.”

“Did the Indians know that I was here?”

“No, neither did I know you were here when I started for the cabin. I
knew some man, wounded, was here, but my notion was that the man was my
Uncle Matt.”

A voice from without caused Buffalo Bill to look up quickly.

“Raven Feather would speak with the great white warrior, Buffalo Bill,”
were the words, spoken in the Navaho tongue, that reached the scout’s
ears.

“Speak, and see that your tongue is not forked, Raven Feather,” was the
cold reply.

“The tongue of Raven Feather is not the tongue of a serpent. The words
shall be straight. Raven Feather seeks the white man who is Buffalo
Bill’s prisoner. Give Raven Feather the prisoner and Buffalo Bill may go
free. Raven Feather has no quarrel with the great white warrior.”

“That’s a lie, chief,” was the quiet reply. “You want my scalp for the
loss of the braves who fell before the door a few minutes ago. Well, if
you get it you’ll have to suffer the loss of a few more braves. I am in
a tight place—I would be a fool not to admit it—but I’m not going to
peter out without taking a star part in a sanguinary circus. So drop
your smooth talk, and let the fun begin.”

As he ceased speaking, a noise at the window on the side of the cabin
nearest the bushes attracted his attention. Quick as a flash, he wheeled
and fired, and a Navaho fell.

It had been the design of the treacherous Raven Feather to distract the
attention of the king of scouts until the brave could reach the window
and take a shot at the man who had overcome Rixton Holmes.

Buffalo Bill changed his position so that the window was no longer a
point of danger.

The Navaho chief did not again open his mouth to speak, and for some
minutes silence reigned in the vicinity of the cabin.

Rixton Holmes lay on the floor, a placid expression on his dark
countenance.

The king of scouts regarded the villain with a frown. “Don’t you imagine
that your rescue is near at hand,” he said, in a tone that made Holmes
shiver, “for you’ll die before a savage enters that door. I may be
booked for the last journey, but you can make up your mind that your
ticket for the infernal regions will be punched before the redskins
settle my case.”

The villain shut his eyes and did some tall thinking. He knew that
Buffalo Bill would do as he threatened.

Soon he said: “I am willing to make a deal with you. Raven Feather is in
my employ. He will obey my commands. Turn me loose, and you shall not be
harmed.”

The king of scouts smiled. “What do you take me for, a babe in arms?
What, let me go free after I know your game and am in a position to
spoil it? Oh, no, Mr. Rixton Holmes, no deal of that kind with you. But
I will tell what I am willing to do. Give orders to those Navahos to
withdraw, to light out across the flat to the open country—I will want
to see them as they go off, you understand—and when they are a mile
away, I will go out and leave you here.”

“Where will you go?”

“Out of the danger zone, of course,” answered the scout promptly, but
with his face turned away from the prisoner.

Holmes considered the matter seriously. He sighed. It went against the
grain to accept Buffalo Bill’s proposition, but he must do it, or his
life would be lost. Soon his face cleared a little. Buffalo Bill was
wounded, and therefore could not travel fast. The Navahos, who were
magnificent trailers, and knew every foot of the country, would probably
be able to run the scout down.

“I will accept,” he announced, and the king of scouts, who had divined
what had been passing in the villain’s mind, repressed a smile, and
responded coldly: “Very well. You are a sensible man, sometimes. Now
elevate your voice and talk business to your cutthroat allies outside.”

Holmes shouted, and soon Raven Feather came out of the bushes and
approached the door.

The command requested by Buffalo Bill was given, and immediately the
Indians withdrew, going across the flat and into the stretch of open
country.

Buffalo Bill counted eight. Four, then, must have been slain. He waited
a few moments, and then cautiously opened the door. Three Navahos lay
dead in front of the cabin. He went around the building, and there was
the body of the fourth Indian. It lay under the window.

Returning to the room, he satisfied himself that Holmes was weaponless,
then cut the bonds and told the prisoner to get up. The savages were now
half a mile away.

“In a few minutes I will leave you,” said the scout. “It gravels me to
let you slip out of my fingers, but I am sure that we are destined to
meet again.”

Five minutes later Buffalo Bill, armed with his own and Holmes’ weapons,
walked out of the cabin and entered the bushes. He appeared to be taking
a direction that would bring him to the trail that led over the hills to
Taos.

Rixton Holmes smiled in satisfaction. He had noticed that the scout
moved slowly, and he believed that the wound in the side troubled him,
and would prevent quick movement away from the flat.

The enemy was out of sight when Holmes signaled to the Navahos.
Instantly the band wheeled and started on a run for the cabin.

On arriving at the structure, Holmes briefly explained to Raven Feather
what had happened, and pointed to the east. “He has gone up that way,”
he said. “Send out three or four of your swiftest braves, and they’ll
overhaul him.”

At that moment the king of scouts was on the western side of the cabin.
His weakness had been assumed. The wound was not troubling him much, and
he felt able to do his usual work. Entering the bushes, he had hurried
to the ravine, made a detour, circled Matt Holmes’ cabin, and, under
cover of the brush on the western side of the flat, had crept to a spot
not twenty yards from the cabin door, about which Raven Feather and his
Navahos were standing.

After four of the Indians had departed to trail the fugitive, he heard
Rixton Holmes ask Raven Feather: “Where is the girl?” And he heard the
chief answer: “She is in the cave with my brother Crow-killer.”




                              CHAPTER III.
                    BUFFALO BILL FALLS INTO A TRAP.


In reaching his position, the king of scouts had covered his trail as
far as was possible for him to do so. But he knew that the only effect
of his precaution would be to delay the arrival of the four Navahos who
had been sent out to run him to earth.

At the most, he had half an hour in which to continue his retreat or
make an effort to regain the ground he had lost at the cabin.
Circumstances had compelled him to relinquish an advantage, but his mind
was made up not to leave the flat until he had had another accounting
with the murderer of Matt and Jared Holmes.

He realized that the odds were against him, but the fact did not alter
his determination. “If only Bart Angell had lived,” he said sorrowfully
to himself, “the work would be easy. With him for support, I could rush
that cabin and have Rixton Holmes by the heels in a twinkling.”

A rifle shot from the direction of the ravine brought an expression of
amazement to his fine face. Upon the sound of the report, Raven Feather,
who a moment before had stepped into the cabin, came out accompanied by
Rixton Holmes. Their eyes met, and one thought was in the mind of each.
The Indian trailers had come upon Buffalo Bill and shot him. No other
theory was permissible, for, if the shot had been fired by the king of
scouts, there would assuredly have come an answering report.

The chief and his white employer stood a moment, listening, and then,
hearing nothing, Raven Feather spoke rapidly to the braves who had
remained with him at the cabin.

As they made for the bushes, Buffalo Bill saw to his relief and
satisfaction that Holmes and Raven Feather were moving toward the door
of the cabin. He waited until they had entered, and then stole quickly
across the space that separated him from the little building.

His movement was not observed, for the one window of the cabin was on
the other side. A slight noise in his rear caused him to turn his head
just as he was about to step in front of the doorway and cover the
enemies within.

What he saw brought a light of joy to his eyes.

Bart Angell, in the flesh, stood on the spot the king of scouts had left
but a few moments before. His rifle was in his hand, and, though his
face was bloody, he held himself erect, and seemed ready for any
emergency.

Buffalo Bill put his finger to his lips, pointed toward the cabin door,
and then wheeled, took a few steps, and brought his revolvers to bear
upon the Indian chief and Rixton Holmes.

The white villain and his savage ally were taken completely by surprise.
Holmes was sitting on the bunk, and Raven Feather squatted on the floor
in front of him.

“One yell from either of you,” the king of scouts hissed, “and I shoot.
Hands up!”

As he spoke, Bart Angell appeared by his side. The chief’s copper
countenance twitched once, and then became stolid. With the stoicism of
his race, he had quickly accepted the situation. But Rixton Holmes was
of different metal. He groaned, and then began to curse.

While the king of scouts held the pistols, the stalwart backwoodsman
quickly and deftly bound the limbs of the two victims.

The operation over, Buffalo Bill asked: “How many foes have we got to
face? Half an hour ago there were eight Navahos. Four went out on hunt
for me, and afterward three left to see what had become of the four.”

“I reckon that three will be erbout ther number,” replied Angell, with a
slight smile.

“I thought so, Bart. You met the four, and——”

“Wiped ’em out. Yes, that war ther ticket. I had ter, Cody.”

“Of course”—with a look of appreciation. “But the story will have to be
deferred. We must settle with the three who are out.”

“I don’t berleeve they’ll mosey back hyer,” was Angell’s comment.
“They’ll shorely find ther four dead bodies, an’ they’ll naterally
conclude that you hev made tracks fer ther cabin, fer, in course,
they’ll think as how you war ther slayer.”

“Maybe you are right, Bart.”

“You stay hyer a spell an’ I’ll prove I’m right. Ef ther three aire
hot-footin’ it fer ther plains I’ll soon know, an’ waltz back an’ tell
ye.”

Angell went off, following the route taken by the savage trio.

He was out of hearing when it occurred to Buffalo Bill that the three
Indians might retreat to the cave spoken of by Raven Feather where Myra
Wilton was hidden a prisoner, with the chief’s brother Crow-killer as
guard.

If this should prove to be the case, Angell might not be able to return
as soon as he had hoped when he set out.

It was probable that he knew nothing about the cave, for if he had, he
would assuredly have spoken of it. Somewhat uneasy in mind, the scout
lit a pipe and began to smoke.

Observing his sober face, Rixton Holmes said maliciously: “You are not
feeling very well, in spite of the fact that you have turned the tables
on me. I’ll bet a hat your pard doesn’t come back. He has played in luck
twice, but he’ll miss it on the third trial.”

“His coming here in the nick of time showed you up as the champion
liar,” returned the king of scouts sharply. “You said you had killed
him.”

“And I thought I had,” was the calm reply. “He was lying on the ground
up the ravine, looking at something below, when I stole up, used my
knife, and tumbled him over the bank. I saw him go plunging down a
hundred feet or more, landing in a clump of bushes.”

“He’s a hard man to kill,” said Buffalo Bill, as he blew a cloud of
smoke into the air, “and he won’t miss this last trick. When he returns,
the girl will be with him.”

“Do you care to make a small bet on that proposition?” asked Holmes, a
queer look on his face.

The king of scouts regarded the villain curiously. “You think you know
something that I have not yet discovered,” he said. “It’s about the
cave, I am sure.”

“Yes, it is about the cave, Cody. Your expression assures me that you do
not know where this cave is. It would be surprising if you did. I am
acquainted with this section as well as the next man, and yet I did not
know until yesterday that there was a cave in these parts.”

“I’ll have to acknowledge that I don’t know where the cave is located,”
replied the king of scouts, “but that fact does not prevent me from
thinking that Bart Angell will find it. He is as good a trailer as a
Navaho, and he’ll follow the redskins to the cave if, as I believe, they
have gone there.”

Rixton Holmes shook his head. “You don’t understand the layout, Cody.
The trail will be lost long before your partner gets within a half mile
of the cave.”

“Well,” said Buffalo Bill resignedly, “if Bart fails to find the hole,
he’ll come back, and then we’ll put our heads together and try to solve
the riddle.”

Holmes made no reply, but he winked at Raven Feather, who during the
conversation had been gazing placidly at the rafters of the roof.

Buffalo Bill began to grow uneasy. He did not like the attitude of his
prisoners. It was evident that they did not look upon their situation as
serious. It was also evident that they were expecting assistance. From
whom could it come? He puckered his lips in an effort to reach a
solution of the cheerful demeanor of Holmes and the chief. Ah, the
explanation of the situation was at hand. The prisoners expected help
from Crow-killer, the chief’s brother. The three Indians would reach the
cave and tell Crow-killer what had happened and what they feared.
Crow-killer, more shrewd and intelligent than the three braves, would
conclude that the slayer of the four Navahos would go to the cabin and
attack the chief and the white man, Holmes. If he succeeded in this
venture, then he would likely take the trail to find the girl. He was
now, in all probability, on the way to the cave. Good; for while he,
Buffalo Bill, the mighty warrior, was following the trail of the three
braves, Crow-killer and the braves would be hurrying to the cabin by
another route.

Thus reasoned the king of scouts, but his satisfaction over his
deductions did not last long. He called to mind the remark of Holmes
that Bart Angell would not return. The remark carried the implication
that he would be ambushed somewhere on the way to the cave.

“Hang it,” muttered the scout, in marked vexation, “I wish I could guess
what is going on outside of this cabin.”

Rixton Holmes spoke up at this juncture. “I would like to tell you a
story, Cody,” he said, with a half chuckle. “It is pretty long, but it
will serve to make the time pass pleasantly while you are waiting for
your pard. A few years ago——”

“Cut it,” interrupted the perturbed king of scouts as he walked to the
door. “I can guess what your object is. You want to keep me here in this
room so that Crow-killer can get a bead on me when he comes. I won’t
have it so. I am going to leave for a few minutes.”

The smile departed from Rixton Holmes’ face. The announcement did not
please him. A terrible fear gripped him when Buffalo Bill continued
coolly: “I shall not go far. I shall not go out of sight of the cabin.”

He paused, looked at the prisoners, intercepted a glance between them,
and then, to their manifest discomfiture, walked over to them and
proceeded to gag them.

Now, satisfied that they were powerless for harm, he went out of doors
and entered the brush. Along the trail he went until the steadily rising
ground brought him to a point whence he could command a view of both the
ravine and the flat.

For more than an hour he remained at his post, and was becoming alarmed
as well as impatient at the nonappearance of either Bart Angell or
Crow-killer, and his party, when he saw emerging from the ravine at the
southern end of the flat the forms of three Indians. By the aid of his
pocket field glass he was able to identify Crow-killer as one of the
trio. The brother of the Navaho chief was a giant in size, and the king
of scouts had heard of his prowess in battle, and also of his cunning
and audacity. The scout had never before been placed in a position where
he could try conclusions with the redoubtable savage, and he was not ill
pleased because an opportunity had at last arrived.

He watched the Indians, saw that they were not coming in his direction,
but were cautiously making their way across the flat so as to come upon
the cabin along the route the king of scouts himself had taken but a
short time before, and then he crept quickly and noiselessly back to the
building.

Entering, he assured himself that the prisoners were as he had left
them, and then he went out again.

A few rods from the door was a pile of logs which the owner of the cabin
had cut for firewood.

Behind the pile Buffalo Bill hastened to conceal himself, and there
awaited the coming of his savage enemies.

Fifteen minutes went by, and then the watcher detected a movement among
the bushes on the other side of the flat and nearly opposite his hiding
place. He used his field glasses, and soon discerned the head of an
Indian. The head was within rifle range, and the scout’s first impulse
was to fire. But sensible, second thought induced a different program.
If he fired and killed one of the savages, the others would likely take
themselves out of harm’s way, to give trouble in the near future. No, it
were best to wait and secure the chance to either slay or bag the trio.

Expecting that the Navahos would soon make for the cabin, Buffalo Bill
was disappointed and perplexed when many minutes passed and no such move
was made.

The head disappeared, and it was apparent that Crow-killer and his
braves had retreated farther into the bushes.

It might be that they intended to go around the flat and approach the
cabin from the other side. Or the delay in coming to the cabin might be
attributed to caution. Crow-killer did not know where the scout was. He
might be in the cabin, and he might be out searching for Bart Angell.

“I reckon I know what is bothering Crow-killer,” said the king of scouts
to himself. “He wants to know the layout in the cabin before making a
move to help his brother and that villain, Holmes. Maybe the program is
to make a sneak, get to the window, and look in.”

He was looking across the flat when there came the report of a rifle,
and a bullet struck a log a foot above his head. This action on the part
of the savages filled the king of scouts with surprise and uneasiness.
His body could not have been seen, for he was crouched behind the tall
pile of wood, and he had not exposed his head during his stay there.
How, then, could the Navahos know where he was?

He was endeavoring to answer this question, when a tomahawk, thrown with
murderous force, whizzed by his head. The attack had come from behind,
and his skull would have been cleft in twain if the wielder had not
slipped on the smooth, damp ground just as the arm shot out.

The king of scouts sprang to his feet and met the giant Crow-killer
advancing on him with drawn knife.

Buffalo Bill had his rifle in his hand. Quick as lightning he clubbed
it, and brought the stock down on the hand that held the knife.

The weapon dropped to the ground, and instantly Crow-killer leaped upon
his enemy.

Buffalo Bill had not time to again make use of the rifle. It left his
hand, and he met the rush by lowering his head and driving it like a
battering-ram against the weakest part of the giant’s anatomy.

Struck squarely in the pit of the stomach, Crow-killer doubled up, and
was in the act of falling, when Buffalo Bill, converting his right hand
into a sledge hammer, caused it to carom on the savage’s chin. The
result was what might have been expected: Crow-killer struck the ground
with a thud.

In an instant the victor regained his rifle and turned to glance at the
flat. The Navahos were running toward the cabin.

They saw him, and three reports rang out. They were not simultaneous.
Buffalo Bill, the quickest on the trigger, fired first, and then sprang
to one side, only to fire again and again.

When the smoke cleared away there were two dead Indians on the flat.

With a hard smile the king of scouts turned to see Crow-killer making
strenuous efforts to get to his feet.

A couple of well-directed blows had the result desired. The brother of
the Navaho chief sought again a horizontal position, and lay quite
still.

He was bound and gagged and dragged into the cabin. Taking a stool, the
victor of the recent combat wiped his perspiring face. He had reason for
exultation, but his brow was sad. The nonappearance of Bart Angell was
disquieting. He must have fallen into a trap and been conveyed to the
mysterious cave; and to find that cave, rescue Myra Wilton and possibly
the missing scout, was now Buffalo Bill’s fixed intention.

It was near the hour of noon. The king of scouts prepared a meal, ate of
it, and, removing the gags of his prisoners, gave each a supply of the
food. The two Indians partook sparingly of what was offered them, but
Rixton Holmes ate like a famished wolf. “I went off this morning without
my breakfast,” he explained to Buffalo Bill, with a nervous smile. “I am
in for it, maybe, but I’m not going to make a fool of myself. Food
imparts strength, and I may need my strength before I leave this neck o’
woods.”

“Yes, I think you will,” responded the king of scouts dryly. “Until I
find horses, there’s quite a long walk ahead of you.”

There was one horse outside. It belonged to Bart Angell. Affixed to the
pommel of the saddle was a reata. It was a long one, and Buffalo Bill
nodded approvingly as he removed it.

With the reata in his hand he reëntered the cabin, and thus addressed
his prisoners: “I am going to find that cave. You three will go with me,
for it would be the height of folly to leave you here. I shall give you
the use of your feet, but your hands will remain tied, and this reata
will serve as a bond to hold you together. The free end will be in my
hand, and I shall drive you much as I might drive so many fractious
ponies. Of course, it goes without saying that it won’t be healthy for
any one of you to disobey any order that I may give.”

None of the prisoners had anything to say. The ankle cords were cut, the
reata placed as explained, and then Buffalo Bill pointed to the door.
“March!” he commanded, and with Rixton Holmes in the lead, a sheepish
expression on his evil face, Buffalo Bill and his strange tandem left
the cabin.

Every order was obeyed as the party went along the trail that led to the
ravine. The two Indians wore scowling faces, but Holmes was cheerful.
The king of scouts wondered at the villain’s apparent state of mind. Was
he playing a part, affecting a joyousness that he was far from feeling,
or had he some card up his sleeve that he expected soon to play?

The scout determined to get at the truth if he could. “Holmes,” said he,
when they were near the ravine, “you are a slippery cuss, and you are
counting on getting out of the hole in which I have placed you. That’s
right, isn’t it?”

A cunning look came into the villain’s face. “I’d be a fool not to live
in hopes, when I am alive and well, wouldn’t I?” was the somewhat
evasive reply.

“Suppose I take you straight to Taos and not try to find this cave?
Would you still have hopes?”

Holmes’ jaw fell. But he quickly became composed. “But you won’t do
that,” he said. “I know you, Cody, and I know that you will not take the
trail for Taos until you’ve made an effort to find the girl.”

Buffalo Bill frowned. He had learned what he desired, and the knowledge
was not such as to give him any pleasure. Holmes was banking on
something in or about the cave. What that something was the king of
scouts had not the remotest idea. He had strong reason to believe that
it was a trap, and that Bart Angell had fallen into it. If he went on,
was able, either through the assistance of his prisoners or by his own
ingenuity, to find the cave, he might fall a victim to the wiles of the
enemy. Three Indians had gone from the cabin to Crow-killer at the cave.
One had been left behind, presumably to guard the fair prisoner and also
take care of the trap which must have received the stalwart and fearless
Angell. And yet, in spite of the probable danger, of the nature of which
he could not guess, he resolved to go on. “I’ve got to,” he muttered
under his breath. “I can’t leave the girl in the power of that Navaho,
and I can’t quit this section without ascertaining what has become of
Bart Angell.”

On the bank of the ravine the prisoners halted without an order. Their
eyes were directed toward a platform of rock about halfway up the
opposite bank.

Buffalo Bill, following the look, saw the head of an Indian appear above
some depression just beyond the far side of the platform. Before he
could raise his rifle the head disappeared.

“Your cave is over there,” the scout said to Rixton Holmes.

The villain nodded. There was an inscrutable expression on his face.

There was a safe trail to the bottom of the ravine. The prisoners and
their custodian went down the trail, the king of scouts keeping a sharp
eye meanwhile on the platform above.

But the head did not again appear.

“I wouldn’t try to go down to the cave if I were you,” said Holmes, with
affected earnestness.

“Perhaps you would like to become my substitute,” returned the scout
dryly.

“I wouldn’t mind,” was the cool response.

Buffalo Bill resolved to make a careful examination of the surroundings
before attempting to get into the cave. The trap, if there was one, must
be outside the big hole.

The three prisoners were ankle-bound and gagged, and left lying in the
bed of the ravine. Then the king of scouts, with an odd feeling in his
breast, began the ascent of the bank.

He reached the platform, but without stepping upon it, stood up and
looked at the point whence the Indian’s head had appeared.

There was no hole there. A large, flat stone occupied the spot.

The platform was carefully inspected. There was no break in the surface.

The ground about was next given the benefit of searching scrutiny.
Nothing unusual was presented to the sight. “Humph!” grunted the baffled
scout. “I wonder where the monkey business is hidden.”

He stepped upon the platform, and the answer to his question was at once
given, and in a most startling manner.

The huge rock sank under him, and he shot downward twenty feet. The
descent was rapid, but not so rapid as to cause him to lose his balance
when the bottom was reached. But he had not time to act on the defensive
against the enemy, who had been awaiting his coming. A lasso settled
about his neck, and he was jerked roughly to the hard floor of the cave.

A succession of heavy blows upon the head instantly followed his
downfall.

When he awoke to consciousness he was lying on a couch of skins in
another part of the cave. There was a subdued light furnished by a thin
crevice in the rocky wall over his head.

Raising himself on an elbow, he saw a young woman sitting on another
couch and bathing the head of a prostrate man. The man was Bart Angell,
and the young woman was Myra Wilton.

He was about to speak, when Rixton Holmes came in. The villain burst
into a laugh when he saw that the king of scouts had revived.

“Well, William the Great, what is your conclusion? Bit off more than you
could chew, didn’t you?”

“I certainly made a mistake,” replied Buffalo Bill.

“A mistake that can never be repaired.”




                              CHAPTER IV.
                            A COWARD DEFIED.


Rixton Holmes turned from Buffalo Bill to Myra Wilton. His voice was
respectful as he asked: “How is your patient. Head all right?”

“He will live,” the girl answered coldly. “I hope it will be his good
fortune to see you mount the gallows.”

The villain’s face flushed. “You seem determined to regard me as your
enemy,” he said. “Haven’t I explained that I am acting for the best, in
your interest as well as mine?”

Buffalo Bill’s expression of wonderment at this speech was increased
when Myra Wilton suddenly replied in a broken voice: “Forgive me. I—I
had forgotten. I ought to trust you, and I will.”

Holmes gave a sigh of relief. “That’s right,” he said. “I am, indeed,
your friend, and these two scouts, honest men though they are, have been
working against you.”

“You are a liar,” put in the king of scouts hotly. “I can’t guess what
you have said to Miss Wilton to make her believe that you are not a
thief and a murderer, but your statement, whatever it was, was a lie.
You are not her friend. You are her enemy, and you are scheming to get
the fortune which, by the death of Matt Holmes, is now hers.”

Rixton Holmes was not disconcerted at these accusing words. Looking at
the girl, he said quietly: “For Mr. Cody’s benefit, read the letter that
was found on the body of Tom Darke, the wretch who killed your Uncle
Matt.”

Myra Wilton wiped her eyes, and then, from the little bag that was
hooked to her waist belt, took out a letter and read these words:

  “MY DEAR NIECE: I am daily looking for you to make your appearance
  here, but it may be ordained that we are never to meet in this life.
  I have a bitter, remorseless enemy. His name is Tom Darke.”

“Hired by Rixton Holmes to murder Jared Holmes in Taos.”

The interruption came from Bart Angell. He was sitting up, and he winked
at Buffalo Bill as he spoke.

“A mistake,” said the villain calmly. “Go on with the reading, Miss
Wilton.”

The girl, who had shown no surprise at the interruption, continued:

  “He has threatened to kill every member of the Holmes family. The
  reason for his deadly enmity is the incarceration of his father for
  burglary, conviction of the crime being due to the evidence of my
  father, whose house was burglarized. I have received information
  that Darke is in New Mexico. I am sure he is seeking me. I trust
  that I may see you before he finds me, but if I am gone when you
  arrive, this letter will inform you that I have made a will leaving
  all my property to you and my nephew, Rixton Holmes. In the event of
  the death of either of you, the survivor is not to inherit the
  estate of the dead one, but said estate is to become the property of
  the Territory, and is, when converted into cash, to be used in
  hunting down and punishing my murderer.

“That’s all,” said the girl, as she folded the letter and placed it in
the bag.

Holmes immediately followed the reading with this explanation: “Because
I could not convince Mr. Cody that I was an honest man, one who had been
the friend, not the enemy, of Matt Holmes, I permitted him to assume
that I was all that his fertile imagination had painted me. I went to
Bart Angell’s cabin, not expecting to find him there, and if I acted as
if I were not on the side of law and decency, it was because I feared
that he, in his mistaken idea of the situation, would butt in and
prevent me from looking after my own and Miss Wilton’s interests. And
what applies to Buffalo Bill applies, and has applied, to his partner,
Bart Angell. They have been used roughly, but there was no other way by
which they could have been rendered powerless for harm. It is necessary,
in order to obtain the fortune that my uncle has left to me and my
Cousin Myra, that we should be in Denver one week from to-day. The mine
in which the fortune lies is in litigation. The case will be called next
week, and only by my testimony can the mine be saved.”

Holmes looked from Angell to the king of scouts, a complacent smile on
his dark face.

As neither one of his auditors had anything to say at this juncture, he
went on coolly: “The mix-up with the Indians to-day is an unfortunate
affair. They are friends of mine, and they are not at war with the
government. They came with me in order to protect my uncle. I had heard
that Tom Darke was on the way to the flat, and, fearing that murder was
in his heart, I induced Raven Feather and a few of his braves to
accompany me. We arrived too late to prevent arson and murder, but not
too late to slay the murderer. In his pocket I found the letter Miss
Wilton has just read. Darke probably stole it from the cabin while my
uncle was away.”

A quick, meaning glance passed between Myra Wilton and Buffalo Bill. The
latter, without looking at Holmes, said harshly: “I am most surprised
that your cousin has accepted your statement. It must have seemed
plausible. And it will do no good to say that what I have said before,
that you are a liar.”

“Not an ounce of good. You mean well, but you are wrong regarding your
humble servant,” replied the villain.

“And I came mighty nigh, I shore did, in bein’ off my ca-base on your
account,” put in Bart Angell dryly.

The villain grinned. “You played in hard luck, all right, but there are
good times coming to you.” Then he spoke with simulated seriousness. “In
an hour I shall leave the cave for the trail eastward. My cousin will go
with me. Raven Feather has been instructed to hold both of you here for
a week. Then you will be released. If you are inclined, you can come to
Denver, where I will be pleased to give you whatever satisfaction you
may require.”

Again, unperceived by the villain, Buffalo Bill, and Myra Wilton
exchanged meaning glances. Presently Holmes stooped, whispered something
to the girl, whereupon she arose and followed the villain from the
apartment.

They passed through a narrow opening into a large grotto, at the farther
end of which was the trap.

The two scouts waited until assured that Holmes was out of hearing
distance, and then began to converse in low tones.

“The girl is all right,” said Buffalo Bill confidently. “She takes no
stock in the fairy tale that Holmes reeled off to her, though, for
reasons that we must both appreciate, she is pretending that she
believes it as gospel truth. That letter, of course, is a forgery. It
was written to deceive the girl. Rixton Holmes will not kill her as he
has killed Jared and Matt Holmes if she will consent to marry him. See
the point, Bart? He is trying to work himself into her good graces. He
dared not attack either my character or yours, but he thinks he has made
the riffle, all the same. We are well-meaning, honest men, but we have
got the wrong pig by the ear.”

Bart Angell gave a snort of disgust. “He’s ther wust specimen of a white
man that I ever went up ergin, Cody. An’ ter think he was cute ernuff
ter lay ther pair of us by ther heels. I feel like kickin’ myself in
twenty-two places. Rats an’ little fishes, but I’m plumb ashamed of
myself.”

“Are you hurt much?” asked Buffalo Bill.

“No, I got a rap on the coconut when I drapped down ther hole, but I’m
feelin’ now in condition ter tackle ther hull murderin’ outfit.”

“Did you trail the three Navahos to the cave?”

“It ermounts ter ther same thing, Cody. I follered ther trail to ther
bottom of ther ravine, and while I war down thar I seen an Injun poke
his head out of a hole up ther bank, on ther far side of a big flat
rock.”

“I have a hunch that our experiences were identical, Bart.”

“Then they shore ain’t anything ter brag erbout. We war two innercent,
mush-headed flies, an’ that thar Injun, who insinivated his pesky cabesa
outer ther hole, war ther foxy spider. Waugh! Gimme a smoke, Cody. I
wanter to take ther taste outer my mouth.”

Buffalo Bill laughed. It was not a mirthful laugh. “As my hands are
tied, and as you are in the same fix, Bart, I don’t see how I can
accommodate you.”

“Ye’ve got ter,” persisted Angell. “Ef ye refuse ter whack up with ther
terback—ther measly Injun who worked ther spider game swiped mine—I’ll
shore hev ter take it away from yer by main force an’ awkwardness.”

The king of scouts looked queerly at his friend. The big backwoodsman
was more than half in earnest. As his eyes met those of Buffalo Bill, a
big grin overspread his homely face.

“It’s your play,” quietly remarked the king of scouts. “Bring out your
cold deck and proceed to do me up.”

For answer, Bart Angell spread his legs. The cords that had secured his
ankles had been cut, and there between them lay the knife which had
performed the operation.

Bending forward and downward, not without a painful effort, Angell took
the knife between his teeth. Then he lifted his hands and quickly
severed the cords that bound his wrists.

A minute later Buffalo Bill, like his comrade, was free of his bonds.
“It war ther girl,” said Angell, his voice in a whisper. “She did ther
trick while that ornery hound of a Holmes war unwinding his rotten yarn
off onto you.”

The scouts searched the chamber for weapons, but found none.

Disappointed, but not daunted, Buffalo Bill stole to the narrow corridor
through which Holmes and the girl had departed, and listened intently.

The faint sound of voices in the outer and main apartment of the cave
told him that his enemies were still underground. He went forward into
the corridor until he was able to both see and hear. The corridor had
many projections, the walls nowhere were even, and he quickly found a
hiding place.

Rixton Holmes was speaking in the Navaho tongue when the king of scouts
reached his shelter.

“Raven Feather shall have his revenge,” he said, in a cold, even tone.
“After I have gone, the cave and all that is in it is yours.”

“My brother will depart alone?”

There was savage eagerness in the question.

“No,” was the firm answer. “The white maiden will go with me.”

“My white brother forgets,” returned the chief, with equal firmness. “He
promised that the maiden should become the squaw of Raven Feather.”

“‘Circumstances alter cases,’” said the villain coolly. “I had not seen
the girl when I made the promise. She will become the wife of Rixton
Holmes.”

There was silence for a few moments. Buffalo Bill, his interest at fever
heat by the unexpected development, waited for the next words of the
chief of the Navahos.

But it was Crow-killer, the chief’s brother, who was the next speaker.

The giant in a guttural rumble sided with Raven Feather. He insisted
that the promise must not be broken. Raven Feather had agreed to help
the white man, and his reward was to be the white maiden. The white man
must leave her behind.

Holmes compressed his lips, and his eyes flashed ominously. He was not a
brave man, and his demeanor under the circumstances puzzled Buffalo Bill
exceedingly.

Addressing the girl in English, the villain said: “Go back to the other
chamber. There is a hitch. My friends, Raven Feather and Crow-killer,
object to your departure. I must smooth them down.”

As she moved away, the king of scouts drew a deep breath. He felt that a
crisis was approaching.

Myra Wilton was about to pass his place of concealment, her eyes looking
straight ahead, when the king of scouts touched her on the arm,
whispering these words at the same time: “I am watching the grotto.
There is likely to be a mix-up. Tell Angell I need him here.”

The girl frowned. “You must not harm Mr. Holmes,” she said, also in a
whisper. “He gave me the knife, and told me to free your partner.”

Buffalo Bill had met with many surprises in his life, but never one so
great as this. He stared at her without speaking.

“He is a villain,” she quietly went on, “but he means you no harm. I
have seen to that.”

“I don’t understand,” said Buffalo Bill, as he shook his head.

“You will after a while. Rely on me. I know what I am about.”

“I don’t believe you do,” muttered the scout under his breath. But what
he said was this: “I’ll not hurt Holmes while you are in your present
state of mind; but I may pay my respects to Raven Feather and his big
brute of a brother.”

“I have no objection,” she replied, and then left him.

Meanwhile, the two Indians and Rixton Holmes were talking together in
angry tones. The white stubbornly held his ground, and the Indians
finally came to the conclusion that he was not relying on his own
unaided efforts to carry his point.

They might have leaped upon him, and either killed or made him a
prisoner, but a suspicion that caused them both to look toward the
corridor separating the two sections of the cave made them pause.

A lull in the conversation was broken by the descent of the trap. The
Navaho who had guarded the prisoners while Crow-killer was away with the
two braves jumped from the platform, and made this report to Raven
Feather: “When the moon rises, the chief shall welcome the braves of the
village.”

Raven Feather gave a slow nod of approval. Then he looked steadily at
Holmes. “Does my brother understand?” he asked.

“Of course,” was the response, given with indifference. “The other
members of your band are coming from the village. It is now late
afternoon. They will reach here in four or five hours.”

The villain smiled, and then proceeded: “But I won’t be here when they
arrive.”

“If my white brother is not here then, it will be because he has kept
the promise he gave to Raven Feather,” returned the chief, with
decision.

Another smile appeared on the face of the white man. Then he began to
scratch his head, the two Indians regarding him questioningly.

“I have it,” he said; “we’ll leave it to the maiden. Send your brave to
fetch her here, and we’ll each of us put up his side of the case.”

He spoke in English, but Raven Feather understood him.

The chief shook his head. “The maiden shall be brought here,” he
replied, “but she shall not decide the matter. It has been decided. She
stays behind to grace the tepee of Raven Feather.”

Holmes made no response, but he grinned when the Navaho brave started
for the inner chamber.

In a few minutes Myra Wilton reappeared. She was very pale, and her eyes
sought those of her cousin in anxious inquiry.

Holmes beckoned, and she came to his side. He whispered something in her
ear, and she nodded in understanding.

“She says she prefers to go with me,” spoke the villain, as he fixed his
eyes on Raven Feather.

The chief grunted, and Crow-killer clenched his big hands and gritted
his teeth.

The right hand of Holmes was resting on the butt of his revolver in the
holster at his belt. He was eying Crow-killer when Buffalo Bill,
followed by Bart Angell, sprang into the grotto.

Their appearance only became known to the Indians when each was
attacked. The king of scouts paid his respects to Crow-killer, while
Bart Angell tried conclusions with Raven Feather.

At the instant of the assault of the two scouts Rixton Holmes leaped
upon the trap platform. Myra Wilton had already taken her position
there.

While a terrific struggle was going on in the grotto the platform rose,
and the villain and the girl were in the open air long before the
struggle ended.

Myra Wilton stepped from the platform, her lovely face flushed with
anger. “I did not expect this,” she indignantly exclaimed. “You told me
you would stay behind to assist Mr. Cody and his partner.”

“They are able to get away with the redskins without my help,” he
quickly replied. “I saw that they were having things their own way
before I jumped on the platform.”

“I do not believe you,” she said stoutly. “You must go back. Perhaps
your return may prevent a tragedy.”

“I won’t go back,” was his harsh reply. “That is out of the question.”

The girl sat down on the edge of the platform. “Then you may go on
without me,” she declared, a determined expression on her face. “If you
will not go back to the cave, I will.”

“I think not, my dear cousin. You are going with me.” There was a look
in his eyes that she had never seen there before.

A shudder ran through the girl’s frame. But she called up her courage as
she said: “Have you been lying to me? Did you not tell the truth when
you said that you meant no harm to Mr. Cody and Mr. Angell?”

“I told the truth.” But the villain did not meet the girl’s honest eyes
as he spoke.

“Then,” said she, “if you don’t go back to the cave, I must put you down
as a coward. I despise a coward,” she added, in a voice that made the
man wince.

Holmes was in a hole. He had had the faith to believe that he could win
and retain the confidence and respect of his lovely cousin. But the time
had come when he must either expose his hand or permit her to think that
he was showing the white feather. For half an hour no word was spoken by
either of them. Then Holmes concluded to drop deception. By so doing
there could be no change in her attitude toward himself. Despising him
for a coward, she had refused to go on with him; therefore, take
whichever horn of the dilemma he might, he would be compelled to use
force.

“I am not a coward,” he protested; “and at the same time I am not a
fool. I have parted company with Raven Feather and his Navahos. They
have served my turn, and I have done with them.” With these words he
fastened the platform so that it could not be operated.

Myra Wilton observed the action, and a chill seized her. She waited
tremblingly for the next words of the villain.

“I may as well be plain with you,” he went on, as he sat on the platform
and faced her. “I had planned a different detail in the game I have been
playing. I had hoped to win your consent to become my wife.”

“You never would have obtained it,” she said scornfully.

“Perhaps not, but the attempt would have been made if you had not
rebuked me for refusing to go back to the cave and fall into the hands
of Buffalo Bill. I fooled you a while ago, but I have never fooled him.”

“I am glad of that,” was her quick interruption.

“Your joy won’t last,” the villain replied, with a snicker. “He will
never leave the cave. He may, he probably has, got away with Raven
Feather and Crow-killer as he got away with the brave I sent after you,
but his victory will be a barren one. He can never escape from below.
There he will starve and rot.”

Myra Wilton looked at the speaker with eyes that burned his soul.

“To think,” she said slowly, “that I should for one moment have trusted
you. I would rather, far rather, live for the balance of my life as the
squaw of the most despicable red man in these Western wilds than become
your wife. Go! I am sick of the sight of you.”

Rixton Holmes arose to his feet, his countenance black with rage. He was
past the feeling of shame. Advancing to where she sat, he extended his
hands to grasp her by the wrists.

With a quick movement she was on her feet, and Holmes started back as
she drew a pistol from the folds of her gown and pointed the muzzle at
his head. His expression of amazement and alarm brought a smile of
fierce satisfaction to her lips.

“I am able to defend myself, you see,” she coolly remarked. “The
revolver came from the person of the Indian you sent to escort me from
the chamber to the grotto. Mr. Cody, who overcame the Indian, insisted
that I should take the weapon. The other pistol—the Indian had two—was
appropriated by Mr. Cody.”

“Well, I’ll be——”

“You certainly will,” cut in the girl grimly, before the sentence could
be finished. “And now,” she coolly proceeded, “I would thank you to
unbuckle your belt and let your weapons drop to the ground. I mean
business,” she continued, in a hard, menacing voice.

Rixton Holmes gnashed his teeth in the impotence of his wrath and
disgust. The position was ridiculous, to be thus held up by a weak girl!

The fact that she had not immediately insisted upon compliance with her
stern order caused the villain to breathe more freely. His cunning came
to the surface. He resolved to prolong the decisive move, hoping to
catch her off her guard.

“Hang it, Myra,” he said, “you are a thoroughbred. Can’t we come to an
amicable understanding?”

He looked at her eagerly as he spoke. She shook her head. “No,” was her
response, “I will make no more bargains with you. I know you now, and I
shall never trust you again. You haven’t obeyed me. Is it possible that
you failed to guess what would happen if you refused to unbuckle that
belt of yours? You would die.” She advanced a step, and the muzzle of
her revolver was on a line with the villain’s forehead, and not more
than three feet from it.

With the quickness of lightning, Holmes lowered his head and propelled
his body toward her. The pistol exploded, but the bullet passed him by.
The next instant Holmes had her by the wrists.

Myra Wilton screamed, and the outcry was followed by a series of savage
yells.

Releasing the girl, the villain wheeled, and beheld a score or more of
Indians coming up the bank of the ravine.




                               CHAPTER V.
                         BUFFALO BILL’S ESCAPE.


Rixton Holmes swore frightfully when his eyes fell on the Indians. He
knew them, and they knew him. They were a part of the band of Raven
Feather, the chief who had, until very recently, been both his ally and
tool. They were coming toward him with friendly intentions. He had
expected their arrival at the cave, for Raven Feather had sent for them,
but they had come long before the time announced by the chief’s
messenger.

The villain found himself in a disturbing quandary. If he remained to
receive them, his cowardice and treachery in respect of the chief and
Crow-killer would be discovered, and he would probably lose his life,
and Myra Wilton would fall into Raven Feather’s hands. On the other
hand, if he ran away, he would lose the girl, and his scheme to win a
fortune would come to naught.

A moment’s consideration decided the matter for him. Before the Navahos
reached the platform he was out of sight in the thick bushes on the
eastward side of the cave. Down the steep hill he went, stumbling,
falling, receiving many bruises and cuts until his feet struck the bed
of the ravine.

His absence from the platform that concealed the shaft of the cave did
not surprise the leader of the savages. The red man supposed that the
white friend of Raven Feather had gone underground to announce the
coming of the reënforcements.

Myra Wilton had been too terrified to move from her position. She was
trembling violently when the savages crowded about the platform. No move
was made to seize or harm her.

Soon the fact that she was for the moment safe drove some of the fear
from her face. Looking steadily at the handsome young brave who
commanded the band, she pointed down the hill in the direction taken by
the fleeing villain.

The Navaho was at first in doubt as what her action meant. But when it
was repeated, with expressive addition, he nodded, and at once gave
orders which sent two of the braves after Holmes.

After the braves had gone, the Indian leader tried the platform, and
discovered that it was fastened. A frown came into his face. He looked
at the girl, and said in Navaho: “Where is the great chief, Raven
Feather?”

Myra pointed downward.

The young brave regarded her steadily for a moment, and then went to one
side of the platform, felt under the rock, and found a concealed lever.
Giving it a pull, the lock was released.

Now, standing on the ground beside the platform, the Indian, by signs,
directed the girl to stand on the trap.

Her face paled, but she did not hesitate. Refusal would have availed her
nothing. Before her was a score of savages, each armed to the teeth. She
stepped forward, and the Indian came to her side. Down went the trap,
and they descended, to find that the grotto was tenantless.

Light for the apartment was furnished by a sputtering torch stuck in a
crevice of the wall.

The Indian stepped from the platform and listened intently. No sound
broke the stillness.

He moved toward the corridor, his right hand grasping the wrists of the
girl.

His mystification was great, but not so great as that of Myra Wilton.
How had the struggle in the cave terminated, and what had become of the
combatants?

A partial answer was afforded when the Indian and the girl entered the
inner chamber of the cave. On the rocky floor lay Raven Feather and
Crow-killer. Each was bound and gagged, and each bore the marks of
terrible punishment.

“Ugh!” grunted the young Navaho. Then he looked at the girl. “What for?”
he said in English.

Myra’s eyes were on a large hole high up in one corner. When she was a
prisoner in the chamber there had been no such hole. Where the hole was
there had been a crevice, which had admitted light. Facing the Navaho,
she replied quietly: “For me.”

The savage, whose knowledge of English was limited, understood her, but
he was unable to say in response what he desired to say.

He hesitated a moment, and then drew some leather cords from his breast
and proceeded to tie her hands.

The operation finished, he lifted her up and sat her down beside the
prostrate chief. Raven Feather was in possession of his senses, and his
snaky eyes twinkled in evil satisfaction as he watched the actions of
his subordinate.

In a few minutes the chief and his brother were sitting up and ready to
talk. Each was stiff and sore, but none of their hurts were serious.

Raven Feather’s first words were: “Where are the braves that came with
Lone Wolf?”

The young brave pointed toward the grotto.

Some quick orders were given, and Lone Wolf went to the grotto, where
his braves were waiting, and brought them into the chamber.

Raven Feather pointed to the hole in the wall, made a short explanation,
and followed it by some sharp instructions.

Out of the hole sped the Indians, and it was late in the night when they
returned.

They had failed to come upon the two scouts, but they had a strange
story to tell. It can be best told to the reader by a recital of the
adventures of Buffalo Bill and Bart Angell, who when last seen were
fighting a battle that meant either life or death for them.

But each had the advantage at the outset. The two Indians were taken by
surprise, and, though they fought with skill and desperation, victory
soon came to the scouts.

Buffalo Bill had the heaviest contract. He was opposed to a giant in
strength, and but for the science allied to his remarkable muscular
strength, the outcome might have been in doubt.

When the contest was over, and the chief and his brother lay on the
floor, their limbs secured with stout leathers, the king of scouts, the
perspiration running in streams down his face, staggered to the space
under the trap, and jerked at the rope that was used to lower the
platform. He jerked in vain. The platform would not move.

“I understand,” said the scout to his companion, “that hound Holmes has
locked the trap. We’re caged, all right.”

“Maybe we aire an’ maybe we ain’t, Cody. I’ve shore corralled an idee
that we aire goin’ ter beat this game. Let’s mosey to ther other eend
an’ take a squint at that crevice whar ther light comes from.”

They went into the inner chamber, carrying with them the two prisoners.

Buffalo Bill looked up at the crevice.

“I am afraid escape in that direction is barred, Bart,” he said. “The
redskins must have investigated the break, and found it a case of no
thoroughfare, or they would never have allowed it to remain unguarded.”

Bart Angell scratched his head. “I hev shore a prize memory. I loses it,
an’ now an’ ag’in it comes back ter me. It’s comin’ back now. Cody, I’ve
shore struck it. I know all about this yer hole. It’s a double-ender.
We’re in one part of it, but thar’s a bigger part, an’ it’s on t’other
side of that crevice.”

Buffalo Bill ceased to be in a state of gloom. “Are you sure?” he asked
eagerly.

“Plumb sure. Ther hull business, descrip’ an’ everything hev come back
ter me. Squat, an’ I’ll eloocerdate.”

They sat down, and after filling their pipes Angell began. “I wouldn’t
take ther time now ter do any talkin’ ef I didn’t feel that we need a
little rest afore tackling what’ll be a tough job. Five year ago I war
down in Taos visitin’ a half-breed who war related ter Kit Carson. Ther
cuss war weak-minded; not a shore-ernuff fool, but mighty near ter one.
He hed been a member of a gang of desperadoes, Injun an’ white, that had
made things mighty hot fer ther good people of ther Territory. Ther gang
had been broken up, an’ Manuel Larios, the half-breed, hed saved his
bacon by turnin’ State’s evidence.

“It war shortly arter ther trial that I visited him. You wanter
understand, Cody, that Manuel hed a sister, an’ that I had a sneakin’
admiration fer ther gal.” The big scout’s mouth twitched, and his eyes
sought the floor. “She’s dead now, an’ I—I, waal, I thought a heap of
her.”

Buffalo Bill gave the speaker a glance charged with sympathy and
appreciation, and, recovering himself, Angell went on composedly:

“Manuel war in bed when I hit ther adobe that sheltered him. He talked a
blue streak. War sure he war goin’ ter peter, an’ wanted ter ease his
mind. Among other things, he reeled off a queer yarn erbout a cave in
these yere hills. A member of ther gang he had been consortin’ with had
found ther cave, an’ ther gang fixed it up fer a hidin’ place. Thar war
a couple of mechanical critters in ther outlet, an’ they engineered ther
platform racket. I reckon one of ther Injuns berlongin’ to ther gang war
a Navaho, an’ that arter the gang war scattered he let out what he
knowed ter Raven Feather. He couldn’t ha’ knowed ther hull thing, or
else ther part of ther cave we hev not yet seen would ha’ been occerpied
by ther reds.

“Manuel told me that only a few members of ther gang, ther leader,
Manuel, an’ two others, white men, knew erbout the retreat beyond ther
crevice. Ter prevent the Injun contingent from gettin’ on to what war
intended fer ther treasure house of ther gang, the leader an’ the few
members he could trust worked ther crevice as a scare hole. They knowed
that ther redskins would try ter investigate ther hole, an’ so they
rigged up a scarecrow, and rubbed phosphorious onto it. The Injuns saw
this scarecrow twice when they were prospectin’ erbout ther crevice.
That shore let them out. They didn’t monkey with ther hole any more.
Now, all redskins are plumb eaten up with superstition, an’ I reckon
Raven Feather got hold of ther tale, an’ so ther crevice had no
attraction fer him.”

Raven Feather, who had not been gagged, here gave a grunt of disgust and
shame. “Me heap fool,” he said, in English, to Angell.

“Sure,” was the quick response. “That aire p’int war settled some time
ago.”

The scouts arose, and with the tomahawks taken from the prisoners,
proceeded to attack the crevice.

Their labor would have taken them many hours if, after working a short
time, they had not struck a ledge of rotten rock.

Half an hour after the telling of the story, Buffalo Bill and his
comrade were crawling upward out of the chamber.

It had been the hope of the king of scouts that he would be able to
follow the light that came through the crevice and soon reach the top of
the ground; but the discovery that the light entered from above between
two massive bowlders, and that the open space that separated him from
the hilltop was not over half a foot in diameter, put a damper on the
hope.

Both he and Angell used their combined strength to move the bowlders,
but in vain.

“Come on,” said Angell, at last. “We will get outer here, all right,
though it’s shore goin’ ter take a little time.”

The speaker was correct in his opinion. More than three hours elapsed
before they emerged from the new section of the cave.

Beyond the bowlders there was a sharp descent. The scouts went down,
making many turns, and at last stood in a chamber four times as large as
the one that had recently held them as prisoners.

As they were exploring the place, Bart Angell, in advance of Buffalo
Bill, who held the torch, gave utterance to a cry of amazement.

“Ther sufferin’ saltpeter,” he exclaimed, “ef it ain’t Manuel. Ther aire
the chaps I guv him when he got over his sick spell, an’ ’lowed he’d
meander outer ther Territory.”

The king of scouts looked, and saw the body of a man—that is, he saw a
portion of the body. The head and one shoulder was out of sight. The
inference was plain: The man had tried to crawl through a hole in the
wall, had become wedged in, and had died there.

The torch was lowered so that a closer inspection of the body might be
made. The clothing had not rotted, but from appearances Buffalo Bill
knew that it inclosed a skeleton.

“What do you make of it?” inquired the king of scouts.

“Some one war chasin’ him, an’ he made fer ther hole ter hide. It war
too small, an’ he got stuck an’ stayed thar.”

“I wonder what is down in that hole, Bart?”

“You kin s’arch me. Maybe thar’s gold an’ all sorts of plunder.”

“But how could the robbers have placed it there?”

“Easy ernuff.” He gave the body a jerk, and the opening was fully
disclosed.

“Why, it’s a large hole,” exclaimed Buffalo Bill, in surprise. “I could
go through it easily.”

Bart Angell chuckled. “Of course, Cody, of course. An’ ye’ll have ter go
through thar, fer it’s ther only way outer this chamber.” As the
expression of surprise still lingered on the face of Buffalo Bill,
Angell quickly proceeded: “Manuel Larios war as broad as he war long. Ye
wouldn’t think it, lookin’ at him now. I reckon every member of the
gang, ’cept him, could get through ther hole, an’ I reckon also that
he’d never tried ter crawl in ef he hadn’t been skeered plumb ter death
by whoever war pursuin’ him.”

“I don’t believe the pursuer caught up with him,” was Buffalo Bill’s
comment.

“Nor I. Bekase why? Ef he had, he’d shore hev explored ther territory on
t’other side of the hole. Gimme ther torch, an’ I’ll try ther route.”

“Excuse me,” returned the king of scouts quietly, “but I’ll have to
disoblige you.”

So saying, he flattened his body on the hard ground, and, inserting his
head in the hole, began to crawl through it. He was at the other end,
when an exclamation of surprise escaped him. He was under an overhanging
wall, and the light of the torch permitted him to see all about him.
Below was what seemed to be a bottomless pit, but his eyes were fixed
not on the pit, but upon a large recess in the wall upon one side of
him. This recess extended about six feet inward, and was about as wide
as it was long. The whole surface was covered with lime coating, and the
floor was strewn thickly with human bones. The hand of the scout could
have touched some of these bones, and a close inspection induced the
belief that they had lain untouched for ages.

Bart Angell was by Buffalo Bill’s side as the latter said: “We’ve struck
an Indian sepulcher. But how in the name of the saints did the Indian
bearers get the bodies up here?”

“Gimme yer torch an’ I’ll tell yer,” replied Angell.

Buffalo Bill complied with his comrade’s request, and the torch was
lowered so that the wall of the chasm could be plainly seen.

A winding, dangerous descent was observed. At the bottom was a pool of
water, but the trail skirted it and passed into a small, oval chamber.
Angell looked for some time at the trail, and then said: “We kin make
it, but we got ter be blamed keerful.”

As he spoke he started to go down. Buffalo Bill waited until Angell was
halfway to the pool, and then followed carefully. In his hand was the
tomahawk he had used while working his way out of the Navahos’ cave. An
idea came to him before he had taken half a dozen steps. There would be
a pursuit when Raven Feather’s reënforcements arrived from the village.
Here was opportunity to stop the pursuit.

The trail had been made by human hands, footholds having been cut in the
rock.

With his tomahawk the king of scouts destroyed these safeguards as he
passed them, and when he stood by Bart Angell’s side at the foot of the
descent, the wall was without a trail.

“We can go on with more confidence now,” he said.

Angell nodded, and they went through the chamber, and after a long
journey, in which many curious sights were seen, they came out of the
ground to find that they were on the shore of a branch of the river.

The time was about midnight. The scouts were both hungry and tired. They
risked a small fire to make coffee, a supply of which Buffalo Bill
generally carried with him, and, after partaking of the beverage and the
beef and hardtack that went with it, they were ready for sleep.

If either had known just where he was there would have been no sleep for
their eyes that night. But they had become confused as to direction on
account of the many turns they had made while in the great cave. To
attempt to find their bearings while the dark night lasted might have
taken them miles in a wrong direction.

They were up at the break of day, and Buffalo Bill, field glasses in
hand, was scanning his surroundings.

“Whar aire we?” asked Angell, as he raised his arms in a yawn.

“We have been going westward. If I am not out of my reckoning, we are
about five miles from your cabin.”

“Too bad. I’d been a-hopin’ we’d been p’intin’ t’other way.”

“So had I, for the other way is the way the Navahos will take, and that
also is the way that villain Holmes will take. I wonder if the redskins
have overtaken and killed him. If they have, pretty Myra Wilton is now
in the camp of the Navahos.”

“Thar’s nothin’ like findin’ out,” said Angell quickly, “an’ I’m fer
startin’ this identikle minute.”

“We’ll have a bite of breakfast and then start.”

Half an hour later the scouts were on the road to the scene of their
adventures of the day before.

The platform that concealed the entrance to the cave was reconnoitered,
and when Buffalo Bill saw that it had been shoved aside, leaving the
shaft exposed, he came to the conclusion that the Indians had abandoned
the underground retreat for good and all.

Both his horse and that of Angell had been stolen, but on the trail to
the cave he picked up a lariat that had fallen from the saddle of one of
the led animals.

By the aid of the lariat he descended to the cave over the protests of
his comrade. “Ye’re shore takin’ a big chance, Cody,” Angell said.
“Maybe ther reds aire playin’ fox, an’, if they be, ye’ll get it in the
neck down thar.”

But the king of scouts with a shake of the head went down the rope. His
voice was soon heard by the waiting comrade above. “They’ve gone,” he
shouted, “and the girl has gone with them.”

“How do ye know?” Bart Angell shouted back. “Did she leave a billy dux?”

The king of scouts did not respond until he was on terra firma again.

“She left her handkerchief, Bart. Put it where I would be sure to see
it. The hank wasn’t there when we left the chamber.”




                              CHAPTER VI.
                          IN THE ENEMY’S CAMP.


The two scouts left the cave and returned to Angell’s cabin. Before
moving against the enemy it was necessary that their food supply should
be replenished.

The bodies of the Navahos slain by Buffalo Bill had been removed during
the night, and the scout thought it strange that the cabin had neither
been robbed nor burned.

“Bart,” said he, as they sat in the door and gazed out upon the flat,
“it’s my opinion that we won’t have to hunt Raven Feather and his band.
The chief left the cabin intact believing that we would come back here.
Probably he did not expect we would get here so soon.”

“Whar is he now, do ye reckon?” inquired Angell.

“In his village, but he has left a scout or two behind to find where we
are and report.”

“Them aire scouts must ha’ fell inter a hole or got cold feet, Cody,
else we should ha’ heerd or seen ’em.”

A number of shots from down the flat stifled the reply on Buffalo Bill’s
lips. He jumped to his feet and ran out into the open. Between the ruins
of Matt Holmes’ cabin and the ravine two horsemen could be seen.

The horses were standing still, and the backs of the riders were turned
toward the two scouts.

Buffalo Bill used his field glasses, and saw that the horsemen were
whites.

Before he lowered the glasses the horsemen turned and rode up the flat.
They waved their hands when they caught sight of the king of scouts and
his comrade.

Buffalo Bill’s face blushed with joyous excitement.

“Bart,” said he, as he slapped his brave comrade on the back, “do you
recognize the tall one? It’s Wild Bill.” Angell gave a whoop and threw
his sombrero high in air.

The riders came up. One was a young, handsome, honest-eyed man; the
other was Wild Bill, the noted Indian fighter and old comrade of the
king of scouts.

If Buffalo Bill was delighted at the meeting, what must be said of the
emotions of Hickok? Usually cool, self-contained, slow in speech and
rarely demonstrative, he now exhibited the exuberance of an
impressionable youth.

“Drat my skin,” he exclaimed, after he wrung Buffalo Bill’s hand and
pulled him roughly but affectionately about, “if I ain’t feeling too
good for any use. I expected to assist in a funeral, though I ought to
have known that you are too big a man to allow a measly mob of Indians
to down you.”

“What did you hear? And how did you happen to come here?”

“Let me introduce my friend, and then I’ll saddle the explaining racket
onto him. This is Carl Henson, only half a tenderfoot and wholly a
thoroughbred. He came from Denver to find you and somebody else.”

Wild Bill, with these words, moved toward the cabin.

“Hold on a bit,” said the king of scouts, his right hand in that of the
young man. “Before we go inside, I want some information. What did that
shooting down the flat mean?”

“Oh,” replied Wild Bill indifferently, “we just stopped a little spying.
A couple of Navahos were sneaking toward this cabin when we spotted
them.” He said no more, and his head disappeared in the cabin.

The king of scouts winked at Bart Angell. Carl Henson saw the wink, and
said, with a smile: “Our mutual friend Mr. Hickok is too modest. I had
no hand in the killing of the two Indians. But two shots were fired, and
both came from Mr. Hickok’s rifle.”

“Wild Bill shore shoots ter kill,” was Bart Angell’s emphatic comment.
“I’m a fair hand at their trigger myself, but I lays down ter Wild Bill
an’ Cody.”

In the cabin, Carl Henson told the story of his coming to the flat.

“My home is in Pennsylvania,” he began, “and I am engaged to be married
to the nicest girl in America.” He sighed deeply, but went on before
Buffalo Bill could speak. “You have probably guessed her name, Mr. Cody.
It is Myra Wilton.”

“She is a prisoner in the hands of the Navahos,” said the king of scouts
sadly.

“I know it, but”—his eyes flashing determinedly—“she shall not be long a
prisoner.”

“I reckon there are three persons in this room who will back you up in
that statement,” spoke Buffalo Bill.

“That’s whatever,” responded Bart Angell quickly.

Wild Bill stroked his long, silky mustache. He nodded, but did not
speak.

“Thank you, gentlemen,” said Henson warmly. “I knew I could count on
you. But to my story. I was in New York when Miss Wilton left for the
West. She did not depart without informing me of the letter she had from
a lawyer, who represented that he was the attorney for her uncle, Matt
Holmes. I am myself a lawyer, and it struck me when I considered the
matter that the letter was not genuine. I had heard of Matt Holmes as an
intelligent, shrewd, upright man. It would not be likely for such a man
to request the presence of a young and inexperienced girl at his home in
the country of savage Indians, no matter what the urgency.

“I determined to follow her. I quickly arranged my business, and arrived
in Denver two weeks after she had left her home. There I stumbled upon
an important piece of news. In the office of a lawyer friend of mine,
upon whom I had called for information concerning my intended trip to
these hills, I learned about the death of Jared Holmes in Taos, and of
the murder of his brother, the miner, in the mountains of Colorado. The
lawyer was the attorney of the miner’s estate, and he told me that there
were two joint heirs, the plainsman, Matt, and the Taos merchant, Jared.
In the event of the death of both, the estate was to go to the next of
kin, a nephew, Rixton, and a niece, Myra.

“Instantly I became alarmed. The letter received by Myra was a lure; her
death, as well as the death of her Uncle Matt, had been plotted. There
had already been two murders, and the murderer and plotter must be the
nephew. I asked my friend if he knew Rixton Holmes, and the reply was
that he had met the nephew once at the mine. ‘I did not like his looks,’
said he, ‘and I believe, with you, that he is scheming to get the whole
of the property, which is very valuable.’

“The next day, when I was preparing to set out for the New Mexican
Mountains, my lawyer friend came in. He was greatly excited. ‘It’s a
cinch,’ said he, as he dropped into a seat, ‘that Rixton Holmes is all
we have put him up to be. Last night a document came to me by mail from
New Mexico. It is the will of Matt Holmes. I am named as executor, and
he leaves his property to Rixton Holmes and Myra Wilton, nephew and
niece. But there is a proviso. In the event of the death of either, the
share of the deceased becomes the property of the Territory, and when
converted into cash is to be used in hunting down the murderer of the
testator. A letter was inclosed with the will. It explained the meaning
of the last clause of the document. Matt Holmes has or had, for he is
dead, a bitter, relentless enemy, one Tom Darke.’”

“Stop a minute,” said Buffalo Bill, as he passed a thoughtful hand over
his brow. “I want to straighten something out. Rixton Holmes gave to
Myra Wilton a letter purporting to have been written by her uncle. The
letter refers to this will, and contains the same explanation as your
letter. I thought when the letter was read to me that it was a forgery.”

“My friend’s letter was genuine,” said Henson. “He had been doing
business with Matt Holmes for years, and could not be deceived by a
forgery.”

“I reckon I was mistaken,” returned the king of scouts, “but my error
does not change the situation. Rixton Holmes remains the villain and the
murderer.”

There was deep curiosity in Carl Henson’s expression. “I am very anxious
to hear your story, Mr. Cody,” he said, “and, therefore, I will hurry on
with mine. In the full belief that Rixton Holmes had written the letter
which induced Miss Wilton to leave her home in Pennsylvania, that he
meant to kill Matt Holmes and then force the girl to marry him in order
that he might obtain possession of all the property, I started for the
Canadian River country. As I rode away I could but admit that the
villain had evolved a cunning plot. He might be accused of the murders,
but there would be nothing but suspicion to urge against him. It could
be proved that the shot that killed Jared Holmes in Taos was fired by
Tom Darke, and the letter of Matt Holmes to my friend in Denver, as well
as other circumstances, would seem to prove that the miner brother met
his death at the same hand. Tom Darke had threatened to wipe out the
whole Holmes brood.”

“I believe he did so threaten,” said Buffalo Bill, as the young man
paused, “but he was Rixton Holmes’ tool, all the same. I would give a
good deal to know how the two fiends came together. Rixton Holmes must
have been traveling under his Kansas alias when they met, or there would
have been no deal. Tom Darke would have murdered his employer if he had
learned that the man was a Holmes.”

“I think you are right, Mr. Cody. Well, there is little more to tell;
that is, for me to tell. My friend, Mr. Hickok, must bring the
explanation to a close.”

Wild Bill grunted, and Henson went on: “Two days out I met Mr. Hickok. I
did not know him, but when he informed me that he was from Taos, and was
acting temporarily as a deputy United States marshal and was on the
trail of a murderer known as Lanky Tom Darke, I felt so pleased that I
wanted to hug him. We talked a while, and then I asked his name. He
blushed; yes, you did”—as the tall scout shook his head vigorously—“and
said he had a fool name. Because he was the quietest individual in the
West the boys had derisively named him Wild Bill. I gazed at him in
amazement. Wild Bill! Who hasn’t heard of him and who hasn’t heard of
you, Mr. Cody? I was fairly taken off my feet.”

“You’ll be really taken off your feet and deposited in that ditch
outside if you don’t let up,” spoke Wild Bill sharply. “Quit monkeying
with me and talk sense.”

Carl Henson smiled indulgently. “All right,” he replied. “If I have
given offense, I am glad of it.”

Bart Angell roared, and Wild Bill glared fiercely at the young man.

But presently he smiled, and began rolling a cigarette.

“We exchanged confidences,” proceeded Henson, “and from that time on
have been comrades. In the hills two days later we came upon a wounded
Mexican. He had been shot by Raven Feather’s Indians and left for dead.
Why they did not scalp him is a mystery.”

“No mystery at all,” grunted Wild Bill. “He was bald-headed.”

“So he was,” admitted Henson soberly, while the others laughed. “That
makes a difference, I suppose?”

“I should say it did,” declared Buffalo Bill. “It’s the hair the savages
want.”

“Well, I am glad the Mexican was not scalped, for the operation might
have ended his life, and we would not have learned then what the Navahos
were up to.

“The Mexican was able to talk, and he told us that he had overheard a
conversation between Raven Feather and a white man, who answered the
description of Rixton Holmes. A girl was to be abducted, and her
protector, Buffalo Bill, was to be killed. The girl and you, Mr. Cody,
had gone to a ranch in the hills, a day’s journey from the spot. While
the conversation was going on another white man appeared, and presently
the two whites went off together. They were mounted and rode westward.
The second man was Tom Darke, for the Mexican heard him called by that
name.

“Afterward, while crawling away from the Indian camp, the Mexican was
seen and fired upon. He lay as if dead, and had been there on the ground
for two days. Death came while he was talking to us. We rode on, and—and
here we are.”

“Now, Hickok, what have you to say?” asked Buffalo Bill, as Henson
finished his explanation.

“Mighty little, old man. After we left the Mexican we struck an Indian
trail, and I parted company with Mr. Henson to do a little scouting. I
followed the trail to the Indian village, and learned that there had
been a fight, and that Raven Feather had captured a white girl. The
chief was not in the village, but was chasing a white man who had played
traitor.

“I returned to my friend here, and we concluded to ride on to the flat
and learn how things were there before undertaking a campaign against
the reds. You see, Cody, I was a little anxious about you. I did not
know what had actually happened up here; and again, there was that
matter of Tom Darke.”

“Darke is dead, Hickok.”

“I know. I saw the body. Must have been some doing on and near this
flat.”

Buffalo Bill told what had occurred, and Wild Bill opened his eyes in
astonishment and admiration. “Great Scott! But why wasn’t I here?” he
exclaimed.

The king of scouts eyed him coolly. “The fight has but just begun,” he
quietly remarked. “There is a chance for you yet. There is a girl to be
rescued and a villain to catch and punish.”

The tall scout arose, the flame of battle in his eyes. “Come on,” he
said. “I am ready.”

“So am I,” returned the king of scouts, “though I would feel better if I
had a horse.”

“You’ll have one, so will Bart here,” said Wild Bill. “The Indian scouts
came here mounted. I saw them when they left their plugs to make the
sneak on the flat.”

Buffalo Bill’s eye kindled. He got up, and Bart Angell and Carl Henson
followed suit. The food wallets were filled, and then the quartet went
down the flat, all walking, Wild Bill and the young lawyer leading their
animals.

At the mouth of the ravine the bodies of the two Indians slain by Wild
Bill were found. The king of scouts was surprised to discover that one
of the Indians was the giant Crow-killer. As he looked at the motionless
form of his late antagonist, a daring scheme formulated in his mind.

“You have done a big thing, Hickok,” he said soberly to Wild Bill. “You
have given me the chance to get into the Navaho camp.”

“As how?” inquired the other.

“As Crow-killer, the brother of Raven Feather. Hold on, no expostulation
until I have finished. The dead Indian is of my height. He is a trifle
heavier, but that matter can be remedied by a little judicious padding.
You see that his face is one crisscross mass of paint marks. I am never
without Indian paint, and it will be easy for me to make up my face so
that it will pass for Crow-killer’s, especially as I shall select the
nighttime for my entrance into the village.”

“You may fool the mob, but you can’t pull the wool over Raven Feather’s
eyes,” said Wild Bill.

“I won’t have to. Leave that detail to me.”

Wild Bill knew that it would be useless to protest. He said no more, but
gave earnest attention to the bold scheme that Buffalo Bill outlined.

A mile from the flat the ponies of the slain Navahos were found. The
king of scouts took one and Bart Angell appropriated the other.

The trail to the village was a plain one, and the four whites followed
it until they arrived at the top of a hill where there was a dense
growth of trees.

Below them, and not more than two miles away, was the home of Raven
Feather and his Navahos.

“We must not ride any farther,” commanded Buffalo Bill. “There is
probably a sentinel at the foot of this hill, and there are others
between the hill and the village.”

“I can see the fellow at the foot of the hill now,” said Wild Bill, who
had borrowed the king of scout’s field glasses. “He is lying down under
a tree and smoking.”

It was late afternoon. The horses were tethered, and then the four
friends sat down and waited for the coming of dark. Each had a part to
play, and each was anxious for the time of action to come.

Just before dark they had a cold meal, and when night came Buffalo Bill
arose, and, after shaking hands with his three friends, strode boldly
down the hill, leading the larger of the two ponies, the one he had
selected, and which he believed to be the one that had belonged to
Crow-killer.

He could not signal his approach to the sentinel, for he did not know
what the signal was. But he had devised a way of surmounting this
difficulty. As he came within hearing of the Navaho on guard, he began
the utterance of heavy groans, and followed them with the motions of a
person in a state of great bodily weakness.

The sentinel heard the groans, and, springing to his feet, cocked his
gun and waited for he knew not what.

Soon a staggering form was outlined between the tree shadows.

The sentinel let out a hissing sound, followed by the terrified squeak
of a doomed squirrel.

Buffalo Bill, in his disguise, did not answer in kind. He might make a
mistake, and the mistake would be a fatal one. Instead, he redoubled his
groans, giving to them the deeply guttural tones of the dead
Crow-killer.

The sentinel’s suspicions, if he had any, were dispelled. He stepped
forward, and said in Navaho: “The great warrior of the Navahos, the
brother of the favorite of the Great Spirit, Raven Feather, is in pain.
Where is the pain?”

“Here.” The false Crow-killer placed his hand on his heart, and at the
same time began to cough violently.

The sentinel was within a few feet of the disguised scout when his eyes
fell on the horse. He started back, and his gun was raised in the
twinkling of an eye.

At that moment Buffalo Bill was very near death. In the confident belief
that he had deceived the Indian, he had not made any demonstration with
his rifle, which he carried loosely in his hand. He did not know that
the pony had betrayed him. But he realized in a flash that the Indian
had made an important discovery, and he acted with the celerity of
lightning. But the Indian had the start, and a bullet would have reached
Buffalo Bill’s heart if a tomahawk, thrown with a practiced hand, had
not carved the Navaho’s skull at the very moment when he was about to
press the trigger.

The king of scouts saw the Indian fall, and knew that a friend had
intervened, and in the nick of time.

Wild Bill stepped from behind a tree. “I reckon you’ll forgive me for
disobeying instructions,” he said in a whisper. “You see, I had a hunch
that you’d taken the wrong pony, and, knowing how the Navahos regard
such changes, I concluded to slip on behind you and see you through.”

“You are forgiven,” returned Buffalo Bill huskily. “That’s another on
me. I shan’t forget.”

Wild Bill looked closely at the pony. Before, while on the way from the
ravine, he paid no attention to the animal.

“I am a fool,” he muttered, more to himself than to his old comrade.
“The two ponies the Indians—Crow-killer and his partner—left behind when
they sneaked for the flat were pintos. This pony is a plain muser. There
was substitution after the Indians stole away from their ponies. Some
one, a white man, sure, for on no other supposition can the conduct of
this Navaho at my feet be accounted for, exchanged his own pony for that
of Crow-killer. Why did he do it, and who was he?”

“Rixton Holmes,” replied Buffalo Bill promptly. “He knew the ponies. His
own, this fellow, is a decent sort of a plug, but Crow-killer’s is
stronger and fleeter.”

“That’s it, sure, Cody.” Then Wild Bill added: “Of course, you know the
crook the Navahos have about the horses of the whites.”

“Oh, yes. They will never ride one. All that are found are led away and
killed.”

“Then don’t you see what a mistake you made in riding this pony?”

“I do, but it is only just now that the mistake has been called to my
notice. Confound it, I have got to walk to the Indian village.”

“You needn’t walk. The other pony is right here in the bushes. It is a
pinto, and if it did not belong to Crow-killer, you can explain, if you
have to, that your pony was killed.”

“Hickok, you are a friend, indeed. You have saved me a lot of trouble
and worry.”

The king of scouts, on his new mount, parted from Wild Bill and rode
into the little valley of the Navahos.

But his spirits were not buoyant. The mishap at the beginning of his
desperate venture had brought many misgivings. But there was no
hesitation as to the program he had mapped out. He would carry out his
part no matter what the result might be.

He was approaching the village, wondering, as he rode, why he had not
met another sentinel, when an Indian arose from the deep grass along one
side of the trail and grasped the pony by the bridle, saying as he did
so: “Crow-killer must go back. It is the order of his brother, the great
chief, Raven Feather.”

The disguised scout heard the statement with amazement and
disappointment. “What has Crow-killer done that he should be treated in
this way?” he indignantly demanded.

“He has offended Raven Feather. He has allowed the white traitor to
steal his pony.”

“Is the white traitor in the village?” asked the false Crow-killer
eagerly, forgetting his indignation for the moment.

“No. But,” the Indian added, “he was seen before the moon came, riding
the pony of the chief’s brother.”

Buffalo Bill’s head sank to his breast. Nothing was said for a minute.
The scout broke the silence. “Where must I go?” he asked.

“Back to the flat of the white man who was killed. There you must stay
for two moons.”

“Do all the braves know that Crow-killer has fallen from his high
place?”

The Indian shook his head. “But two know that the pony of Crow-killer
was stolen—Raven Feather, the chief, and Red Antelope, who saw the white
traitor and the pony.” As he spoke, the Indian placed his hand gravely
over his heart. The king of scouts heaved a sigh of relief. The
situation was not so bad, after all.

“Red Antelope,” he said, in the deep guttural of the chief’s brother,
“is a wise brave, a courageous brave. He will do justice to Crow-killer.
He will listen to Crow-killer’s story, and he will not sustain the
position that Raven Feather has taken. Crow-killer was wounded and
unconscious when the pony was stolen. The wound was not inflicted by the
white traitor, Holmes, but by the great white warrior, Buffalo Bill.”

The Indian shook his head. “The chief has given his orders,” he said,
“and Red Antelope must obey them. Crow-killer must go back to the white
man’s flat.”

Buffalo Bill dismounted. The time for talk had passed. “Approach,” he
commanded sternly, “and gaze upon the wound that Crow-killer carries in
his breast.”

The Navaho approached. He would look, he would express his sympathy, and
then he would see that the chief’s order was carried out.

When within arm’s length of the disguised scout, his wrists were seized
and he was hurled violently to the ground. His cries were stifled, and
he was soon bound and gagged. The victory was an easy one, for the
Navaho was no match for his powerful and determined antagonist.

Half an hour later Raven Feather, alone in his tepee, was surprised by
the entrance of one whom at first glance he took for his brother.

He was on his feet, his dark face burning with anger, when a handful of
red pepper was hurled at his face. As he staggered back, he was thrown
upon the couch of skins from which he had arisen, and a robe was drawn
tightly about his head.

Shortly after this occurrence the false Crow-killer walked out of the
tepee, and, accosting a Navaho, said: “Raven Feather sleeps. Let him not
be disturbed. He has left his affairs in the hands of Crow-killer. Where
has the white maiden been placed? Crow-killer must see her in order that
he may report when Raven Feather awakes from his sleep.”

The answer was like a blow in the face: “The white maiden is dead.”




                              CHAPTER VII.
                       A CUNNING VILLAIN’S PLAY.


“Yes, the white maiden is dead,” repeated the Navaho. “Did not Raven
Feather so say to his brother?”

Buffalo Bill was speechless. The news was so astounding that for the
moment he was incapable of sustaining his assumed character. As he stood
staring at the Navaho, there emerged from a tepee a few rods below him a
squat, grotesque figure, carrying a torch. He was followed by three
squaws, who set up a combined wail as they came into the open air.

The distraction was opportune for the greatly disturbed king of scouts.
It served to divert the attention of the Navaho.

“What is the matter?” asked Buffalo Bill.

The answer was that the medicine man was on his way to the tepee of the
dead maiden to exorcise the evil spirits which were struggling with the
maiden’s soul. Raven Feather had loved the white maiden, and, as she
could not become his squaw on this earth, he wished her to become his
spirit bride.

“I must be present,” said the disguised scout. “It would be Raven
Feather’s wish if he were awake.”

“Raven Feather must be present himself,” replied the Navaho. “Black
Bison, the medicine man, cannot drive away the evil spirits without the
presence of the chief.”

The situation was again becoming serious. The Navaho would suspect the
cheat if means were not immediately taken to hoodwink him. Buffalo Bill
thought rapidly.

“I will go to the medicine man,” he said gravely, “and tell him that
Raven Feather, overcome by his great sorrow, is sleeping. The mind of
the chief was distracted when he talked with Crow-killer. Raven Feather
forgot that Crow-killer did not know that the white maiden had died; he
forgot, also, that he had promised to assist Black Bison.”

It was lucky for the disguised scout that the Navaho was of a low order
of intelligence. The explanation was accepted, and Buffalo Bill,
immensely relieved, strode toward the tepee into which the medicine man
and the squaws had just entered.

On the way he passed a number of braves, who were gazing curiously at
the tepee of the proposed incantation.

The false Crow-killer did not speak to any one of them, but he did not
fail to note with relief that they looked at him without surprise.

At the door of the tepee he halted. The bearskin flap had been pushed
aside and secured so that a clear view of the interior could be
obtained.

Upon a pile of skins in a corner lay the body of Myra Wilton. Buffalo
Bill could see the face, and a chill came over his spirits. This, then,
was the end of his quest; this the termination of Carl Henson’s romance.

At the feet of the body stood the dwarf medicine man, and squatted on
the floor in front of the body were the squaws.

The medicine man was muttering some strange words, when the disguised
scout uttered a low hiss. The muttering quickly ceased, and Black Bison
looked up with a start. He saw the tall, muscular figure in the doorway,
and took note of the beckoning finger. In an instant he was at the side
of the false Crow-killer.

Lowering his head and speaking hoarsely, and just above a whisper, the
scout informed the medicine man that Raven Feather was ill and could not
come to the tepee of death. But could not the chief’s brother,
Crow-killer, take the place of the chief? Crow-killer was sure that the
substitution could be made with success; only, for Crow-killer had had a
message from the Great Spirit, the squaws must be sent away.

Black Bison was filled with wonder. What had the Great Spirit said to
Crow-killer?

“He had said,” solemnly announced the disguised scout, “that the
presence and assistance of Crow-killer would be more potent than even
the presence and assistance of Raven Feather and the squaws. Why?
Because Crow-killer had just returned from an expedition which had
resulted in the killing of that dreaded enemy of the Navahos, Buffalo
Bill. The scalp of the great white warrior was now reposing under the
head of Raven Feather, and when the chief awoke he would find all his
troubles gone.”

The medicine man was deeply impressed. He turned, issued a curt order,
and the three squaws arose and toddled out of the tepee.

When they had gone from sight, Buffalo Bill entered the tepee and let
down the door flap. He had resolved upon a course that was not in his
mind when he entered the Indian village. If he could not rescue Myra
Wilton alive, he would carry her away dead. The poor girl should not
become the victim of an Indian burial.

He walked slowly to the side of Black Bison, and then suddenly gripped
the dwarf by the throat and forced him to the floor. The head of the
medicine man struck the torch that he had brought, and which had been
stuck in a hole in the ground, and it fell over, sputtered, and went
out.

The quick change from light to darkness caused the king of scouts to
slightly relax his hold on the throat of his victim. The action was
instantly taken advantage of, and Buffalo Bill, strong as he was, soon
discovered that he was opposing a very giant in strength.

There ensued a long and terrific struggle, in which not a word was
uttered. While it was progressing, the king of scouts thought he heard a
movement from the direction of the couch of skins upon which lay the
body of Myra Wilton.

Ten minutes elapsed before the end of the contest came. Sore and out of
breath, Buffalo Bill got to his feet and relighted the torch.

As its light shone upon the bed of skins, he gave vent to a cry of
amazement.

The body had disappeared.

A large slit in the skin wall back of the couch disclosed the avenue of
escape.

With a strange light in his eyes the king of scouts stepped quickly to
the wall and examined the slit. It had been made by one strong stroke.
No weak woman could have made it. Myra Wilton had not come to life, but
her body had been stolen by some enemy of the Navahos.

Out of the hole in the wall went the wondering scout, and with his sharp
eyes endeavored to pierce the darkness that surrounded him. There were
no lights in any of the other tepees. The nearest was about twenty feet
away, and standing in front of it was an Indian.

The false Crow-killer went over to the Navaho, and was pleased to find
that it was one who had spoken to him concerning the medicine man and
the incantation. The Indian did not respond when asked if any one had
preceded the questioner out of the slit in the tepee of the dead white
maiden.

The question was repeated. Now there was movement instead of oral
answer. Clutching the disguised scout by the arms, the Navaho let out a
yell that was sufficient to arouse the whole village.

A series of yells came in response, and as the king of scouts flung the
Indian to the ground he found himself in the midst of an excited mob. He
dodged a tomahawk, caught sight of the vengeful face of Raven Feather,
fired point-blank at the chief’s head, and, as the chief fell, struck
right and left with weapon and fist, and had succeeded in forcing his
way out of the crowd, when his legs were seized by the released medicine
man, who had crawled under the skin of the tepee.

As Buffalo Bill felt himself falling, a shout that was as fine wine to a
thirsty throat saluted his ears. Then ensued a fusillade that sent all
the Indians who could use their legs to a place of security.

The medicine man lay dead with a bullet in his brain as the grateful
king of scouts shook hands with Wild Bill, Bart Angell, and Carl Henson.

They had been awaiting the signal from Buffalo Bill, and the delay in
giving it had caused them to think that there had been a miscue.
Consequently they had entered the village on their own motion.

On the ground where the shooting had taken place lay seven Indians,
among them Raven Feather, the chief.

“There are not more than a dozen Navahos left,” said the king of scouts
as he looked at the slain, “and I don’t think we need anticipate any
trouble from them. They know their chief is dead, and if we give them
opportunity they will leave the village before morning.”

“I shan’t object,” remarked Wild Bill. “I have no use for them. Have
you, Cody?”

“No. We have won out in the Navaho matter. But——” He paused, and gazed
thoughtfully at the ground.

“But what?” anxiously inquired Carl Henson. “Is not Myra Wilton in the
village? Haven’t you seen her?”

The questions cost the sympathetic king of scouts a painful effort to
answer. But the truth must be told. Slowly and gravely he narrated the
story of his adventures and discoveries since his arrival in the
village.

Carl Henson uttered a groan of anguish. His form shook with emotion.

“Brace up,” said Wild Bill sullenly. “I have got an idea, and if it
doesn’t change your tune, then I don’t know hardtack from chile con
carne. Listen to me: Myra Wilton is not dead.”

Carl Henson looked up with a start of joy. “Explain,” he demanded. “What
do you know that Mr. Cody does not know?”

“Mighty little in regard to most things, young man, but a trifle more
than he does in the matter of a certain Rixton Holmes.”

“You think he stole the body, eh?” put in Buffalo Bill. “So do I.”

“Of course he is the thief. And I’ll bet a hat I know how he worked the
snap. When I was in Taos gathering the facts about the murder of Jared
Holmes, I learned that Holmes—he went under another name then—had been
seen colleaguing with Tom Darke, the man who did the actual killing.”

“What of it?” broke in the agitated young man. “How could this talk in
Taos, months ago, refer to the case of Myra Wilton?”

“Easy, friend Henson,” returned Wild Bill amiably. “Give me time and
I’ll make the connection. I learned something else. Rixton Holmes was a
druggist in the early part of his career. He worked at the business in
St. Louis; had to leave the town between two days because he played a
cunning fraud on an insurance company.”

The four friends were now walking out of the village toward the point
where the horses had been stationed.

Wild Bill, without interruption, continued his statement. “The case was
a peculiar one. A woman, no matter what her station in life was, had her
life insured. She was a friend of Rixton Holmes. A month after the
issuing of the policy she died; at least, that was the opinion of the
doctor who signed the death certificate. The money was paid to Holmes,
who was named as the beneficiary. Six months later, the woman turned up
alive, and gave the snap away to the district attorney. She wanted
revenge. Holmes had agreed to whack up, and he failed to do so. There
was no original intent to cheat her, but faro got the money, and he
simply couldn’t make good with her.

“It appears that the plot was concocted by Holmes, who said he knew of a
drug that, after being taken, would produce the semblance of death,
sufficient to deceive an ordinary physician; and, by the way, it was a
very ordinary one who attended her in what was supposed to be her last
illness.”

“I begin to see,” exclaimed Henson, as Wild Bill paused and looked at
the young man with a meaning smile. “Holmes induced Myra to take the
drug, and when she was under its influence he stole into the tepee and
carried her off.”

“You’re partly right and partly wrong,” replied Wild Bill. “She took the
drug, all right, but she did not know that it came from her bitter
enemy. Holmes never saw her, and never gave the drug into her hands. I
believe she took the stuff in the belief that it came from her friends.”

Buffalo Bill now had something to say. “I am inclined to think that
Hickok is right about the drug. I now call to mind that there was a
peculiar drug-store odor about the tepee when I entered it. But Rixton
Holmes, as Hickok says, never personally induced the girl to take the
drug. There is mystery about that part of the affair that won’t likely
be solved until we rescue Miss Wilton and catch the villain who carried
her off. It was a bold thing to do. The time selected for the abduction
was the best possible. By George! I have it. Holmes followed us from the
vicinity of the flat. He must have seen us soon after he stole
Crow-killer’s pony, and, as his aim was to get the girl, he followed us
to the village, and permitted me to act as his cat’s-paw, hang him.”

“But how did he get the drug to the girl?” asked Wild Bill.

“That gets me,” was the reply. “It must have reached her some time
before my arrival in the village, for she was doing the dead act when I
got there. Of course, Holmes must have preceded me. We waited a couple
of hours, if you will remember, on the top of the hill overlooking the
valley.”

“Well,” remarked Bart Angell, as he bit off a generous chew from his
side of hardcut, “we might as well quit roominatin’ over ther case. What
we got ter do is ter git on ther track of Holmes, and that aire mighty
pronto.”

“We can do nothing until morning,” said Henson despondingly. “You can’t
trail anybody in the nighttime.”

“That’s true as a general proposition,” said Buffalo Bill, “but in this
case you’re off. The villain has a pony, and, of course, the animal was
staked near the village. We can soon learn the direction of his flight.
There are three ways of leaving the valley. One is toward the flat that
we left behind this forenoon. The second is through the cañon at the
other end of the village, a route that takes one to Colorado, and the
third is toward the east through a narrow pass, and on to the plains.”

The horses of the party were found; and the fact that they were where
they had been left, near the trail leading to the lower end of the
valley and the western hills, caused the king of scouts to believe that
Holmes had not sought to escape by way of the flat and the ravine with
the cave.

“If he had come this way,” he said, “he would certainly have spotted the
ponies and stampeded them. And I don’t think he took the trail at the
other end. He wants to reach the plains, and the way to get there is by
taking the eastern route.”

“Then let’s investigate over that way first,” suggested Wild Bill, “and
if you’re right, as I believe you are, we’ll be saving valuable time.”

Buffalo Bill had correctly sized up the fleeing villain’s program. The
tracks of a pony were found on the east less than a mile from the
village. There were deep indentations in the soil, and the king of
scouts, looking at the marks, rightly concluded that they were made by a
pony that had carried double.

“Holmes is a heavy man,” he remarked, “and Miss Wilton isn’t exactly a
lightweight.”

Sleep was out of the question. The trail was followed at night, though
the progress was necessarily slow. In the hills, where there was but one
way for a horse to take, they could make better time.

It was daylight when they halted in a cañon, through which flowed a deep
and rapid stream of water.

They had breakfast, attended to the wants of their ponies, and then rode
on.

“Do you think Miss Wilton remained long in her deathlike sleep?” asked
Carl Henson of Buffalo Bill, as the friends were riding, single file, up
the steep side of the mountain.

“If she revived before this, Holmes would have found her more
troublesome on his hands than an elephant would have been. He’ll not try
to get her out of her sleep.”

“But the sleep must some time come to an end. When will that be? Have
you any idea?”

His anxiety was so marked that Wild Bill hastened to say: “That woman in
St. Louis stayed dead twenty-four hours. It will take Holmes more than a
day to get clear of these hills. We’ll catch him before he reaches the
plains.”

Just before noon Bart Angell, who was riding ahead, and had just rounded
a sharp turn in the trail, uttered a shout that brought his companions
quickly to the spot where he had reined up.

Before him in the road lay the dead body of an Indian pony.

It was a pinto, and it had been shot in the head.

Buffalo Bill dismounted, and saw that one leg of the animal was broken.

“I understand,” he said. “The pony stepped in that hole there, broke a
leg, and was shot as an act of compassion.”

Wild Bill, the man of coolness, threw up his sombrero. “We’ve got him
now,” he exclaimed. “That’s as certain as death and taxes.”

The king of scouts did not share in his old comrade’s belief. “I don’t
know about that,” he said soberly. “Not having the pony, he will not be
obliged to keep to the trail. And it is so hard and rocky up here that
it will be no easy matter to trail him. However, we will hope for the
best.”

Half an hour later Bart Angell, who had left the trail at the request of
Buffalo Bill, to explore a ravine that debouched into the cañon upon the
high side of which they had been traveling, made a discovery that raised
the spirits of his comrades.

The footprints of two persons had been found on a short, sandy stretch,
just below the mouth of a spring.

The tracks pointed up the ravine, and it was clear that retreat was
being made in that direction.

There was no mistaking the prints. One set belonged to a man, the other
to a woman.

“You may ease your mind regarding one thing, Mr. Henson,” said Buffalo
Bill. “Miss Wilton has come to her senses. She can walk, too.”

The young man’s relief at this statement was not pronounced. “But why is
she going along with that scoundrel?” he said, with a voice that had
anger as well as surprise in it. “He isn’t dragging her along. She is
stepping freely.”

“I hope you are not hobnobbing with the green monster,” was the
response, in comical disapproval. “There is an explanation, and we are
on the way to get it.”

There was no trail that horses could follow, and so the animals were
left at the mouth of the ravine while the three scouts and Carl Henson
followed the footprints.

The following was not easy; but the scouts were experts, and though they
went slowly over the rocky ground, yet there was never a stop. Once they
came to a flat bowlder where it was evident that the girl had rested.

The king of scouts believed that Holmes and Miss Wilton were not far
off, for he had felt of the carcass of the pinto pony and found it warm.

About a mile up the ravine the pursuers came to a point where the ravine
branched. One branch took a direction at right angles with the course
they had been following. The direction was toward the west and south,
for they could see that half a mile up the branch curved toward the
cañon they had but recently left.

Buffalo Bill was both surprised and irritated when the discovery was
made that the tracks of the man and girl turned into the western branch.

A suspicion of the truth caused him to say to Wild Bill and Bart Angell:
“We may have been tricked. It looks like it. Hickok, you and Bart will
take the back track to the place where we left our ponies. Henson and I
will follow these prints. They will take us to the cañon trail, and we
can all meet inside of an hour.”

The order was instantly obeyed. Wild Bill and Angell hurried down the
ravine. They reached the spot where the ponies had been tethered to make
the alarming discovery that the animals were gone.

Wild Bill looked at his comrade, and then each began to use language
that, while most expressive, would not look well in print.

The ebullition over, Angell ran to the cañon trail and looked along the
route eastward. “There they are!” he shouted in wrath. “See ’em, Hickok?
Most to ther summit, an’ a-goin’ it fer keeps.”

Wild Bill used his eyes and fiercely bit at his mustache. “Each on a
pony,” he muttered. “No coercion? Going away like two elopers. Bart,
this business beats me to a frazzle. Got an opinion that is of any
value?”

“No, but I shore got a request ter make,” was the response, in deep
disgust. “Will you hev ther kindness as ter be so kind as ter take a
squint among ther big trees yereabout an’ find a knot hole. I shore
desires ter crawl inter it an’ haul ther hole in arter me.”

Wild Bill fell to whistling. A smile came to his lips. “I am waiting for
Cody to come up. It will be worth something to note the expression of
his classic mug when he sees what a mess we have made of it.”

It was not long before the king of scouts and Carl Henson put in an
appearance. There was no need to look toward the spot where the ponies
had been nor to ask questions. The faces of Wild Bill and Bart Angell
told the whole crushing story.

For a moment Buffalo Bill gazed at them without speaking. Then he broke
into a laugh. “Boys,” he said, “it is certainly rough. But the battle is
not yet lost. Luck can’t stay always with that slick, double-dyed
villain. We are all candidates for bed, but the bed has not been made
that will take any of us in to-day. It’s sprint, and as this is no time
for a confab, here goes.”

Up the hill he went, making surprising time for a man of his weight. It
may be said that his wound had healed rapidly, and that for twenty-four
hours it had given him no concern.

Wild Bill was the fleetest runner. Tall, thin, and wiry, with the
strength of a giant and the suppleness of a panther, he fairly flew over
the ground.

Carl Henson was a good second. The young man was on his mettle. Besides,
he had the greatest interest at stake.

For hours the fugitives were lost sight of, but in the middle afternoon
they were seen to descend a hill ending in one of the rockiest sections
of the Canadian Mountains.

With his field glasses Buffalo Bill noticed that Holmes and the girl
were walking their ponies, and that from time to time the villain, who
was in the lead, turned and shook his fist at the girl.

Arrived at the foot of the hill, no attempt to increase the speed of the
ponies was made.

“I tell you what, boys,” said the king of scouts, in pleasant
excitement, “things are moving our way.”

“What do you mean?” interrogated Henson eagerly.

“Why, can’t you guess? We wouldn’t have come in sight of Holmes if the
ponies had not been walked for a long distance. What has happened? Just
this: Miss Wilton has caught on to the situation. She has refused to
obey orders and ride hard. Holmes is mad clear through, but can do
nothing. He has probably threatened to shoot her if she does not go with
him, but he can’t induce her to bring her pony out of a walk.”

Carl Henson was so greatly excited over what Buffalo Bill had said that
he started along the trail with the speed of a race horse.

If he kept on in his course, a few minutes would bring him into view
from the rocky basin through which Holmes and Myra Wilton were riding.

Buffalo Bill shouted: “Come back, or you will spoil all!” Henson heard,
but he did not lessen his speed.

The king of scouts started after him. The pursuit would have been
fruitless if Henson, running with his head in the air and his mind on
the girl he loved, had not stumbled over a large stone and pitched
forward on his face. The king of scouts picked the young man up to hear
him say: “Let me alone. I am a match for a dozen fellows like that one
down there.”

“If you don’t do as I say,” replied Buffalo Bill severely, “you may lose
the girl and be balked of your revenge. Holmes is a man without scruple.
Rather than see Myra Wilton restored to her friends, he will kill her
even if his own life pays the forfeit. We must go slow. The game is ours
if we work it right. Leave the direction of affairs to me.”

“All right,” said Henson humbly. “I’ll not break loose again.”

Soon after this conversation Holmes and his captive halted, and the
ponies were hobbled.

Buffalo Bill was waiting for the darkness. He might, with his force,
descend immediately upon the villain, but he feared that once the
rescuers were seen, Miss Wilton’s life would be in jeopardy.




                             CHAPTER VIII.
                           SAVED FROM DEATH.


In a position from which all parts of the rocky basin could be seen,
Buffalo Bill assembled his men and unfolded his program.

“Holmes will not stay all night among the rocks down there,” he said.
“He may start on before dark, though my opinion is that he won’t unless
he should see us coming down the hill toward him. He is probably facing
the hill now, on the watch for us. As he will not get a glimpse of us
during daylight, he will conclude that we have not been able to make
fast time in the pursuit.”

“I wish the darkness would hurry up and come,” said Carl Henson, in
fierce impatience. “I am worried about Miss Wilton.”

“She is in no present danger,” replied the scout.

The sun was setting. Its rays illuminated and brought into bold relief a
long peak that stood at the farther end of the basin. The peak was built
of many-colored rocks laid in belts, and the effect was grandly
beautiful.

On one side of the peak ran the trail that led out of the basin.

In an hour the peak and the hollow at its base would be wrapped in
darkness.

“That peak seems to interest you, Cody,” said Wild Bill.

“It does, Hickok, for there I feel that the wind-up will take place.”

“Then you don’t intend that Holmes shall sneak out of the basin.”

“You have said it.”

“I get the idea. The retreat by the peak must be cut off.”

“Yes. The basin can be circled. There’ll be some tough climbing to do,
but——”

“But a man of my build can easily do the trick. Good! That suits me down
to the ground. Wish I could start now. By gum”—looking along the
irregular wall of the basin—“I can start in daylight. The rocks offer
all kinds of opportunities for concealment. What do you say, Cody?
Hadn’t I better get a move on right now?”

Buffalo Bill did not answer at once. His eyes were on the spot where
Rixton Holmes and Myra Wilton were resting. He saw the villain arise,
take the girl by the arm and point to the ponies.

“They are going to move,” he said, in some excitement. Then to Wild
Bill: “Yes, you may go. You’ll have to travel fast if you expect to get
to the peak before they come up.”

“Trust me,” was the quiet reply, and Wild Bill was off.

Carl Henson was so excited that he would have rushed down the hill in
spite of his promise to obey Buffalo Bill’s orders, if Bart Angell had
not caught him by the arm and held him back. “Keep cool, sonny,” was the
big backwoodsman’s admonition. “You’ll shore hev a chance ter take part
in ther circus, but you got ter remember that Buffalo Bill aire ther
ringmaster.”

The king of scouts, still watching the scene in the basin, was both
relieved and delighted to observe that Holmes was having trouble with
his captive. Myra Wilton had refused to mount her pony. An angry
discussion was evidently taking place.

Meanwhile, Wild Bill, active as a cat and with the cunning and
discretion that had so many times stood him in good stead, was making
quick time toward the trail beyond the peak.

Once Myra Wilton turned and looked toward the spot where Buffalo Bill
and his two companions were concealed. Did she know they were there?

The king of scouts was in doubt on this point, but the inference was
that Holmes believed that she suspected help was near, for, while she
was looking at the point of concealment, the villain caught her around
the waist, lifted her from the ground, and, despite her struggles, began
to carry her in the direction of the peak.

“Come on, boys,” said Buffalo Bill, as he leaped to his feet. “My slate
is smashed. It’s now a case of get there.”

When they reached the basin, Holmes and the girl were out of sight. The
huge rocks of the hollow hid them.

But as the objective point of the alarmed and desperate villain must be
the peak trail, the king of scouts pressed forward, running as he never
had run before.

He outstripped his companions, and was in an open space that permitted a
view of the base of the peak when he stopped in amazement.

Rixton Holmes was ascending the peak. Assisted by the rocky rings, he
had reached a point over fifty feet from the base. His strength must
have been prodigious, for he still held the girl in his arms.

She was making no movement, and the king of scouts believed that she had
fainted. Had he known that the brutal villain had choked her into
unconsciousness, his rage might have overlapped his judgment.

Holmes saw Buffalo Bill, and stopped to draw a knife from his belt.

“Shoot, if you will,” he shouted hoarsely, “and I will drive this knife
into Myra Wilton’s heart.”

“You coward,” yelled Carl Henson, who had come up and was beside himself
with rage and anguish. “Come down here and have it out with me.”

Holmes laughed hoarsely. “I’m playing a safe hand,” he yelled.

“What do ye expect ter gain by this monkey business?” demanded Bart
Angell, who had his rifle pointed at the villain’s head and was waiting
for a chance to fire. If the girl’s head had not rested against the
villain’s cheek he would have fired, anyhow. “I’m not likely ter miss,
but it won’t do ter take chances,” he said sourly to himself.

“Gain?” repeated Holmes. “Satisfaction, that’s all.” His eyes were
rolling wildly, and Buffalo Bill realized that he was confronting a
half-crazed enemy; and he was the more dangerous on that account.

But where was Wild Bill? He had had time to reach the peak, and yet
there was no sign of him.

While the king of scouts wondered at the nonappearance of his old
comrade, Holmes, holding the knife in a threatening attitude, backed out
of sight, and continued his ascent of the peak.

Buffalo Bill and his companions ran around the base to make a discovery
that at the moment gave them some satisfaction.

The villain’s progress had been stopped. There was a wide gap in the
rings; too wide to be covered by a leap.

The path Holmes with his burden had been pursuing terminated at a narrow
shelf over an almost vertical wall, which formed the back of a small
cove cut out of the base of the peak. The floor of the cove was not
smooth. Sharp, jagged sections of the rocky ledge upon which the base
rested pointed upward.

Rixton Holmes, standing perilously on the shelf, looked down, and he
gave a wild laugh as his eyes fell on the king of scouts, Bart Angell,
and Carl Henson. “The jig is up,” he shrieked. “Myra Wilton is going
into eternity, and I am going to follow her. I lose and you don’t win.”

“I am going to fire,” said Henson in a husky whisper. “I—I can’t stand
this.”

“Wait,” sternly commanded Buffalo Bill. “If there is any shooting to be
done, it must be done by me.”

As he ceased speaking, Holmes raised the limp form of the girl above his
head.

“Down she goes,” he yelled, and, dazed with horror, Carl Henson started
back, his rifle held in a nerveless hand.

It was a frightful moment. Buffalo Bill, whose wits had not deserted
him, did not fire, though he might have done so. He realized that a shot
would not save the life of the girl, for her form was held directly over
the precipice, and that she would fall the instant a bullet entered the
brain of the fiend who held her.

Therefore, instead of firing, he leaped into the cove, braced himself,
and raised his hands.

There came a savage shout from above, and the next instant the villain
fell back on the ringing rocks with Wild Bill on top of him.

The intent of the tall scout had been good, but it did not suffice to
bring the girl from a position of deadly danger to one of safety.

The sudden descent of Wild Bill from above the shelf caused Holmes to
relax his grip on the form of his victim.

Her senses had returned a moment before Holmes lifted her above his
head. As the villain fell over under the weight of the savagely excited
scout, she slipped over the edge of the precipice.

But she did not fall to the bottom. She clutched at the uneven surface
of the side wall as she went, and halfway down her belt caught on a
projection, and she hung there, head and feet pointing downward.

Her terrified eyes met the upturned gaze of the palefaced king of
scouts.

“Raise yourself if you can,” he shouted encouragingly, “and grip that
rock that has caught you.”

The attempt was made and was a failure. The girl was too weak to exert
more than a small portion of her normal strength.

“Rest a bit and try again,” counseled the scout. “If you can hold on a
few minutes, I’ll get you onto solid ground.”

“Can’t I do something?” said Carl Henson, his handsome face twitching
with agony.

“Yes,” was the quick response; “you can run to the ponies, where Holmes
left them, and get the reatas.”

The young man was off like a shot, but he never went as far as the spot
where the ponies had been secured. On his way he met Bart Angell. The
big backwoodsman had the reatas in his hand.

“I reckoned as how they’d shore be needed,” he said to Henson, “an’ so I
jest naterally made a bee line fer ther ponies without axin’ Cody’s
permission.”

When Henson and Angell reached the cove Myra Wilton had succeeded in
gettin’ her hands on the rocky projection, and Wild Bill was standing on
the narrow shelf above.

“Hike up here with those reatas,” Wild Bill shouted.

“I’ll take them,” said Carl Henson quickly. “I can make better time than
you, Mr. Angell.”

Buffalo Bill would not leave his position under the girl. She might fall
at any moment. If she did, it might be death for him and her, for there
was a sheer drop of nearly fifty feet.

Bart Angell regarded the king of scouts gravely. Soon he was standing
behind his comrade. “Go away, Bart,” commanded Buffalo Bill. “One is
enough.”

“Maybe not, son,” was the firm reply. “If she comes, I’ll shore yank you
back ther minute she strikes your arms. Thataway we’ll save some of ther
pieces.”

The king of scouts tried to smile, but could not. Above him the girl was
swaying about the projection that was holding her.

“I can’t hold on much longer,” she said faintly, and her voice just
reached the ears of the king of scouts. “And if I let go with my hands I
must fall, for the belt has given way.”

“You must hold on,” came the reply as a command. “Help is on the way.”

A shout from the shelf gave her courage. “I am here, Myra,” called out
Carl Henson tremulously. “I have got ropes, and they’ll be down to you
in a minute.” While he was speaking Wild Bill was twisting the reatas.
In the cove Buffalo Bill breathed a sigh of deepest relief.

The transition from torturing suspense to ardent hope was scarcely set
before Bart Angell screamed: “Look out, she is falling!”

He spoke the awful truth. Myra Wilton, turning to look up at her lover,
had broken off the end of projection of rock about which her hands were
clasped. If she had had wits about her she might have saved herself from
falling, but the accident unnerved her, and she relaxed her hold on the
solid, fixed, remaining section of the rock.

Carl Henson saw her fall, and would have leaped after her if Wild Bill
had not seized his arm in the nick of time.

The young man was struggling in the grasp of the tall scout, when a
joyous shout from the cove caused him to gaze into Wild Bill’s face in
utter bewilderment.

“A miracle, I reckon,” said the scout to the young man as they both
started for the shelf.

And a miracle, or something closely allied to one, had intervened to
save the life of Myra Wilton. Her lover, looking down, saw her safe in
the arms of Buffalo Bill.

She had not fallen straight from the projecting rock. There were other
projections on the side wall of the cove. She had caught at them as she
went down, and once her gown had held her up for a few seconds. When at
last she fell, to be received in the arms of the king of scouts, she was
not more than ten feet from the ground.

Five minutes later she was clasped to the breast of Carl Henson.

“A mighty close shave, Cody,” remarked Wild Bill, as he slapped his old
comrade on the back; “mighty close. I never expected to see either you
or her alive again.”

Buffalo Bill was sitting on a rock mopping his face. He was about to
make some sort of response, when Myra Wilton left her lover and stood in
front of him. First she smiled, and then impulsively leaned over and
kissed him.

“The debt is wiped out,” he said, as he took her two hands and pressed
them. “But”—he paused and smiled at Carl Henson—“you must let me dance
at your wedding.”

“You shall,” she responded, with a pretty blush.

The king of scouts now gave his mind to more serious concerns. “How is
it with Rixton Holmes?” he asked Wild Bill.

“It’s a case of dying, Cody. The fellow struck his cabesa on a sharp
rock when he fell, and the point became acquainted with his Sarah
Billium.”

“Can he talk?”

“Don’t know. I’ll bring him down for you.”

Bart Angell went with Wild Bill. They soon returned bearing the limp
form of the villainous cousin of Myra Wilton.

The wound was bandaged, and whisky was forced down his throat.

Soon he opened his eyes and stared about him. He saw the girl he had
tried to murder, and he looked into the sober, reproachful countenance
of the king of scouts.

“Take the money,” he said faintly, and trying to conjure up a smile.
“I’ve lost.”

He was asked to make a full confession of his crimes.

“Life is too short for that,” he replied, “but I’ll tell something about
the mine affair. I would never have plotted to kill my three uncles if I
hadn’t bumped up against Tom Darke. He knew me as Rixton Clay, and had
no notion that I was related to the Holmeses. We became card partners,
and soon I knew all his secrets. One night when he was pretty full he
told me that he had come West for the purpose of killing three
men—Peter, Jared, and Matt Holmes. At that time Peter’s mine was the
talk of Colorado. There had been a rich discovery, and the mine was
worth millions.

“Well, I reflected, and soon the plot was born. Tom Darke killed Peter
and Jared, and he would have killed Matt if I had not taken the job off
his hands. I had to, for I was afraid that Darke’s gun would miss fire
and that Matt would get him.

“The letter that brought my Cousin Myra to New Mexico was written by me.
I had ingratiated myself with my Uncle Matt, and I knew he had made a
will, leaving his estate to me and Myra. His estate then did not amount
to much, but the estate of Peter did, and when Peter and Jared died,
Matt became the owner of the mine. Before Myra arrived, Peter and Jared
had crossed the divide.

“I could have come forward and claimed half the estate when my three
uncles were dead, but I was afraid that I would be arrested. Although I
had covered my tracks pretty well, I dared not face the authorities.
Therefore, my scheme at the last was to marry Myra, compel her to give
me the larger part of her share, and then light out for foreign parts.

“I believe she was on the point of trusting me, when you, Mr. Cody, was
trapped in the cave. But I found when we got outside the hole that I had
caught a Tartar.”

His voice became so weak that it could scarcely be heard. More whisky
was administered.

“There is not much more for me to say,” the dying villain proceeded. “I
stole Crow-killer’s pony and trailed you and your friends, Mr. Cody, to
the Indian valley. I guessed your object. You were on your way to rescue
my cousin from the hands of the Navahos. I determined to block that game
if I could. I sneaked into the village ahead of you, and just after dark
got to Myra’s tepee, and was lucky enough to find that no one was with
her. I was once a druggist, and I have always carried on my person a
powerful and peculiarly acting drug that was sent to me from the East
Indies. This drug will produce a sleep that resembles death. I had come
to the tepee prepared to work a bold design, and before I crawled away
the drug was in the hands of Myra, and she knew what to do.”

“How did you deceive her,” asked Buffalo Bill.

“I used your name. A note accompanied the vial that contained the drug.
The note was signed with your name, and informed her that you were near
by, and that her rescue was certain if she would comply with your wish.
She must swallow the contents of the vial. A deep sleep would come, the
Indians would look upon her as dead, vigilance would be relaxed, and she
could be carried away before daybreak. I did not, of course, enter the
tepee, but thrust my hand under the wall of skins and made a slight
noise to attract her attention.

“The scheme worked better than I had planned. The rescue was made with
you, Mr. Cody, as my ally. The fight in the tepee was right to my hand.
Before it was over I was on my pony, with Myra in my arms.

“If I used her roughly after she came to her senses, it was because I
was half insane with fear. You were in pursuit, I knew it, and I knew,
also, that I was doomed unless I got safely out of the mountains.”

“Did Miss Wilton see me before you left the pony to run to the peak?”
asked Buffalo Bill. “She acted as if she did.”

“No, she did not see you, but she made me believe she did. Then I must
have gone wholly insane. I determined to kill her and then kill myself.”

The tale was told. In a few minutes Rixton Holmes was dead.

Not many weeks later Myra Wilton and Carl Henson were married in Denver.
Wild Bill Hickok left his partner to engage in a hunting expedition on
the Continental Divide. Buffalo Bill, however, had much else to attend
to. He had scarcely finished his work in the Holmes murder mystery
before he had received a telegram from Colonel Hayden, an army officer,
requesting the aid of the king of scouts in locating his beautiful
daughter, who had been kidnaped by a notorious bandit.




                              CHAPTER IX.
                         A MAN HUNT IN ARIZONA.


“He does not look as if he had the intelligence of a rabbit, Cody.”

The speaker’s fine face was shadowed with grief. The tone was
despondent.

“I’ll admit that he would not likely pull a prize at a scholastic
exhibition, colonel; but he knows one thing, and he knows it well. It
may be instinct or it may be intelligence—I’ll not venture a decided
opinion on the point—but the proof is abundant that he is, par
excellence, the great and only human sleuthhound.”

Buffalo Bill, mounted on a coal-black steed, smiled on the Hualapi, who
was the subject of Colonel Hayden’s remark.

The Indian was short, squatty, and in features closely resembled the
despised Digger of northern California. The forehead was low, the nose
short and broad, the lips as thick as a negro’s, and the chin
conspicuously nonaggressive. The eyes were small, piercing, and snaky.
Fixed upon the colonel, they expressed utter disdain, for the Hualapi
could speak a fair sort of English, and he had understood the purport of
the colonel’s slurring statement.

The three men, the whites on horseback, the Indian on foot, were on the
edge of the Colorado desert. They looked upon a sky unbroken by a cloud.
The horizon stretched away until, on either side, it was lost in the
haze of quivering heat. The expanse was unmarred by tree or shrub, while
underfoot a sea of restless sand, ever shifting and ever changing,
seemed as if it sought to escape the all-pervading, deathlike monotony
and silence of the desert.

Add to this the sparse and stunted vegetation that tells of scanty water
and burning suns, and a picture is presented of the home of the Hualapi,
the human sleuthhound, who by the keenness of his vision follows the
trail of man or beast where the best bloodhound would be baffled.

Day after day the scene is the same, until the eye, weary with sweeping
the unbroken wastes, contents itself with noting the few signs of life
the desert furnishes.

Colonel Hayden tried to gather comfort from the confident assertion of
the king of scouts. But his almost hopeless look returned when he gazed
out upon the desert.

Buffalo Bill regarded the serious-faced officer with an eye of pity. The
colonel’s mind was burdened with a deep sorrow and a racking anxiety. He
was a father, and his only child, a daughter, was in the power of a
conscienceless villain.

Commander of a military post in Wyoming, he had obtained leave of
absence for the purpose of pursuing the abductor of his daughter.
Buffalo Bill, then in the government employ, had also secured leave on
the recommendation and at the urgent request of the colonel, who
believed that if any man in the West could trail the villain and rescue
the girl, the brave, fearless, and skillful king of scouts was that man.

The abduction had not the usual sordid motive. Colonel Hayden was a rich
man, but there was no question of ransom in the carrying away of Sybil
Hayden. Nor was there anything between the colonel and Edward Frams,
better known as Black-face Ned, out of which hate and revenge might have
grown. The two men were strangers. Colonel Hayden did not know that such
a person as Black-face Ned existed until the terrible news of the
abduction reached him.

Sybil was away from the post visiting a schoolmate at her mountain home
many miles from the military station when she met the villain who now
had her in his power.

He was a cowboy, and had arrived at the ranch a few days after Sybil
made her appearance there. Tall, muscularly built, with flashing black
eyes, a pale, classic face, and a heavy, drooping mustache, he was a man
who always attracted attention and compelled admiration. He was vain of
his good looks, and believed himself to be a lady-killer of the first
water. Sybil Hayden thought him interesting, but she did not admire him.
There was something about him that induced distrust. His eyes had
frequently a sinister gleam in them, and when he looked at her she saw
more than he desired she should see.

None of the other cowboys on the ranch knew him, and none of them grew
to like him. They were rough, honest fellows, and did not take kindly to
his style, which was dandified and superior. But they grudgingly
admitted that he knew his business. He was a fine rider and a dead shot,
and his bravery was unquestioned.

His story was that he had just come from northern Mexico, where for ten
years he had been the foreman of a large cattle ranch.

One day while Sybil was riding a few miles from the house she met Frams,
who was returning from a visit to the nearest town.

She gave him a cool bow, and was about to ride on, when he reined up by
her side and spoke quickly:

“I must say what I have been wanting to say for weeks, Miss Hayden. You
must hear me. I love you, and I want you for my wife.”

The girl’s indignation was greater than her surprise.

“I have nothing to say to you,” she replied coldly. She gave her pony a
light tap, but Frams caught the bridle, and the pony remained at a
standstill.

His voice was hoarse as he said: “You look upon me with contempt because
I am poor. I know your kind, and——”

“Like them.” The interruption was coolly made. Frams turned red, and his
eyes glittered savagely.

“Yes, I like your kind,” he hissed, “though I despise them, also.”
Irritated by her cool, sneering expression, he continued fiercely: “I
love you, and I want to tame you, to bring you down from your high horse
and make you sing small for your attitude toward those you consider your
inferiors.”

“You make love in a most peculiar way,” Sybil replied, with a smile that
made the villain grit his teeth. “Until to-day I was scarcely aware that
you existed. But your stupendous insolence has forced you upon my
notice. Be kind enough to remove your hand from the bridle. If you were
a gentleman, I would not have to ask twice.”

With an oath, Frams let his hand fall to his side. As the girl rode on,
he shook his fist at her and said loud enough for her to hear: “Go on,
but don’t think you have done with me. A day of reckoning is coming.”

On her return to the ranch house, Sybil did not mention her meeting with
Edward Frams. She believed that the incident was closed, and that the
cowboy would in future keep his distance.

She was not ill pleased when at night Frams threw up his job, received
his money, mounted his pony, and rode away, declaring that he was going
back to Mexico.

Two nights afterward, Sybil, who slept in a room on the first floor,
with window opening on the long veranda, was awakened from a sound sleep
by a noise near her couch. Before she could cry out, a handkerchief,
saturated with chloroform, was pressed against her nostrils, and her
senses left her. When she returned to consciousness, she found herself
strapped to the back of a horse.

It was still dark, and the horse was going at a gallop along the trail
toward the mountains.

In front was another horse, and upon its back, a cruel smile upon his
dark face, was Edward Frams, the cowboy.

The next day the news of the abduction reached Colonel Hayden. Well-nigh
distracted, he reached the ranch at the earliest possible moment, and
learned that several parties were out in pursuit of the abductor.

The animal Frams bestrode had peculiar hoof marks, and several of the
cowboys at once recognized them.

A week went by and there was no report from any one of the pursuing
parties. Colonel Hayden had come too late to hope to overtake the men
who had gone on the trail of Frams, and so he remained at the ranch in
an agony of suspense.

While awaiting news, he telegraphed a description of the abductor to the
officers of all the towns, north, south, and west, and after the lapse
of several days received a letter from the Denver chief of police,
stating that the description fitted one of the most daring and
conscienceless scoundrels in the West, one whose whereabouts had been
unknown for many years.

He had been the leader of a gang of outlaws whose range of operations
extended from Mexico to Dakota. Five years before the gang had been
broken up, but Black-face Ned and three of his men had escaped and gone
south toward Mexico.

This intelligence increased Colonel Hayden’s alarm. He chafed at the
suspense, and would have taken the field himself if the members of one
of the pursuing parties had not returned ten days after setting out.

The leader reported that the trail had been followed into Colorado, and
there lost.

Soon afterward the other pursuers returned. They had failed to trace the
abductor.

Colonel Hayden obtained leave of absence from the government, had
Buffalo Bill detailed to assist him, and a month after the abduction
they stood on the edge of the Colorado desert, the king of scouts having
picked up the trail the cowboys had lost, and followed it to the desert.
Here the services of the Hualapi had been secured on the strong
recommendation of Buffalo Bill.

It was early morning when the little party, with the Indian in the lead,
took their way across the desert. An expert reader of signs, the Hualapi
was soon able to announce that the trail was but one day old. There were
many indications—among them the dew that had fallen, the dust or sand
that had drifted into the track, the condition of the occasional tufts
of dry grass which had been pressed underfoot and had partially regained
upright shape, and minute marks upon the rocks—that told a plain story
to the trailer.

After traveling slowly for a mile, the Indian stopped, straightened
himself, and looked knowingly at the king of scouts.

Buffalo Bill rode forward and asked: “What is it, Panecho?”

“Sacks on feet; heap smart trick, ugh!”

The grunt of contempt caused the scout to smile.

“Meant to fool the ordinary white man, but it doesn’t fool you, eh?”

The Indian nodded. He had been following a very faint trail made by two
horses whose feet had been muffled.

“Bimeby sacks come off,” Panecho said. “Then we go fast.”

On the trailer went, and late in the afternoon reached a spur of the
Hualapi Mountains. Ten minutes later the Indian held up his hand. He had
lost the trail.

Colonel Hayden uttered a sigh of acute disappointment. Buffalo Bill
looked at the officer, half in contempt, half in pity.

“Lost for the moment,” he said; “but Panecho will soon pick it up again,
or I’ll miss my guess.”

The Indian made a motion that the king of scouts understood. A triangle
was formed, the point where the last vestige of the trail had been seen
being in the center of the base. Moving from each of the three points,
the colonel, Buffalo Bill, and the Hualapi began a search for the
missing trail. The colonel, who had watched the Indian closely during
the ride across the desert, and whose eyes were sharpened by anxiety,
was the one who found it. The mark was small, and so faint that the
officer had to look twice to be sure of it. He did not shout his
discovery, for silence was the order of the day, but motioned with his
hand. The Indian ran up, looked at the mark, and then hurried on, to
soon find another mark.

Now the pursuit was resumed, and when an hour before dark a point was
reached, where there were evidences that the sacks had been discarded,
the colonel was in a state of hopeful excitement.

There upon the ground was the impress of a horse’s hoof. The trail now
became more distinct, and the Indian went forward with a celerity that
delighted while it astonished the colonel.

At dark a halt was made.

The pursuers were now at the mouth of a narrow pass. Nothing could be
done until next morning, for Buffalo Bill knew that to try to follow the
trail by lantern light would not only be slow and vexatious work, but
might be attended with grave danger. If Black-face Ned was near at hand,
and he might be, the light would give him opportunity to pot every one
of the pursuers.

Camp was made, and after a cold supper the two white men and the Hualapi
found soft places, and stretched themselves out for a few hours’
much-needed rest. Buffalo Bill was up before daybreak. He roused the
Indian, and then turned to walk toward the spot—the lee of a
bowlder—where the colonel had lain, and was amazed to discover that the
soldier had gone.

Both the king of scouts and the Hualapi were light sleepers, and it
seemed strange that the colonel should have departed without awakening
either of them. Not far away from the camp was a small creek, and, in
the hope that the colonel had gone to the water for a drink, Buffalo
Bill went down the sloping bank, and soon stood on the water’s edge. It
was now light enough for the scout to see for some distance about him.

There was no sign of Colonel Hayden anywhere.

As the king of scouts stood and wondered, the Hualapi came to his side.

“Him heap make sneak,” said the Indian, with many nods. “Go away, think
he catch bad man asleep.”

“He must have crawled off noiselessly, so as not to disturb us,” replied
Bill irritably. “I shall have to give him a sharp lecture when he comes
back.”

“Him heap fool, may spoil game,” said the Indian.

The words had scarcely left the Hualapi’s mouth before there came a
sharp report, and a rifle bullet ended the speaker’s career.

Quick upon the shot Buffalo Bill dropped to the ground. The move saved
the scout’s life, for a second report had followed the first.

Buffalo Bill had dropped near the trunk of a large cottonwood. He was
behind it in a twinkling, and with pistol in hand—he had left his rifle
at the camp—awaited the next move of the assassin.

Five minutes passed and not a sound broke the stillness. The enemy must
be still on the spot whence the shots had been fired. If he had moved,
the king of scouts must have assuredly have heard him.

“He is waiting for full daylight,” was the scout’s conclusion. “Well, so
am I.”

Back of Buffalo Bill was the creek, and across the creek was a wall of
rock that rose sheer to a height of one hundred feet. There was,
therefore, no danger of an attack from behind.

But one side of the scout’s place of shelter was exposed, that which
looked toward the camp. The other side was a mass of high, thick brush.

At the expiration of ten minutes, the silence having continued unbroken,
Buffalo Bill stooped, picked up a three-foot section of the dead branch
of a tree, and then removed his sombrero. Placing the hat at an end of
the stick, he thrust it a few inches beyond the cottonwood in the
direction of camp. No shot followed. Either the ruse was guessed, or the
enemy had changed his position.

The situation was a ticklish one. If the scout stepped out into the open
space he might become a target for a murderous bullet, while if he
crawled into the brush he might encounter a similar danger.

Where had the enemy gone? Buffalo Bill tried to put himself in the
unknown’s place. After a few moments’ thought, he said to himself: “He
has probably sneaked noiselessly to a point nearer the camp. He has seen
the rifle, and he believes that I will, after a time, return there. I
will return, but not in the way he expects.”

There was but the space of a few yards between the tree and the creek,
which carried a deep and swiftly running body of water.

Buffalo Bill flattened himself, crawled in safety to the water, and then
softly entered it. Keeping his head as low as was possible, he allowed
the strong current to carry him a quarter of a mile. Then he swam to
shore, mounted the bank, and halted at the trail.

Full daylight had come, and the scout could almost see the camp from
where he stood.

The way thither was along a rock-bordered path, with here and there a
tree.

Buffalo Bill looked at the trail, shook his head, and then turned his
eyes up the bank of the cañon.

Here the trees were more numerous, and there were many bowlders, and a
few flat places where the mesquite flourished.

The king of scouts, without hesitation, went up the bank, and by
stooping and crawling managed to reach a spot above and not twenty yards
from the camp without having been seen.

He could see the rifles, and knew by this that the enemy had not as yet
entered the camp.

But the scout did not move from his place of concealment. He had a
shrewd idea of the situation, and was not surprised when, after a short
time, he heard a noise in the brush below him and close to the camp.

Presently a tall, muscular Indian stepped into the open and moved toward
the rifles.

Buffalo Bill, who had expected to see Black-face Ned, was astonished and
puzzled when the redskin, an Apache, stepped into view.

A bullet from the scout’s pistol would have laid the Indian low, but
Buffalo Bill did not desire to fire the shot if the action could with
safety be avoided.

“I’ll capture him, if I can, and make him tell me what brought him here,
and why he killed the Hualapi.”

With this thought in his mind, Buffalo Bill watched the Apache until he
saw the Indian stoop to gather up the rifles. Then he rushed down the
bank with such speed that he was close to the Apache when that
astonished aborigine raised his head.

The next moment the scout’s fist shot out with catapultic power, and the
Indian measured his length on the ground.

Blows were rained on the victim’s head until he was reduced to a state
of insensibility.




                               CHAPTER X.
                          THE SCOUT CAPTURED.


Buffalo Bill did not remain by the side of his victim and await the
return of sense. He made practical use of his time. He ate his
breakfast, risking a small fire for coffee.

While he was eating, the Apache opened his eyes. For some time he
regarded the placid-faced king of scouts with a deeply malevolent
expression. But when he spoke in the tongue of his tribe, the expression
had disappeared.

“Coffee for the great white warrior, cold water for Thunder Cloud.”

Buffalo Bill started, then looked at the Apache keenly. “So you are the
renowned Thunder Cloud, are you?” he inquired in the Indian language.

The Apache nodded, and there was pride in his look.

“A chief,” the king of scouts went on reproachfully, “who stoops to the
work of the slinking, murderous brave. Thunder Cloud has forfeited the
respect of his foes.”

The Indian’s eyes blazed with anger. “The great white warrior speaks
without thought. Thunder Cloud was whipped like a dog by the white
captain, and now he is a chief without a tribe.”

“Yes, I heard of that whipping,” returned the king of scouts cuttingly.
“Thunder Cloud broke his parole, and Captain Foster punished him.”

The Indian gnashed his teeth in savage recollection of the action which
had disgraced him in the eyes of the Americans.

There was silence for a few moments. Buffalo Bill broke it by asking:
“Would the chief like a cup of coffee?”

“Yes,” was the quick answer.

The coffee was drunk, and then the king of scouts, believing the Indian
to be in a fairly quiet frame of mind, said:

“Why did the chief kill Panecho, the Hualapi?”

Thunder Cloud frowned. He did not answer the question.

It was repeated, and with sternness. The Apache noted the menacing
expression in the scout’s eyes, and mumbled something about an old feud.

“You are dodging the issue, Thunder Cloud,” said Buffalo Bill sharply.
“I must know the truth. You are in my power. Why should I not kill you?”

The Indian shut his lips tightly. He was a stoic. “Why not?” he
repeated.

The king of scouts took a new tack. “What if I take you to the village
of the Hualapis and deliver you over to the brothers of Panecho?”

Thunder Cloud shivered. “No, no,” he entreated. “Let the great white
warrior take his revenge. Thunder Cloud is content to die by the hand of
Buffalo Bill.”

The king of scouts appeared to seriously consider the matter. “I’ll tell
you what I will do,” he said, after a pause. “I will deal with you
myself, if you, on your part, will tell me what made you shoot Panecho,
and why you are in my camp, a spy.”

The Apache, who was without honor, and who would have betrayed his best
friend if he saw a chance of personal profit, promptly replied: “Thunder
Cloud killed Panecho because the Hualapi was hot on the trail of Thunder
Cloud’s friend.”

“Just as I supposed,” remarked Buffalo Bill quietly. “You have hired
yourself out to that white villain, Black-face Ned.”

Thunder Cloud nodded, and then in answer to another question said that
Colonel Hayden had been overcome while he was walking along the trail.

Buffalo Bill guessed how the colonel had been caught. He had arisen
early and had gone down the cañon, hoping to come upon the camp of the
abductor of his daughter before the coming of daylight. On the way he
had been attacked by a sentinel posted by the white outlaw, and was now
in the power of the man he had so much cause to hate and fear.

“How long has Black-face Ned been in camp?” the scout asked.

“Since yesterday morning.”

“Who is with him?”

“Three white men.”

This was unlooked-for intelligence. The king of scouts arose to his
feet. The situation had changed. It would not be safe to remain longer
in this open space. The four white men, all outlaws, so Buffalo Bill
believed, would not likely stay in camp longer than was necessary for
the return of Thunder Cloud, who had been sent up the trail to ascertain
who had come with Colonel Hayden.

After placing a gag in the Indian’s mouth, the scout concealed two of
the rifles, and with the third in his hand left the camp and stole
noiselessly toward the rendezvous of the enemy.

As he went forward he considered the statement the Indian had made.
Black-face Ned was with friends. Did he expect to find them in the
Hualapi hills when he set out across the desert? The scout believed that
the meeting had been prearranged. The three white men were probably the
members of Black-face Ned’s band who had eluded capture when the band
was broken up. The rendezvous in the hills was an old one, and was
probably off the trail and in a secure place.

After an hour’s journey, Buffalo Bill heard a suspicious noise in the
bushes in front of him. He instantly left the trail, and, climbing the
hill, got behind a bowlder.

He was scarcely out of sight before two white men appeared on the trail
directly below him.

One was tall, lean, and angular, with a broken nose and an ugly
disfigurement of the lower lip. One-half of the lip was of treble the
thickness of the other half, and hung down so as to disclose the teeth,
which were long, yellow, and fanglike. The eyes were small and piercing,
and looked out under shaggy brows that were contracted in a habitual
scowl.

The other man was shorter in stature, had a round, red face, with a
happy-go-lucky expression. He was red-haired, and wore a shoe-brush
mustache. The tall man was smooth-faced.

The king of scouts recognized the men as two of the most dangerous and
desperate criminals in the West. Before their association with
Black-face Ned they had been allied with the border ruffians of Kansas.
In that State Buffalo Bill had met them, and the short man bore upon his
body the marks of a luckless encounter with the king of scouts.

“Shorty Sands and Flag-pole Jack,” muttered the scout, under his breath.
“I’ll bet the third rascal is that sneak, Bat Wason. The three were
pards in the old Kansas days, and Wason was the slickest and the most
dangerous scoundrel of the trio.”

To the scout’s intense satisfaction, the desperadoes stopped at the
point of Buffalo Bill’s departure from the trail, and began an earnest
conversation.

“The Indian knows his biz,” said Shorty Sands, “and I’ll gamble he has
made a killin’. Thar’s shore no use in gittin’ skeered, fer Thunder
Cloud hed only a pigeon-hearted Hualapi ter contend with.”

“Don’t ye fool yerself,” responded Flag-pole Jack, with a deepening of
his scowl. “Ther ole kunnel war too foxy ter give away the hull
business. He allowed thar war only one man with him. Mebbe he lied.
Mebbe Thunder Cloud slipped his neck inter a trap when he pranced inter
the camp of ther kunnel. I ain’t plottin’ ter foller his example. Not by
a overwhelmin’ majority.”

“What’s yer idee?” inquired Sands.

“My idee is ter separate right hyer. One of us will keep on ther trail,
an’ ther t’other will crope up ther hill an’ git round ther camp.”

“All right,” said Sands. “I’ll take ther hill.”

The tall villain smiled contemptuously. “Aimin’ ter hit ther easiest
snap, aire ye? Well, take it, I don’t keer. Ther walkin’s better along
the trail.”

He might have added: “I’ll go mighty slow until I see how you come out,”
but he didn’t.

Shorty Sands was about to start, when a rattlesnake crawled out of a
hole in the bank, and, at sight of the outlaw, coiled and rattled.

The snake was between Buffalo Bill’s bowlder and the trail. Shorty Sands
uttered a cry, and then drew his revolver to fire. A warning from his
companion to desist came too late. The revolver cracked, and the snake,
unharmed, leaped its length toward the shooter.

Then it was that Buffalo Bill, excited by the shot, the meaning of which
he did not understand, showed his head. He saw the snake, saw Flag-pole
Jack taking aim to shoot, and was about to give warning of his presence,
so that the fight should be a fair one, when a series of yelps, like
those of wolves, made him quickly turn his head.

The snake was dead as the two outlaws, as much amazed as the king of
scouts, looked up the bank.

There in two lines, of a dozen each, crouched a curious and startling
body of human beings. Each was arrayed in wolfskins, and each face was
masked with the face of a wolf.

But the long, black hair, that protruded below each wolfskin cap, told
Buffalo Bill that the strange newcomers were Indians.

While the scout and the outlaws stared at the wolfish crew, taking note
at the same time that each member was armed with rifle and tomahawk, the
leader cried out in good English: “Surrender or we fire.”

The king of scouts looked down at Flag-pole Jack and Shorty Sands. The
outlaws now saw him for the first time, for, upon turning to gaze up at
the fantastic crew, he had withdrawn his head from in front of the
bowlder.

“Buffalo Bill!” gasped Shorty Sands. “We’re in for it now.” As he spoke,
he believed that the disguised Indians were allies of the famous border
fighter.

“Don’t make a mistake, Shorty,” said the scout coolly. “We are in the
same boat.” Then he added: “Go up, you two, and do the surrender act.
I’ll follow suit.”

“I’ll be hanged if I give in,” snarled Flag-pole Jack. “Hyer goes.” He
jumped down the bank, but a rifle bullet grazed his head before his feet
struck the ground. “That’s a reminder,” yelled the leader of the Wolves
sternly. “The next shot will be to kill.”

The outlaw, with many curses, returned to the trail.

As he was on the way, the Wolves marched down the hill.

Buffalo Bill was not foolhardy enough to try to make a stand against two
dozen armed enemies. He stood up, rifle grounded, and smiled when the
leader of the Wolves approached.

“Fine morning for ducks,” the scout remarked, as he tried to read the
expression of the eyes that looked out of the holes in the mask.

“And for lulus. You’re one, Cody, all right.”

Buffalo Bill started. The leader of this fantastic band was a white man.
“I failed to catch your name,” he said politely, as he craned his head
in the direction of the stranger.

The Wolf laughed. “The wind must have blown it away, I reckon,” he
replied shortly. Then he added brusquely: “Give up your arms to my
adjutant here, and place yourself in his hands.”

So saying, he marched down to the trail. Standing before the two
outlaws, he looked them over from head to foot. “Pards of Black-face
Ned, eh?” he said coldly.

No answer.

“Drop your guns!” The weapons struck the ground instanter. “Now go up
the hill and submit to be bound. No monkey business, or Ned will be
mourning your departure for a warmer clime than Arizona.”

With black brows, Sands and his companion obeyed the order. Soon the
three prisoners were conducted to the retreat of the Wolves. It was at
the head of a ravine about five miles south of the cañon trail, and
Buffalo Bill was surprised when he reached the spot. It was forty feet
above the bed of the ravine, and was nothing less than one of the old
habitations of the extinct cliff dwellers.

The wall into which the habitation had been cut was of irregular
formation, and nearly perpendicular. There seemed no way of reaching the
holes either from the top or the base of the ridge. But there was a way
to get up, and this passage was soon revealed.

Halting his band at a point directly below the holes in the rock, the
leader of the Wolves gave the hoot of an owl. A head showed at one of
the entrances, and as soon as it disappeared the leader marched forward
to a large bowlder that rested against the face of the wall. With one
hand he gave the huge rock a turn, and it swung back to reveal an
opening large enough for a man to enter without stooping.

Inside of a minute the king of scouts found himself in the chamber of a
cave. Upon the floor about the middle of the chamber was a cage, such as
is used by miners in underground journeyings, and attached to it were
stout ropes.

Looking up, the scout saw the opening through which the cage had
descended, and understood how entrance to the cliff dwellings was
obtained.

The prisoners were sent first, a windlass at the top furnishing the
motive power.

Buffalo Bill had been in many of these dwellings, and found the one that
received him to be like the others he had seen. All the furniture was of
stone, but to the utensils of the Aztecs had been added many of the
modern implements of easy, practical convenience.

There were three large rooms, each provided with a cliff outlook, and
furnished with stone seats and a plethora of bear and buffalo skins.

But one Wolf was in the dwelling to receive the prisoners. He was an
Indian, and never opened his mouth until the windlass had performed its
office.

He then addressed the leader in the tongue of a nation that had been
considered as practically extinct for many years.

“It is well,” he said.

“Comanche,” muttered Buffalo Bill, under his breath. “These reds may
turn out to be friends. Uncle Sam has had no trouble with them for a
long time. I didn’t know there was a single one of them in Arizona.”

Shorty Sands and Flag-pole Jack were placed under guard in one of the
rooms. The king of scouts was taken to another, and soon found himself
alone with the leader.

The latter threw himself upon the stone floor near a couch of skins that
served as the resting place of the prisoner.

“Well,” he remarked slowly, “how does it strike you?”

“The situation?”

“Yes. Sort of puzzling, isn’t it?”

The voice was muffled, but Buffalo Bill was sure that he had heard it
before.

“Take off that wolf mask and let me see your face,” he said
persuasively. “You have got me in a hole, so that there need be no
further use for a disguise.”

“Think so?” was the imperturbable response.

“Yes. You know me, and I’ll bet a hat I know you. The question is, are
you an enemy or are you a friend?”

“Yes, that’s the question.” A pause, and then the quick inquiry: “Have
you ever heard of my outfit?”

“No.”

“We are the remnants of the bravest and most fearless nation of redskins
that ever made Uncle Sam sit up and take notice. The disguise was
adopted at the suggestion of the leader who preceded me, and who was
killed by a fall about a month ago. We are the natural enemies of the
Apaches, and Silver Moon, the dead one, thought the Comanches could
better work in wolfskin than in their ordinary raiment.”

“What do you call yourselves?”

“The Yelping Crew. Appropriate name, isn’t it?”

“Very,” said Buffalo Bill dryly. The leader of the Crew lazily lighted a
cigarette, then tossed paper and tobacco pouch to the prisoner.

“We yelp to some purpose,” the strange man continued. “During the last
year we have wiped out seventy Apaches.”

“Then you cannot be an enemy of mine or an enemy of the United States
government?”

“No-o,” was the slow reply. “I am not your enemy, and yet I am not quite
ready to say I am your friend.”

“How can that be? You must be one thing or the other?”

“Let me explain,” returned the leader of the Yelping Crew composedly.
“You were found with two of the worst rascals in America. These fellows,
Flag-pole Jack and Shorty Sands—you see, I know them—the pards of
Black-face Ned, who is hand in glove with the Apaches. Thunder Cloud is
with Black-face Ned now.”

“Beg pardon,” interrupted Buffalo Bill quickly, “but you are in error on
two points. Thunder Cloud is not with Black-face Ned, and Thunder Cloud
has been cast out by the Apaches.”

“I may not have literally struck it when I said Thunder Cloud is now
with Ned,” replied the disguised white man calmly, “but I did strike it
when I said Ned is thick with the Apaches. The chief has not been cast
out by this tribe. He broke his parole, and was whipped like a dog, but
his tribe did not turn on him for a little thing like that. On the
contrary, his braves backed him up when he swore revenge. He has plotted
to kill the captain who ordered the lashes and the colonel who approved
the order.”

The king of scouts felt a cold chill strike his spine. “What is the
colonel’s name?” he asked.

“Hayden.”

A groan escaped the brave scout’s lips. The keen eyes behind the wolf
mask expressed both curiosity and sympathy.

There ensued a long pause. It was broken by Buffalo Bill. Speaking
abruptly, he said:

“I am putting you up to be a friend. I need a friend’s help. I not only
desire to be set at liberty, but I want your assistance. Will you give
it?”

The leader of the Yelping Crew laughed softly. “You are not very modest
in your demands,” he replied coolly.

“I am what I am,” rejoined the king of scouts sharply. Then he went on
quickly and earnestly: “Colonel Hayden is a prisoner in the hands of
Black-face Ned. Thunder Cloud is down in the cañon bound hand and foot.
I surprised him while he was trying to execute a murderous order given
him by Black-face Ned. The Indian must be removed from the cañon or the
outlaw will find and release him.”

The white chief of the Comanches arose to his feet. “Why did you not
tell me this before?” he asked.

“Could I tell you before I was sure you were in sympathy with my cause?”
was the cold reply.

“No, certainly not. You were wise to hold back your story. You want my
help in getting Colonel Hayden out of the clutches of Black-face Ned and
his Indian and white marauders and murderers. Well, you shall have it. I
never meant to keep you a prisoner. Your capture was a joke.”

“A joke?”—gazing at the masked leader in astonishment. “Why——”

A ringing laugh cut short the speech. “Fooled you to the limit, old son.
Never guessed the deception, did you?”

Buffalo Bill stared hard at the speaker. The truth was creeping into his
mind.

With one quick movement the wolf face was removed.

The king of scouts looked up into the smiling countenance of Wild Bill
Hickok.




                              CHAPTER XI.
                        AN OLD FRIEND REAPPEARS.


The two old-time partners and fellow scouts and Indian fighters grasped
hands, Wild Bill’s knife having quickly cut the thongs that had held the
prisoner’s wrists. After the handclasp, the king of scouts was given the
use of his feet.

Before entering upon an explanation, Wild Bill issued an order to three
of his Indians and they immediately set out to find Thunder Cloud and
convey him to the cliff.

“Now,” said Wild Bill, after the Comanches had departed, “I’ll try to
satisfy your curiosity.”

Buffalo Bill, seated on the couch of skins and smoking a fine cigar,
nodded. “You are in a curious position,” he said. “I can’t imagine how
you got into it.”

“Accident, Cody, put me where I am. I had been hunting over on the
Continental Divide when, unluckily, I provided myself with a badly
sprained ankle. I couldn’t travel, and I believe I would have starved to
death if one of the Yelping Crew had not seen and come to my rescue. The
band was far away from their stamping ground—they had been out hunting
like myself—and so I was brought here. Their chief was dead, and there
was no one in the band capable of leading them. Some of them knew me by
reputation, and when I was well enough to get about, what do you think?
I was asked to become the chief, pro tem.”

“Pro tem?” repeated Buffalo Bill. “Why not permanently?”

“Because there was a Comanche in the line of succession. The fellow was
in Mexico, and a messenger had been sent there to notify him that he
could be chief of the Yelpers if he cared to undertake the job.”

“You accepted—your position here shows that, Hickok. But what induced
you to do so?”

“A desire to assist the United States government. The Apaches are giving
trouble again, and the soldier boys are having hard work to find them.
Now, my Yelpers know all the Apaches’ holes, and they are the sworn
enemies of the Apaches. Already we have had one brush with the enemy,
and it was a win-out.”

“Why have you not descended on Black-face Ned and his gang?”

“For the very good reason that none of the gang were in this
neighborhood until two days ago. We are now preparing to light down on
the murderous outfit and wipe it off the face of the earth.”

Buffalo Bill, having heard Wild Bill’s explanation, astonished the tall
border fighter by telling him of the abduction of pretty Sybil Hayden
and the events of the past twenty-four hours.

“We must move just as soon as my Yelpers get back with Thunder Cloud,”
said Wild Bill resolutely. “I’ll make Thunder Cloud tell me where the
outlaws are, and if we don’t give them a hot surprise, I’ll resign my
job and go to herding squirrels.”

Before the expiration of an hour the three Comanches returned. The
Apache chief was not with them. They had found the camp of Buffalo Bill,
but it was deserted.

“Rescued by Black-face Ned,” was Buffalo Bill’s sour comment. “I half
expected it.”

In answer to questions put by Wild Bill, the spokesman of the trio
stated that two white men had gone away from the camp with Thunder
Cloud. The trail had been followed for a mile. There it ended on the
sandy shore of the creek.

“Took to the water,” said Wild Bill understandingly. “Never mind. We’ll
find them, for I have trailers who can match any Hualapi that ever ate
rattlesnakes.”

“Better send out your trailers at once,” suggested Buffalo Bill. “If
Black-face Ned’s force is small, he is on the retreat. The Apaches have
probably told him about their enemies, the Yelping Crew; and he won’t
likely desire to try conclusions with you.”

“All right.”

The trailers were dispatched on their mission, and pending their return
the two scouts had a talk with the captured outlaws.

Flag-pole Jack was almost stupefied with amazement when Wild Bill, with
face exposed, entered the room, followed by the released king of scouts.

But Shorty Sands showed no surprise. Neither did he seem pleased.

“I shore tumbled to your game,” he said to Wild Bill, “when you failed
to wipe out Cody when he was whar he couldn’t play a hand.”

“How many men has Black-face Ned at his command?” demanded Wild Bill,
with his eyes on Flag-pole Jack.

“Ernuff ter wipe out your measly outfit, you kin bet yer boots on that,”
was the surly answer.

“Then he must have a mob of Apaches with him?”

“He’s got Thunder Cloud’s band, an’ thar’s more’n fifty of ther reds.”

“You lie, Jack,” put in Buffalo Bill sternly. “If the Indians were with
Ned early this morning, one of them, a brave, would have been detailed
to scout my camp. As it was, Thunder Cloud was the scout. That’s not the
office for a chief, and you know it.”

The outlaw grinned, and Shorty Sands laughed outright.

“What do you find that is funny about this business?” said the king of
scouts, with a frown.

Flag-pole Jack looked at his companion. Sands nodded, and then the tall
outlaw replied: “You ain’t on to the sitivation, Cody. I’ll put you in
line. When Black-face Ned struck the hole of his old pards, me’n Shorty
an’ Bat Wason—you ain’t seen Bat yet, but yer likely ter meet up with
him afore long—thar wa’n’t no Injuns thar. They was camped five miles
beyond. See? Well, yesterday Thunder Cloud, all by his lonesome,
meanders inter ther hole. He sees ther gal what Ned is a-herdin’, an’ he
corrals her name. Jumpin’ Jiminetty, but you orter seen him when he
heerd it war ‘Hayden.’ The kunnel was onto his black list, you wanter
understand. Right away he ’lowed that Hayden war not fur away. ‘In
course,’ said he, ‘he’ll follow you, Ned, an’ I wonder that you ain’t
had scouts out a-safeguardin’ your retreat.’

“Ned sniffed, an’ said he wasn’t worryin’ any erbout a pursuit by ther
kunnel. But Thunder Cloud stuck to his guns. He induced Wason ter trot
to ther Apache camp an’ tell ther reds ter hike up ter Ned’s hole, an’
yarly this mornin’, afore the Indians appeared, ther chief lit out fer
ther desert. Now, yer have it,” concluded the speaker. “Ther Injuns aire
with Ned now, an’ Thunder Cloud at ther head of ’em with blood in his
eye.”

Buffalo Bill was disturbed by this statement. His eyes sought Wild
Bill’s. The same thought was in the mind of each.

Without a word, Wild Bill turned, left the room, and, going to one of
the cliff openings, looked out into the ravine.

Buffalo Bill was at his side when he said: “If that scoundrel told the
truth, and I think he did, Black-face Ned will not run away. He will
hunt us.”

As he spoke, there came the report of several shots. The firing was
about half a mile away down the ravine toward the cañon.

“My scouts have bumped against a scouting party from the enemy,”
remarked Wild Bill. “I’ll wait five minutes, and if I don’t see my
Indians, I’ll start out with all my force.”

“Bad plan,” replied Buffalo Bill, with a shake of the head. “You might
fall into a trap. Better get the lay of the land before starting. I have
another, and I think a more sensible, scheme. I’ll go out alone. The
bushes are thick in the ravine, and I have been on the plains and in the
mountains long enough to know how to work. I shan’t try to get on the
trail to the cañon, for that would bring me into the zone of danger. No,
I’ll take to the high ground, and try to spy out the location of the
enemy without exposing myself as your Comanches must have done.”

Wild Bill tried to dissuade his old partner from undertaking the work,
but Buffalo Bill was determined, and at last Wild Bill gave in.

“But you’ll understand this,” the latter said, with lips set in grim
determination: “If you fail to show up in an hour, out I go and all my
Yelpers with me.”

Five minutes went by, and there was no sign of the Comanche scouts.
There had been no more firing, and the king of scouts concluded that the
Comanches had either been killed or taken prisoners.

Wild Bill saw his comrade go down the shaft to the ground entrance, and
there was a cloud on his brow when he turned from the windlass and spoke
to the Comanches who had been taking in the scene with puzzled
countenances.

Not far from the cave entrance to the cliff habitations the ravine
narrowed so that passage along it was beset with danger. The banks were
steep and high, and climbing would be slow and difficult work.

Buffalo Bill was too wise to attempt a journey through this narrow pass.
Instead, he went up the hill where the ravine was wide, and did not stop
until he had reached the summit.

Here the trees were few and scattered, and to go on with an approach to
safety he must flatten himself on the ground and work forward like a
snake.

He was making good progress, and was approaching ground where huge
bowlders took the place of trees, when his quick ear caught the sound of
a muffled groan in front of him, and not far away. In an instant he was
concealed behind a large rock.

The groan was repeated, and the scout, peering round the rock, saw an
Indian crawl into view not ten yards away. His face was contorted with
pain, and when he stopped and began to nurse one of his ankles, an
explanation of the groaning seemed to be afforded.

Seemed to be, for Buffalo Bill was not quite satisfied as to the
genuineness of the Indian’s sufferings. Perhaps the Indian, who was an
Apache, had seen the king of scouts and had resolved upon a ruse to make
victory over the white enemy an easy one.

So Buffalo Bill waited, and he smiled when, after a few moments, the
Apache stretched himself at full length upon the summit and let out a
groan that could have been heard a quarter of a mile away.

The king of scouts, still smiling, picked up a stone of good size, and,
watching his chance, flung it with all his force at the Indian’s head.

The aim was a true one. The stone struck the Apache on the ear, and he
jumped to his feet as if he had been on springs.

For one short moment he looked toward the rock where Buffalo Bill was
hidden, and then hastily retreated to the shelter of another rock a few
feet from where he had fallen.

The king of scouts could have shot the Indian while he was standing, but
for many reasons he had not used his revolver. A shot might bring on a
force of Apaches, who were probably close at hand. But Buffalo Bill
resolved that the Indian should not leave the summit to report what he
had encountered.

Assured that stereotyped devices to deceive the Apache would not work,
the king of scouts determined upon a course of flanking.

With the large rock as a screen, he backed away until he reached a cut
in the ground that extended diagonally for several hundred yards.

Crawling in a direction that would bring him sidewise to the rear of the
rock behind which the Apache was concealed, he reached the end of the
cut, and then cautiously lifted his head and looked toward the Indian’s
place of shelter.

To his surprise and annoyance the Indian was not there.

Soon a light broke in upon his understanding. The Apache was as wise as
he, and had tried the same game.

Back along the cut the king of scouts hurried, and was nearly at the
point from which he had entered the depression when he saw the Indian’s
head projected from behind a mesquite bush that grew on one side of the
cut.

Quick as a flash, Buffalo Bill was out of the cut and behind the rock
that shortly before had sheltered him.

The Apache had not had time to fire, and the king of scouts, immensely
relieved at the circumstances, looked out to find that the Indian had
withdrawn from a position of danger, and was nowhere to be seen. But it
was apparent to Buffalo Bill that the cunning enemy was behind one of
the bowlders near the cut.

The situation in one sense was to the liking of the famous Indian
fighter. He was anxious at this time to avoid a commotion that would
bring down upon him a mob of savages, for a fight then and there, even
if it resulted in the scout’s escape, might prevent a descent upon the
camp of Black-face Ned and his Indian allies.

If the Apache could be captured or put out of the way without noise, the
scout might pursue his journey under favorable auspices. And the Indian
must be rendered powerless for harm, the king of scouts resolved, and so
he welcomed the approaching battle of wits.

For some time no move was made by either white or red man. One thing was
in Buffalo Bill’s favor: The Apache could not leave his hiding place to
reach either the cut or the rocks on the other side of the scout without
being observed.

On the other hand, Buffalo Bill could go forward toward the destination
he had set out to make without exposing himself. He resolved to do this
in the hope that he would be able to bring the Apache out of cover and
to a point from which an attack could safely be made.

Without noise, he backed to the rock originally used by the Apache, and
from that to another, and so on until he had placed himself a quarter of
mile beyond the Apache’s station.

Here in a hollow, between two bowlders whence he could command a view of
the country in all directions, he waited for what was to come.

For ten minutes he waited in vain. Then he saw the Indian crawl out of
the cut and throw himself on the ground and listen for sounds.

Hearing nothing and evidently puzzled, he crept to the rock that had
been his hiding place after Buffalo Bill had thrown the stone, and a low
exclamation escaped him as his eyes fell upon the scout’s prints in the
sand.

Now he proceeded with the utmost circumspection to follow the trail the
white enemy had left.

Buffalo Bill knew the Indian was coming, and smiled, for before taking
his position between the bowlders he had been shrewd enough to cover his
trail. He had left the prints of hands and feet in the sand up to a
point of a few yards to the right of the two bowlders. The prints
terminated at the side of a single bowlder that stood in front of a
stunted tree.

The tree was provided with a few live limbs, one of which hung over the
hollow between the two bowlders. Buffalo Bill had used this limb to
reach the hollow, and he was well satisfied with the ruse when he saw
the Apache halt near the bowlders by the tree and look curiously at the
plain trail in the sand.

A moment he stood in full view, and then walked straight for the hollow
that concealed the enemy.

The king of scouts had not been expecting a move of this kind, but he
made no attempt to retreat. He believed that the Indian was unaware of
his presence in the hollow, and, therefore, resolved to give the foe the
surprise of his life.

The Apache, a tall, fine specimen of his tribe, was within a few feet of
the hollow when Buffalo Bill jumped up, gave a spring, and had the
redskin by the throat before that surprised aborigine had time to
realize what had happened. And now ensued a struggle that called into
play all of Buffalo Bill’s resources of mind and muscle.

The Apache was powerful, supple, and as slippery as an eel. He had his
adversary about the waist, and, in spite of the terrible pressure about
his windpipe, his grasp tightened until the king of scouts thought that
his ribs would collapse.

But the end came in a manner that neither combatant had anticipated. In
moving about, the Apache’s foot struck a stone, and in tumbling his hold
on Buffalo Bill was relaxed. In an instant he was lying on the ground,
and the scout was sitting on his chest.

The fall had partly stunned the Indian, and he was soon placed so that
further resistance was impossible.

When ready for a renewal of hostilities, he discovered to his rage and
disgust that his hands were tied.

“If you raise your voice to call your fellows,” whispered the king of
scouts, in the Apache tongue, “I’ll kill you. Understand?”

“Heap understand,” was the hoarse reply.

“Where are your comrades?” asked the victor, with a menacing expression.

“No know.”

“Where were they when you set out to scout the summit?”

“In the cañon of the Hualapis.”

“That’s down below where I had my camp, isn’t it?”

The Apache nodded.

“Are your fellow braves and Black-face Ned’s outlaws going to attack the
Yelping Crew?”

“Maybe.”

“I see. You wish first to learn how large a force the Wolf Faces are
able to muster.”

“Thunder Cloud desires no fight with the Yelping Crew. If the chief of
the Yelpers will release the white men he has captured, Thunder Cloud
will withdraw from these hills.”

“Meaning Flag-pole Jack and Shorty Sands, eh?”

“Yes.”

“Were you on your way to the cliff dwellings when you ran afoul of me?”

“No, I was afraid a white man who escaped from the castle this morning.”

Buffalo Bill received this statement with great satisfaction. Of course,
the escape was Colonel Hayden.

“Escaped from the castle,” he said. “Is that the name of the Apache
stronghold in these parts?”

The Apache shook his head. “No, the white friend of Thunder Cloud holds
the place. He calls it the castle.”

In this conversation no attempt is made to use the precise language of
the Indian. The Apache language was used, and a fair translation into
English is given.

“What is this castle? And where is it? You might as well come out with
the whole truth, for you are at my mercy, and my motto is ‘death to
liars, especially if they be Apaches.’”

The Indian was unmoved by this speech. His face was stolid as he
replied: “Greathead will not lie, because the mighty white scout will
find no one at the castle. Black-face Ned has deserted it. He has gone
to another retreat.”

“Gone without attending to the Yelping Crew? Without trying to rescue
Flag-pole Jack and Shorty Sands?” Buffalo Bill gazed incredulously at
the Indian.

“He has gone with the white maiden, but he has left behind Thunder Cloud
and the white man who is called Wason to manage the affair with the
Comanches.”

“How about my affair? Does he not know that I am in these hills?”

“No. Who was to tell him?”

“That’s right,” said the king of scouts to himself. “Jack and Sands
couldn’t, for they were captured just after they clapped eyes on me.
Hold on, though. There is Thunder Cloud. He knows I am here.” Again
addressing Greathead, he said: “Your talk won’t wash. Thunder Cloud must
have told Ned that I am here.”

“The chief did not see his white friend when he returned to the castle.
Black-face Ned had gone. He left with the white maiden shortly after
Thunder Cloud set out to scout the camp of the white maiden’s father.”

“Ah, that explains it. So the colonel escaped. When did he get away?
Before Black-face Ned took his departure for another stamping ground?”

“The white maiden’s father has not escaped,” replied the Indian calmly.
“Greathead did not say that he had done so.”

Buffalo Bill exhibited the greatest astonishment. “Not the colonel?” he
said. “Then who was the white prisoner who escaped?”

“A blame’ long-nosed idjut whose handle used ter be Allen,” said a
grunting voice behind the king of scouts.

Buffalo Bill turned and saw a tall, ungainly figure, with a long face, a
hawklike nose, and two keen, snappy eyes, and his voice rang out in a
glad cry: “Alkali Pete! Of all men in the world.”

The old plainsman, who had been in many campaigns with the king of
scouts, was so delighted at the meeting that he opened his mouth in a
grin that exposed a cavern of enormous size. This cavern was surrounded
by yellow tusks, with such an irregular alignment as would have brought
a sigh from any dentist in the land.

“Mortally s’prised ter see ther old man, aire ye?” he said, with a
chuckle. “Ther s’prise is muchal. I no more expected ter run inter ye,
Buffler, than I expected ter be persented ter ther Queen uv
Maddygoosker.”

“But what are you doing in Arizona? I thought you had settled down in
Kansas or Illinois, and was occupied in raising a family of Alkalis.”

“I hev settled down, Buffler,” replied the ungainly scout, with a sigh,
“but this year I hankered arter ther old life. I shore told my wife that
I must hev a mounting outing, or else I’d go plumb crazy. She reasoned
with me, but it wa’n’t no sorter use. I war bound ter go, an’ hyer I be,
stanch, loyal, an’ true, like a pig’s foot in mush.”

“Same old Alkali,” laughed Buffalo Bill.

“Erbout ther same, but not quite. My feet shore got tender a bit while I
was cahootin’ with them innercent rickaroons that raise corn an’
mortgages along ther Missourah.”

“I understand. You wouldn’t have fallen into the hands of the Apaches if
you had come out here with your wits rodeoed.”

“That’s a plumb true remark, Buffler,” rejoined Alkali Pete sadly. “I
was too fresh when I hit these yer hills. I hed reckoned that ther
’Paches would let an honest white man alone. I hedn’t hearn that they
hed been puttin’ on the war paint ag’in.”

“How were you captured?”

“How?”—in deep disgust. “Why, when I war snoozin’ on ther bank of ther
crik on t’other side of those hills. Hed been huntin’, and hed killed a
b’ar an’ two deer. War powerful tired, an’ while I war sleepin’ ther
sleep that innercence only is shore acquainted with, ther ’Paches crope
up and corralled me ez easy as if I war a lost babby. Shucks! it shore
makes me dumgasted weary when I recollects how I war taken in.”

“Were there any white men among the Indians?” inquired Buffalo Bill.

“Nary a one. They war all ’Paches, an’ that old thief, Thunder Cloud,
war ther leader. Ther capture happened a month ago, an’ I war with ther
reds, moseyin’ hither an’ yon up ter a couple o’ days ago, when we
hot-footed it fer ther castle.”

“The castle? I have heard of the place, but I don’t know where it is,
and I have no idea what it looks like.”

“It’s a stone fort at the head of a valley, Buffler. Thar aire trees all
round it, an’ I reckon it war built in ther year one by ther Azticks or
ther Woodsticks, or some other tribe of flat-headed mavericks.”

Buffalo Bill slapped his thigh. “I know the place now,” he said. “I was
there years ago. No one lived there then. The plainsmen called it the
Palace of Adam.”

“Hed an idee that Adam lived thar onct, did they?”

“Perhaps. I never asked them. Come, let us talk fast. There is work to
be done. How long did you stay in the castle?”

“Didn’t stay thar a minute. The Injuns camped outside, an’ this mornin’
I shore bade ’em farewell. I played possum onto ther thievin’ outfit,
an’ believin’ I war sick ernuff ter peter, they made my cords easy ter
bear. They made ’em so easy, Buffler, that I beat ’em an’ got away.”

“Did you know when you left the Indians that Black-face Ned and his band
were in the castle, and that there were two white prisoners
there—Colonel Hayden and his daughter Sybil?”

Alkali Allen blinked his eyes. “Never knowed anything erbout outlaws or
prisoners. Ye shore hev got a story ter tell. Out with it.”

Buffalo Bill complied. He spoke hurriedly, and his tale caused the lanky
plainsman to exhibit the most intense astonishment.

“Well, I’ll be eternally obfusticated an’ fried inter goose grease ef
this don’t beat ther Dutch, an’ ther Dutch beat ther devil,” he
ejaculated. “Wild Bill hyer a cahoodlin’ with ther Comanches, an’ you,
Buffler, outer as purty a case as you ever tackled. I’ll take a hand
myself. I’m mortal glad I kem ter Arizony. Aire ye ready ter mosey? Ef
ye aire, take ther lead, an’ I’ll come a-trottin’ arter ye.”

Buffalo Bill considered the situation thoughtfully. After a few moments,
he said: “I must go on alone. I will give you a job that ought to be to
your liking. I lost one Indian this morning. I don’t wish to lose a
second one. I want you to take Greathead here to the cliffs and deliver
him over to Wild Bill. Having done that, go out and keep an eye on the
trail leading to the cliff. Maybe the Indians are already marching
against the Yelpers. I’ll scout about the castle, find out who is there,
ascertain if Greathead told the truth when he asserted that Black-face
Ned had left, and then I’ll hurry back to take part in the fight between
the Apaches and the Comanches.”

Alkali Pete nodded, and when he had gone from sight, with the Indian in
tow, the king of scouts continued his journey toward the haunt of the
enemy.

The route he took would bring him to the farther end of the valley that
held the stone fortification.

He was not obliged to use the cañon in which he had camped, and he hoped
by moving in a direction opposite to that the Apaches would have to take
to reach the cliff dwellings that he might meet with no obstructions.

Among the rocks on a ridge that overlooked the little valley he halted,
and for some minutes listened for sounds and looked for signs of life in
or about the stone structure.




                              CHAPTER XII.
                          ENVIRONED BY PERILS.


Buffalo Bill could see a portion of the building from his coign of
vantage, but this portion was the rear. The door, that opened into a
walled inclosure of several acres, was open, and this circumstance led
the scout to believe that the castle was vacant.

After the lapse of fifteen minutes, Buffalo Bill began a cautious
descent of the ridge. He reached safely the wall surrounding the castle,
and there paused and again listened for sounds.

Hearing nothing, he stole round to the front. The wall gate here was not
locked, and he walked into the inclosure, and did not stop until he came
to the heavy door, which, like the door at the rear, was open.

Now it was that the fearless king of scouts did some responsible
thinking. It was certainly strange that the front gate should be
unlocked, and that both doors of the castle should be open. Had they
been left open by design?

He looked up at the window. There were two at the front, and each was
small and heavily barred. The bars were close together, so that it would
be impossible for an enemy to shoot any person on the ground.

After some moments Buffalo Bill retreated to a position outside the
gate. He was not yet ready to enter the castle.

In the valley, which was not half a mile in length, the utmost silence
reigned. The scout went to the edge of the grove of trees that screened
the castle, and gazed down the valley. There was not a human being in
sight. On the face of things, the Indians and the outlaws had departed.
It was reasonable to suppose that Thunder Cloud and his band had gone to
give battle to the Yelping Crew, and yet the scout was in doubt on the
point.

He returned to the castle, and once more stood just without the open
doorway. While he was debating with himself as to his course of action,
the sound of a moan fell upon his ears. The sound came from within the
castle.

The scout pricked up his ears, but he did not move. The moan was
repeated, and Buffalo Bill thought he heard the voice of a woman
speaking soothingly to some one in need of comfort. Instantly the
conviction came to him that he was listening to the voice of Sybil
Hayden, and that the moans had been uttered by her father.

But with the conviction there came no sense of security. It was not
probable that Black-face Ned had gone off leaving his prisoners without
a guard.

He was hesitating over his situation, when a voice that was unmistakably
that of a man said roughly: “Shut up, or I’ll smash your head.”

The king of scouts cast discretion to the winds when following the
threat came the scream of a woman.

He sprang to the doorway, and crossed the threshold to fall into the
trap that had been laid for him.

From behind the door two men leaped out, and heavy clubs descended upon
the scout’s head. The blows dazed, but did not send him to the stone
floor. There was not time to draw a pistol, but he made good use of his
hands.

He closed with the ruffians who had so brutally assaulted him, and so
quick were his movements that one was on the floor with an aching head
before he could realize that he had caught a Tartar.

The other outlaw dropped his club when the thoroughly aroused and
desperate king of scouts made the fight one at close quarters.

He was a powerful fellow, and received the fist jabs that Buffalo Bill
contributed without losing his ground. In return, he sent in one
stem-winder that lifted Buffalo Bill off his feet.

The fight was going on fiercely, when a voice at the lower end of the
long, broad hall shouted encouragingly: “Go in and win, Pigeon. I’m
bettin’ on you. Give him one under the ear. You’ve got him going. One
more good punch will lay him out.”

Here Black-face Ned—for the speaker was the abductor of pretty Sybil
Hayden—spoke with undue confidence. Buffalo Bill, recovering from the
blow that approximated a knock-out, now fought with more wariness. He
perceived that his antagonist was an experienced pugilist, and he
resolved to give evidence that he himself was no novice in the manly
art.

An opportunity to make his mark came when the outlaw, believing from
Buffalo Bill’s wabbling that the scout was about ready to fall, made a
furious rush, with the intention of mixing things. In an instant the
king of scouts changed his tactics. He side-stepped, ducked, and then
struck. The blow caught the outlaw on the point of the chin, and he went
down, and stayed there. Coincident with the knock-out blow, Buffalo Bill
whirled to confront Black-face Ned. Too late to save himself. A revolver
cracked, and the brave scout put his hand to his heart, and then
staggered and fell at the feet of the unconscious pugilist.

His hands and ankles were being secured when he opened his eyes.

“Alive, are you?” said Black-face Ned, in surprise. “I thought my shot a
finisher, but I wanted to make sure of you, so I gave you the cords.”

“If I am not mistaken,” replied Buffalo Bill quietly, “your bullet
struck a steel plate that covers my heart. The shock dazed me.
Otherwise, I don’t believe I am hurt at all.”

“That’s all right,” returned the outlaw leader composedly. “There’ll be
a chance to have some fun with you before giving you a real, Simon-pure
send off.”

The king of scouts made no reply to this statement. After a moment he
asked: “Were you looking for me to appear?”

“Sure. When Thunder Cloud told me you were here, I believed you wouldn’t
rest until you had found the castle.”

Buffalo Bill thought of the story told by Greathead, the Apache.

“I was informed a while ago by one of your allies that you had left the
castle,” he said. “He must have lied to me.”

“No, he didn’t lie. I did quit, but I did not go far. The leaving was a
ruse to fool you.”

“Fool me? Did you count on my overcoming Greathead?”

“No, for Greathead was sent out to round up that long-legged fool they
call Alkali Pete. But all the Apaches were told about my going, and I
was betting that you’d get the information from one or more of them.”

“I didn’t meet any of them,” said Buffalo Bill sadly. “They went toward
the cliff dwellings, I suppose.”

“You’ve hit it, and I am looking for an early return and a couple of
dozen scalps.”

“What, you don’t expect them to scale the cliff, do you?”

“They won’t have to,” returned Black-face Ned quietly. “The Comanches
will come out on the level ground and permit themselves to be shot
down.”

The king of scouts did not know what to make of this speech. The outlaw
appeared to be in earnest, and yet the statement seemed preposterous.

“They would be fools to come out of their stronghold,” he remarked.

“Think so? What if I tell you that the Comanche they have selected as
the chief will call them out?”

“Explain—I fail to understand.”

The leader of the outlaws laughed. “Didn’t know we had captured their
chief, eh? Well, we did corral the fellow. He has been in Mexico, and
Thunder Cloud nailed him last night. Here is the proposition: The
Apaches and the Comanches have been pulling hair for a long time.
Thunder Cloud catches this Black Wing and gives him to understand that
the Apaches are tired of war, and want to patch up a peace with the
Comanches. See? ‘Now, says Thunder Cloud,’ using the words I put into
his mouth, ‘if you will use your influence, all this killing and
scalping will come to an end, and we’ll fix on a fair division of the
country so that each tribe will have ample territory of its own.’

“Black Wing agreed to use his influence, and he went off a while ago
with Thunder Cloud and the Apache braves. Of course, Black Wing’s
counsel will prevail, and, of course, when the Comanches come out into
the open to cement the treaty they will get it where the chicken got the
ax.”

Buffalo Bill heard the explanation, and was not uneasy in mind. He knew
something that Black-face Ned did not know, and that was the presence
among the Comanches of Wild Bill.

When the outlaw who had been floored by the king of scouts had recovered
his senses, he assisted Black-face Ned in carrying the prisoner to a
room in the rear. It was provided with a few modern conveniences, among
them a table and a chair. There was no bed, but a roll of Navaho
blankets in a corner contained a suggestion that promised a sufficiency
of restful comfort.

The leader of the outlaws, a pleased expression on his dark and not
unhandsome face, directed his man to spread the blankets, and when they
were in position the king of scouts was deposited upon them.

The one window in the room, without glass—a square hole in a thick,
stone wall—was barred like the windows at the front of the structure.

Buffalo Bill was gazing at the window, when Black-face Ned said, with an
evil smile: “No chance of escape, William. You are as secure as if you
were in a dungeon.”

The speaker was walking toward the door, when the prisoner asked
quickly: “Where are your other prisoners, Colonel Hayden and his
daughter?”

“In another room. Would you like to see them?”—showing his teeth
maliciously.

“Yes, of course.”

“I am extremely sorry that I cannot take you to them. But I will be
pleased to convey a message. Shall I say that you are here, and that you
are so busily engaged in making your will that you cannot come to them?”

Buffalo Bill glared at the villain, but vouchsafed no answer.

The two outlaws went out, the door was barred, and the king of scouts
was left to his reflections, which were far from pleasant ones.

He did not doubt that his death had been decreed. The reputation of
Black-face Ned was such that the scout had no hope that leniency would
enter into any of the villain’s calculations.

Shortly after noon, the outlaw, who had had the disastrous encounter
with the prisoner, and who had been addressed as Pigeon, entered the
room with a tray of eatables.

Buffalo Bill was hungry, and he ate until nothing was left on the tray
but empty dishes.

While he was eating, the king of scouts glanced at the feet of the
outlaw. The toes were turned in, and the man’s nickname was at once
explained. “What do they—your pards call you?” the scout asked.

The outlaw scowled. “They shore aim ter be funny,” he answered. “My name
is Isaac Alexander, but ther blame’ fools call me Pigeon-toed Ike.”

“Been here long?”

“No; I blew in yesterday.”

“What’s Ned going to do with me? Did he tell you?”

“He ’lowed he was goin’ ter send you pikin’ up ther flume.”

“When is the interesting event scheduled to take place?”

“Don’ ye get gay, Cody. Yer up agin’ ther real thing this clatter.”

“It looks like it,” soberly admitted the prisoner. A pause, and then he
asked: “Has Thunder Cloud’s outfit returned?”

“No, an’ Ned’s gittin’ oneasy. Maybe we’ll light out fer ther cliff if
Thunder Cloud fails ter show up inside of an hour.”

Buffalo Bill received this statement with satisfaction. But he concealed
his feeling beneath a mask of indifference.

Pigeon-toed Ike went out, and half an hour later Black-face Ned came in.
The outlaw leader was in an angry mood. Fixing his sharp eyes on his
prisoner, he said sternly: “There’s a hitch up at the cliff, and I’ll
bet you know what’s up. Tell me the truth, or I’ll kill you here and
now.”

The villain drew a bowie knife from his belt, and, walking over to the
side of Buffalo Bill, shook the weapon in the prisoner’s face.

In an instant he met with an astounding surprise.

Up went Buffalo Bill’s hands, and the knife was wrenched from the
villain’s grasp. Before a move in self-defense could be made, the knife
was buried in the outlaw’s side.

As he fell to the floor, the king of scouts arose to his feet.

Black-face Ned was gasping for breath, and his eyes reflected an
expression of mingled pain and fear.

After quickly removing his victim’s other weapons, Buffalo Bill stanched
the flow of blood and bound up the wound. This done, he secured the
villain’s wrists and ankles. “I’ll not stuff a gag in your mouth, if
you’ll promise not to cry out for help,” said the victor coldly.

The reply came in a faint voice: “I couldn’t yell if I wanted to. I—I am
dying.”

“Nonsense,” was the harsh response. “I knew what I was about when I did
the sticking. You are not hurt to speak of. I didn’t even scrape a rib,
and your heart is as whole and”—with a stern look—“as black as ever it
was. The blood-letting will do you good. It will take some of the
aguardiente poison out of your system.”

Black-face Ned breathed a sigh of relief. “I wish,” he said, “I had a
good snifter of the real thing.”

The king of scouts always carried a flask of whisky for emergencies. He
produced it, and allowed the villain to swallow a generous dose.

“Thank you,” said Black-face Ned gratefully. “You are not a bad sort,
really.”

“That so?” returned Buffalo Bill, with uplifted eyebrows. “Maybe you and
I will be great friends before we get through with our little affair.”

The wounded villain smiled sourly.

Soon he asked: “How in the dickens did you get loose? I would have sworn
that I had you tied for keeps.”

“Tied with rotten leathers, that’s what I was. Pity you did not inspect
the cords before you started to use them.”

The villain swore softly. Then his eyes sought the floor. Presently he
said: “Bend over me. I want to whisper something in your ear.”

But the king of scouts, who at the moment had heard a noise outside the
door, declined to comply with the request.

“I am onto you, Ned,” he whispered. “You want to get me where
Pigeon-toed Ike can surprise me. Not to-day. The program will be a
surprise for Ike.”

The speaker was about to walk to the door to be ready for the outlaw
when he should enter, but was stopped by an important suggestion.

He turned, and stooped over the form of his victim, bandanna in hand,
for the purpose of gagging him.

But he was prevented from accomplishing his purpose by the quick action
of Black-face Ned.

A hoarse cry, loud enough to be heard outside, issued from his lips as
Buffalo Bill was in the act of placing the gag.

The door instantly opened, and if the king of scouts had not thrown
himself to one side, a bullet would have cut short his career.

A second shot from Pigeon-toed Ike’s pistol went wild, and before he
could fire again, a bullet from the revolver, taken from the person of
the wounded outlaw, penetrated the brain of the assailant, and he fell
dead just beyond the threshold of the door.

After assuring himself that Black-face Ned was secure against escape,
the king of scouts hurried from the room.

There might be another outlaw—Bat Wason—to deal with, for it was
probable that Wason had been placed as guard over Sybil Hayden and her
father.

In the hope that the pistol shots had not been heard in that part of the
building where the two prisoners were confined, Buffalo Bill hastened to
the hall, and then looked questioningly at one of the two doors that met
his eyes.

Before the nearer one he listened for sounds. All was silence within.
Stealing softly to the other, he again played the listener. No sound
came from the room. He tried the door, and it readily opened. The place
was empty, but he saw something that brought a cloud to his brow. In the
middle of the room was an opening. There was a trap, and the door, a
square, thin block of stone, had been removed, and was lying by the side
of the hole.

Buffalo Bill did not stop for investigation, but with an apprehensive
expression hurried back to the room where he left the dead outlaw and
Black-face Ned.

He was not surprised, though he was intensely chagrined to find that his
prisoner was not there.

No open trap in the room was visible, but the king of scouts believed
that Black-face Ned had escaped by means of a trap that let him into the
cellar.

He made a quick search, and soon was rewarded with the discovery, under
the blankets, of a door similar to the one in the other room.

He was standing before the door, debating whether or not to raise the
trap and descend, when loud yells from without brought him to a
realization of a new danger.

Hastening to the front door, he saw nothing but the grove of trees that
shielded the castle. But the yells continued, and he knew that the
Indians were close to the grove. No hope of escape, then, from the
front.

He ran around to the rear of the castle, and was alarmed to discover
that the wall door had been closed and locked. He could not climb the
wall, for it was too high, and there were no footholds.

In desperation he turned to the door of the castle. It was still open,
and he entered, and then quickly shut and barred it. This done, he
rushed to the front, and shut and barred the door at that point.

He was now entrenched in the castle unless—unless there were enemies in
the cellar.

But they should not come out of either of the traps if he could help it.
Into the room where the first trap had been discovered he went, and,
quickly replacing the stone door so that it masked the hole, he piled
upon it all the furniture that the room contained. One piece was a
cooking stove, whose newness showed that it had been brought recently to
the castle.

Having worked without interruption, he was beginning to congratulate
himself upon his success, when a disturbing thought brought a sigh from
his lips.

He was stopping one hole, he might stop another, and still a third
outlet from the cellar might be left open. That outlet must open into
the inclosure.

There was not time to go out and search for it, so with a grave face he
hurried to the room that had been his prison, and contented himself with
barring the door.

A few minutes later, through one of the windows in front, he saw Thunder
Cloud and his Apaches emerge from the grove of trees, and saw a
diminutive, thin-faced white man, whom he took to be Bat Wason, come
from around the building and greet the Apache chief.

The conversation, carried on in the Indian tongue, was overheard by the
listener. The translation follows:

“Why is the chief back?” asked Wason.

“Because Black Wing is a deceiver.”

“How’s that?”

“He promised to get the Comanches out of the holes so that a treaty of
peace could be made, and instead he has put on the war paint and defies
the Apaches.”

“Did you try to rout the Yelpers from their holes?”

Thunder Cloud hung his head. “We fired at the cliff,” he said
shamefacedly, “and the Comanches fired back and killed four of my
braves. Then we retreated to seek the wise counsel of Thunder Cloud’s
friend and ally, Black-face Ned.”

“You’ll find him in the cellar. He is flat on his back.”

The Apache chief gazed at the speaker in startled inquiry. “Has he met
with an accident?” he asked.

“Yes. An enemy, the most dangerous man in the West, nearly killed him.”

“The great white warrior, Pa-e-has-ka?”

Bat Wason nodded. Thunder Cloud shivered. “Where is he now, this dreaded
foe of the Apaches?”

“In the castle. If you like, you may go in and lay him out.”

The Indian looked puzzled. The little outlaw grinned, and then explained
the situation.

“I was in the cellar and got Ned out of a hole. Buffalo Bill had gone
from the room where I found Ned, but I didn’t care about hunting him up.
He is inside, though, and has the run of the castle above stairs, and
thinks the game is in his own hands. Fool! The provisions are
downstairs, and if we can’t kill him any other way, we will starve him
to death.”

Buffalo Bill heard, and smiled. There was enough in his wallet to last
him three days, and much might be done in that time.

The Apaches and Wason disappeared around the side of the building, and
the scout left the front and hastened to the kitchen.

Here were utensils for cooking, but there was nothing eatable in the
room. But there was a bucket of water, the diminutive outlaw in his
haste having forgotten to take it away. There was a spring in the
inclosure, and Buffalo Bill, finding neither sink nor pump, concluded
that the water came from the spring, and that the spring was the sole
source of supply for the building.

He could see the spring from the kitchen window, and was gratified to
find that it was far enough away to permit a line shot from the window.

Here he resolved to take his stand. He would keep an eye on that spring
until there should be serious menace from another part of the castle.

Half an hour passed and no one had come into the inclosure. Apaches were
camped in the grove in front of the castle, and presumably the two
outlaws and their prisoners were in the cellar.

Buffalo Bill was looking beyond the spring, when he saw the head of
Alkali Pete show itself at the top of the wall. A moment later appeared
the shoulders, and soon the lanky plainsman was astride of the wall.

The king of scouts found himself in an unpleasant dilemma. If he shouted
a warning, the Apaches might pursue and kill Alkali Pete, and also spoil
any plan of rescue the homely scout had prepared.

It was evident that Alkali Pete believed that the king of scouts had met
with disaster, and it was also evident that he knew the Apaches were at
the castle, and that the outlaws were somewhere inside.

Pete must therefore know what he was doing. But it was with grave
apprehension that Buffalo Bill saw his old comrade descend from the wall
and steal quickly to the side of the building. Would he look toward the
window? Yes, his eyes were uplifted, and his ears caught these words,
delivered in a thrilling whisper: “Be careful, Pete, the Indians are in
front and the white fiends are in the cellar.”

The lanky plainsman hesitated a moment, and then, indicating the rear
with a jerk of his finger, stole around the building.

Buffalo Bill experienced relief when his comrade passed from view. All
might be well if the outlet from the cellar should not prove to be near
the back door of the castle.

He was at this door, expecting to open it and admit Alkali Pete, when a
pistol shot rang out, and he knew that his one fear had been realized.
The homely scout had passed the cellar outlet, had been seen by Bat
Wason, and—the king of scouts ceased to speculate, for another shot was
heard, followed by a scream of agony.

Regardless of danger to himself, Buffalo Bill rushed out of doors as
Thunder Cloud and his Apaches appeared at the side of the castle.

Alkali Pete was not in sight, but there was the opening into the cellar,
and through it the king of scouts rushed just in time to escape a
fusillade of bullets from the guns of the Indians.

Once inside, he closed and secured the door. A shot made him drop to his
knees. It was dark in the cellar, and he feared that he might have
jumped from the frying pan into the fire.

Working himself sinuously around the underground apartment, he listened
intently, so as to get the location of his enemy.

To his surprise, all was still about him. He waited a few moments, and
then deliberately lighted a match. The flame showed him an empty cellar.
The trapdoor in the ceiling was closed, and he was positive that no one
had escaped to the room above while he had been in the cellar.

Where, then, was the person who had fired the shot that had whizzed by
his head?

He lighted another match, and, walking forward, began a close
investigation of the ground. A low exclamation burst from his lips when,
in a corner, he beheld an open hole. A third match showed it was the
entrance of an underground tunnel, which probably terminated outside of
the castle inclosure.

By the tunnel the enemy had gone, and by the tunnel had gone, also,
Alkali Pete and the prisoners.

Without stopping to reflect, Buffalo Bill went into the hole. He did not
strike any matches, but crept forward slowly and cautiously.

The way was not obstructed, and, after five minutes’ progress, he
reached the mouth, which was screened by bushes.

Voices not far away made him pause.

“He’ll shore strike ther tunnel, an’ we’ll get him when he projecks his
snoot outer ther mouth,” said Bat Wason.

“Then go at once and take a position so you can plug him when he
appears,” was the reply of Black-face Ned.

Now it was that Buffalo Bill acted with celerity. He was out of the
tunnel, and hidden behind a bowlder a few feet away from the brush when
Bat Wason showed his face.

The diminutive outlaw squatted on the ground within a rod of the brush,
his body concealed by a rock, and waited, revolver in lap, for the king
of scouts to appear.




                             CHAPTER XIII.
                           A VENGEFUL INDIAN.


A line of brush extended from the mouth of the tunnel to the base of the
mountain. The distance was about fifty feet, and in the brush somewhere
Black-face Ned and his prisoners were concealed.

Were there three prisoners or two? Buffalo Bill believed that both
Colonel Hayden and his daughter were with the leader of the outlaws, and
he feared that Alkali Pete was also a prisoner. The lanky plainsman had
not been killed, that was certain, for if he had been shot to death, his
body would have been found either in the tunnel or the cellar of the
castle.

The king of scouts was about to give Bat Wason an unwelcome surprise,
when he saw the little outlaw drop to his knees and begin to crawl
toward the brush by the tunnel’s mouth. Before the movement was made, a
noise resembling the chirping of a cricket had issued from the brush.
Occupied with thoughts of the probable situation of his friends the
captives, the king of scouts had not at the moment placed sinister
construction upon the chirping. But when Wason started for the tunnel
the scout scented danger.

It was time to act. With a heavy stone in his hand, he sprang from
behind the bowlder and threw the stone at Wason’s head. The aim was
true, and the outlaw, flattened on the ground, gave a few convulsive
twitches, and then lay still.

At the mouth of the tunnel, trying to peer through the brush, crouched
Thunder Cloud, the chief of the Apaches.

The fall of the outlaw had been attended with little noise, and Wason
had died without a groan.

But the chirp of the cricket had not been answered, and Thunder Cloud
was in doubt as to the situation outside the tunnel.

While the Indian waited for developments, Buffalo Bill, who had
possessed himself of the victim’s weapons, was once more behind the
bowlder, his countenance expressive of perplexity and indecision. He
dared not chirp in answer, for it was probable that a chirp was not the
proper response to the signal. The foe was too wily to adopt a mode of
communication that under any circumstances could be turned to advantage
by an enemy.

Soon was heard a second chirp. Quickly following the noise came the
warning, sibilant rattle of a snake.

The king of scouts turned his head quickly, and saw that the snake was
within a few feet of the bowlder. Instead of using a revolver, he
retreated and came into the open beside the line of brush.

At that moment Thunder Cloud showed his head beyond the brush that
masked the mouth of the tunnel. His eyes fell on Buffalo Bill, and the
head would have been withdrawn if something terrible had not occurred.
The rattlesnake, crawling swiftly from the bowlder to the brush, struck
without warning, and the deadly fangs were embedded in the Indian’s
cheek.

With a shriek of wild affright he leaped to his feet, the white foe no
longer in his mind, and, flinging the reptile from him, began to chant
the death song of his tribe.

The king of scouts looked coldly on for a moment, and then his humanity
getting the better of his aversion, he stepped forward, removed without
resistance the weapons of the sufferer, and then said sternly: “Flatten
out on the ground, and I’ll try to save you.”

Thunder Cloud waved the scout off. “No, the hour has come. Thunder Cloud
must go to join his fathers in the land of the Great Spirit.”

“Perhaps, but I’ll see about that.”

With these words he tripped the chief, and then sat upon him. With a
knife he cut a slit in the cheek where the snake had operated, and,
applying his mouth to the wound, sucked out the greater part of the
poison.

Then from his pocket he produced a small oilskin package, which, on
being opened, disclosed a wad of dried leaves having an aromatic flavor.
The leaves were moistened with whisky and then applied to the poisoned
cheek.

Thunder Cloud, now passive, followed the operation with staring eyes.
After the leaves had been bound in place, Buffalo Bill offered his
whisky flask to the Indian. “Drink,” he commanded; “drink the whole of
it. The combined treatment I have been giving you will bring you out all
right. I know what I am talking about, for I have cured myself more than
once. In these snake-infested hills I always carry with me the antidote
for the poison.”

Thunder Cloud, in faith and gratitude, drank until not a drop of the
liquor was left in the flask.

As he lay on the ground in a half-unconscious condition, the king of
scouts stole away to find Black-face Ned and the white prisoners.

He moved with caution, for, though he knew that the leader of the
outlaws was not in a condition to oppose physical force against his
enemy, yet the villain could use a pistol, and a shot could be made
effective from ambush.

But the line of brush was without an enemy or a friend. Black-face Ned,
wounded and weak as he was, had disappeared, and with him had gone
Colonel Hayden, Sybil, and probably Alkali Pete.

The king of scouts looked up the mountainside, but saw no sign of a
human being. Yet it was to be believed that the persons he was seeking
were concealed behind one of the many huge rocks that strewed the steep
incline.

He whistled, and, receiving no answer, shouted in a voice that could be
heard far up the mountain.

Still no answer. “Pshaw!” he said to himself, in disgust, “of course the
prisoners are gagged. They could not answer if they wanted to.”

After a short debate with himself he returned to the Indian.

Thunder Cloud was sitting up, and, though his face was flushed, Buffalo
Bill knew by the state of his eyes that the danger point had been
passed.

“You are out of the woods,” he said kindly, as he came and stood by
Thunder Cloud’s side. “In a little while you will be able to walk. But
you won’t be in shape for work for several days.”

The Indian’s head was lowered. He was looking fixedly at the ground. The
king of scouts waited for the redskin to speak. Several moments passed
before Thunder Cloud raised his head and looked his rescuer full in the
face. “Thunder Cloud owes his life to the great white warrior. Thunder
Cloud must pay the debt.”

Buffalo Bill said nothing in reply. But there was smiling appreciation
in his expression.

“Thunder Cloud is no more the enemy of the great white warrior,
Pa-e-has-ka,” the Apache chief slowly continued.

“Glad to hear it,” replied the king of scouts earnestly. “This deadly
enmity business isn’t what it is cracked up to be.”

“Thunder Cloud asks humbly what must he do to show his gratitude?”

“Well,” said Buffalo Bill, “there are a number of things you can do.
First, trot out some information. What made you go into the tunnel?”

“Thunder Cloud went to find out what had become of his friend Black-face
Ned.”

“You knew, of course, that there had been a fight in the cellar. What
became of the white man who was attacked by Ned and Bat Wason?”

“He is a prisoner in the castle.”

This intelligence was unexpected. Buffalo Bill’s face clouded.

“Was he captured outside the castle?” he asked.

“Yes, he ran into the arms of Thunder Cloud’s braves at the front.”

“Didn’t he make a fight?”

“No, he was running for the door when my braves came out of the grove.
They fell upon him before he could turn his head. There were shots
fired.”

“After the capture you went to the cellar and found that Black-face Ned
and the prisoners had gone, eh?”

“The prisoners had not gone. They were in the room where lies the dead
body of the white man they called Pigeon-toed Ike.”

The king of scouts stared at the Indian in amazement. “They did not go
off with Black-face Ned and Bat Wason?” he said, incredulity struggling
with surprise. “How did that happen?”

Thunder Cloud shook his head. “Can guess why, but don’t know for sure,”
he replied.

“Well, give a guess.”

“Black-face Ned and his friend were scared. They wanted to get away, and
they thought they couldn’t go fast if they took the prisoners with them.
The prisoners might hang back, and they could not be carried.”

“I see,” returned Buffalo Bill, with a nod. “So they hoisted the colonel
and his daughter into the castle room where I was confined, and then lit
out through the tunnel. This action must have been taken just after the
appearance of Alkali Pete. Pete must have been shot at, and not knowing
how many enemies were in the cellar, he ran around to the front,
expecting, probably, that some one would come out of the front door.”

“He expected the great white warrior to open the door,” said Thunder
Cloud. “He told me so.”

“I don’t see how he figured out that I would come that way when I was at
the rear, for he had seen me. However, there will be an explanation when
we meet.”

This was said calmly, and the Apache chief could not withhold an
admiring grunt.

“Good, big, brave Buffalo Bill.”

The king of scouts appeared not to have heard the compliment. He was
staring hard at the ground. Suddenly he glanced suspiciously toward the
mouth of the tunnel. “I am forgetting how I stand,” said he quickly.
“Won’t your braves follow you here?”

“If Thunder Cloud does not return inside of an hour they will come.”

“The hour is nearly up. What’s to be done? You are on my side now, and I
am willing to receive advice.”

“My braves must not be hurt,” was the grave reply. “Thunder Cloud will
keep his word and assist the great white warrior, with the understanding
that no more blood is to be shed. Thunder Cloud will go back to the
castle, tell his braves that Black-face Ned has forsaken them, that he
wants peace with the Comanches, and that the prisoners must be taken
through the tunnel and delivered to Thunder Cloud’s friend.”

“That’s the ticket,” cried the king of scouts enthusiastically. “Chief,
you have a great head. I am proud to be your friend.”

The Indian’s swarthy face glowed with pleasure. He was rapidly
recovering from the effects of the poison and the antidote, and as
Buffalo Bill spoke he rose to his feet, and then leaned on the scout for
support.

“Think you will be able to get back through the tunnel?” anxiously
inquired the scout.

“Yes. The weakness will soon pass, and Thunder Cloud can crawl, if he
cannot walk.”

Five minutes later he was out of sight in the underground passage.

Buffalo Bill sat down on the ground, and impatiently awaited the coming
of Colonel Hayden, Sybil, and Alkali Pete.

“When they come,” he said to himself, “I’ll consider the case of
Black-face Ned. The scoundrel must be captured, and it ought to be an
easy stunt to catch him, for he can’t travel fast on account of his
wound.”

The chief had not been gone ten minutes before a series of savage yells
smote the air. They came from the direction of the castle, and the king
of scouts sprang to his feet, anger and alarm in his eyes.

A discharge of firearms followed the yells, and more yells came on the
heels of the shots.

A fight was in progress, and it was clear to the mind of Buffalo Bill
that the Apaches were being attacked by the Comanches led by Black Wing
and Wild Bill.

Doubtless the Comanches were acting under a prearranged plan. Alkali
Pete had been sent out as a scout, and the Comanches were to follow him
unless he should return and counsel a different action. He had not
returned, and the Yelping Crew were now at the castle, and yelping for
all they were worth.

The king of scouts was angry because the well-meant attack of the
Yelpers might defeat the program agreed upon between himself and Thunder
Cloud. It was not likely that the Apache chief would return with the
prisoners while the castle was being besieged by a savage enemy.

Buffalo Bill looked about him, and, observing a log lying on the ground
near the bowlder that had recently been his place of shelter, he lifted
it and placed it against the high stone wall of the castle inclosure.

He “shinnied” up the log, reached the top of the wall, and looked down
into the spacious yard of the castle.

Not an Indian could be seen.

The Apaches were doubtless in the castle, and the Comanches were at the
front, in the grove, or near there.

While the scout looked, a force of Comanches, with their fantastic
make-up, dashed around the side of the castle. They kept close to the
building, evidently aware of the safety of this proceeding. The Apaches
could fire only from the windows, and these were high up, and so netted
with bars that they were of no service unless the enemy should appear
far out in the inclosure. At the head of the Yelpers was Wild Bill. He
saw the king of scouts perched on the wall, and gave a shout of welcome.

The drop to the ground was about fifteen feet, and for a moment Buffalo
Bill had a mind to drop and join his old comrade. But a different
counsel prevailed as he saw the Yelpers approach the rear of the castle.

Climbing back to the ground outside the wall, he entered the tunnel and
hurried quickly through it. His intention was to reach, if possible, the
room in the castle where Alkali Pete had been placed, and then try to
find a way to open the back door and admit Wild Bill and his Yelping
Crew.

The chances were against him, he had to admit it, but he would make the
attempt, nevertheless.

He was halfway through the tunnel when he heard the sound of approaching
footsteps. Halting instantly, he drew his pistol and waited for what
might be a deadly encounter. There was a possibility that the on-comer
might be Thunder Cloud, but the chances were that the chief was in the
castle occupied with more serious concerns than the return of prisoners
and the keeping of a sentimental promise.

The darkness prevented the king of scouts from seeing any object in his
front, and the person who was coming from the cellar was within touching
distance before Buffalo Bill knew it.

The tunnel was narrow, and, therefore, each must discover the presence
of the other at the time of passing, if at no other period.

Buffalo Bill reached out a hand, and catching the unknown person by the
wrists, flung him sidewise to the ground.

“Who are you?” he whispered, as he tried to hold the struggling victim
down.

“Drat yer eyes, I’m Pete,” was the gasping reply.

The king of scouts laughed softly. Then he assisted the angry plainsman
to his feet. “Had to act as if you were an enemy,” he said
apologetically. “Hope I didn’t hurt you any.”

“My wrists will shore be sore fer a week,” was the sour response. Then
he began to chuckle. “I ain’t mad, Buffler. Don’t ye go fer ter think
so. I’m mighty glad ter see ye. I war huntin’ ye.”

“And I’m glad you have found me. Did you know that Wild Bill and his
aggregation of crack-brained aborigines are in the castle yard?”

“I’m bettin’ that I do, an’ that’s why I hiked out ter see ye an’ git
ther benefit of yer vallyble advice. I war in ther room whar ye hed ther
scrimmage with Pigeon Toes, an’, guessin’ that no one war in ther
cellar, I raised ther trap, an’ hyer I be.”

“Didn’t see the colonel and his daughter, did you?”

“No. They shore must be in some part of ther shebang.”

“Well, what advice do you hanker after?” asked Buffalo Bill smilingly.

“How ter help Wild Bill an’ ther Comanches. They kain’t do anything from
ther outside, an’ they kain’t git in ther castle. Ef they expect the
’Paches ter come out an’ have a set-to in ther yard, they aire shore off
their cabesas. We gotter scheme out a way ter beat ther doors of ther
castle.”

“I was on my way to beat those doors,” said Buffalo Bill coolly. “My
idea was to enter the room that held you, and then watch a chance to
open the back door.”

“You might watch a year, Buffler, an’ never git that aire chance. I’m
gamblin’ that both doors aire guarded.”

“What’s the matter with settling the guard?”

“Ter do that ye’d hev ter pay yer respecks to a mob of ’Paches. O’
course, they aire fillin’ up ther hall.”

“Nonsense, Pete. It is more likely that the most of them are in the room
where the windows are, looking out into the inclosure. Come, let’s go
back. There is more chance of winning out, now that you are with me.”

“I’ll go ye, Buffler,” said Alkali Pete promptly. “Ye may be right. I
hope ye aire; but right er wrong, I’m at yer back until yer stummick
caves in.”

“Thank you,” responded the king of scouts heartily. “And now for it.”

The two scouts reached the cellar without trouble. The trapdoor through
which Alkali Pete had descended was open, and, climbing upon Buffalo
Bill’s broad shoulders, the lanky plainsman looked into the room. It was
vacant. The dead body of the outlaw had been removed.

“I shore don’t like ther looks o’ things,” whispered Pete to his
comrade. “Ther body war thar when I lit out fer ther tunnel, an’ it
bein’ gone sartinly shows that ther ’Paches know I hev vamosed. Mebbe
they aire waitin’ fer me ter come back, an’ mebbe thar’s a bullet
waitin’ fer ther man that crawls inter that aire room.”

“I don’t believe they expect you to come back,” replied Buffalo Bill.
“Why should they? You were a prisoner, and you escaped. Is it the usual
caper for a prisoner to voluntarily return to the room of imprisonment?”

“Ye talk mighty fine, Buffler, but all ther same, I’m plumb leery of
that aire room.”

“If you are afraid,” began the king of scouts, when his old comrade
quickly and roughly interrupted:

“Afraid nothin’,” and upon the words he crawled into the room.

No bullet came to put an end to his existence. He listened a moment, and
then stretched himself by the hole and assisted Buffalo Bill in getting
through the trap.

On his feet, the king of scouts made for the window. The yard, or,
rather, that portion within his range of vision, was clear of Indians.
Where had Wild Bill and the Yelping Crew gone? And everywhere was
silence. Within the house there were no sounds.

“Pete,” whispered the scout, “are we living in a land of enchantment?
Fifteen minutes ago the air was filled with yells and gun reports. Now
all is as still as the grave.”

“But ther Injuns kain’t hev left ther castle?” said Alkali Pete, as he
vigorously worked his tobacco-filled jaws. “Mebbe they aire all in ther
front room. This aire castle is stone, an’ sound don’t travel wuth a
cent.”

“I am going to find out what the silence means,” returned Buffalo Bill
resolutely. So saying, he went to the door and tried to open it. The
effort was vain. The door was barred from the outside.

“Better work back through the tunnel, hedn’t we?” suggested the lanky
plainsman.

The king of scouts nodded. The trapdoor was open, and Buffalo Bill was
kneeling by it, preparing to descend when the door of the room opened,
and Thunder Cloud walked in.

His countenance was grave, and he was shaking his head as he came
forward and held out his hand to Buffalo Bill, who, upon the opening of
the door, had quickly arisen to his feet.

“I expected to find you here,” the chief said, in the Apache tongue. “I
believed you would come when you found that I was placed so I could not
immediately keep my promise.”

“Where are your braves?” asked the king of scouts.

“They have gone to the cliff where the Comanches have their home.”

“What?”—regarding the Indian in amazement. “Gone where the Comanches are
not?”

Thunder Cloud gravely inclined his head.

“Say,” put in Alkali Pete. “Ye aire shore puzzlin’ us, chief. Ye kain’t
ram that aire nonsense down our throats. What aire yer leetle game?”

Thunder Cloud scowled at the speaker. He was not in a mood for
pleasantry, and he was offended at Alkali Pete’s tone.

“The chief is all right,” said Buffalo Bill, with a warning glance at
his comrade. “He will explain why the braves have left the castle.”

Thunder Cloud bowed slightly, and the scowl departed.

“My braves have gone to the cliff,” he said, “because that was the wise
thing to do. Black Wing, who should be chief of the Yelping Crew, has
gone with them, and soon there will be peace instead of war between the
Apaches and the Comanches.”

The king of scouts tried to guess the riddle the chief was attempting to
explain, but it was beyond him. He looked at Alkali Pete, and caught a
wink that expressed contemptuous incredulity.

Thunder Cloud imperturbably went on: “The great white warrior fails to
understand. He does not know that Black Wing, who came from Mexico to be
the chief of the Yelping Crew, was unable, when he reached the cliff
to-day, to induce the Comanches to come out and treat with Thunder
Cloud.”

“The Yelpers did not want peace, then?” said Buffalo Bill.

“They were under the spell of the white man who has been acting as their
chief, and they would not listen to Black Wing, though he is a Comanche,
and had been sent for to become their chief.”

“Good thing they didn’t, for they would have been led to a massacre. But
who is this white man who possesses more power than Black Wing?”
inquired the king of scouts innocently.

Thunder Cloud frowned. “The great white warrior must not speak with a
forked tongue. He knows who the white man is, for he was with the
Comanches this morning.”

“Yes, I do know,” replied Buffalo Bill quickly. “I wanted to learn
whether or not you knew him.”

“No, Thunder Cloud does not know the name of the white man. He has never
seen the white man’s face, and Black Wing was not taken into the white
man’s confidence.”

The Apache chief paused, expecting that the king of scouts would
volunteer the information that Black Wing had failed to obtain. But
Buffalo Bill maintained a severe silence.

The revelation of the identity of the acting chief of the Yelping Crew
came from Alkali Pete. Buffalo Bill was looking out of the window when
the lanky plainsman spoke. “Did ye ever hear uv a man by ther name uv
Wild Bill?” he asked. “He’s shore ther hombre.”

Thunder Cloud started, and it was plain that the announcement
unpleasantly affected him.

“The sworn enemy of the Apaches, the white devil who shoots to kill.
Yes, Thunder Cloud has heard of him.” He ceased speaking, and looked
sadly, reproachfully at Buffalo Bill.

The king of scouts met the look serenely. “Are you at last earnestly
desirous of making peace with the Comanches?” he asked.

The chief nodded. “Thunder Cloud has done forever with Black-face Ned,
and he now desires to live in peace with both white man and red man. Did
not Thunder Cloud say as much when he left the great white warrior at
the mouth of the tunnel?”

“Yes, you did, chief, and I accept your statement. Peace you shall have.
Wild Bill is a friend of mine, and if I can get speech with him, I’ll
soon bring him round to my way of thinking. But you haven’t yet told me
how Black Wing purposes to act.”

“He will gain the cliff stronghold, and there wait for the coming of the
Comanches.”

“Where are the Comanches now?”

“They are at the back of the castle, crouching against the wall near the
door, and waiting for the door to open, or——”

“Or what?” as Thunder Cloud paused.

“Or for some signal from the great white warrior, Pa-e-has-ka.”

“Don’t they know that the Apaches have gone?”

“No. When the Comanches stole around to the rear, my braves quietly went
out the front door, and were in the grove before Wild Bill could place
watchers at each side of the castle.”

“I see. Hickok would not have counted on such a move on the part of the
enemy, and so failed to take precautions against a sudden evacuation of
the castle. Well, when the Yelpers return to their home, if they do
return without an understanding between me and Wild Bill, they will find
Black Wing and your braves in possession of the cliff. Then what?”

“Black Wing will again urge the Comanches to sign a treaty of peace. He
will have the whip hand, as you Americans say, and the Comanches may
listen this time and agree to accept Black Wing’s suggestion. And again
they may not, for that devil, Wild Bill, may again bend them to his
will.”

Buffalo Bill’s face was sober. “It’s up to me to act,” he said, with
decision. “But before I make an attempt to get speech with Wild Bill, I
wish to see Colonel Hayden and his daughter. Bring them here, if you
please.”

“Thunder Cloud will bring the white maiden, but the great white warrior
cannot see the white maiden’s father.”

This was said with compressed lips and a ferocious expression.

The king of scouts involuntarily clenched his hands. He tried to speak
without betraying his feelings.

“Does Thunder Cloud forget what he promised? Did he not say that he
would release all the prisoners?”

The Apache chief replied, with lowering brows: “He did so promise, but
he forgot when he spoke that one of the prisoners had already been
condemned to death. Would Thunder Cloud be willing to forget that
Colonel Hayden said ‘yes’ to the order that sent Thunder Cloud in
disgrace from the white soldiers’ camp? Thunder Cloud would be a dog if
he did not take his revenge upon the white colonel.”

There was a stir in the cellar. Alkali Pete, who was standing nearest
the open trap, heard it, but the noise did not reach the ears of the
Apache chief.

The lanky plainsman, controlling his excitement with an effort, flashed
a warning glance at Buffalo Bill.

The king of scouts interpreted the meaning of the glance, and,
therefore, made this response to the chief’s ultimatum: “Bring the girl
to me.”

Thunder Cloud glued his keen eyes to the scout’s, as if he would read
what was beyond them. But he made nothing from the searching scrutiny.
Buffalo Bill was placidly smiling.

With a grunt, the Indian turned and walked toward the door. When he was
gone, Alkali Pete stooped by the trap, and called out in a whisper:
“Aire ye thar, Hickok?”

“Yes,” was the quick answer. “Come down, won’t you, and pass the word to
Cody, if he is up there with you.”

The lanky plainsman raised his head and told Buffalo Bill what had been
said.

“Go down,” was the reply, “and tell Hickok that I’ll follow presently.
The chief will return in a minute, and I must be here when he comes in.”

Alkali Pete, without hesitation, lowered himself to the cellar. There
was a heavy thud as he struck the ground, and at the same moment Thunder
Cloud opened the door and pushed Sybil Hayden into the room.




                              CHAPTER XIV.
                          STRANGE HAPPENINGS.


The girl was very pale, and there were signs of recent weeping. But a
look of relief came into her lovely countenance when her eyes fell on
the king of scouts.

“You are Mr. Cody, are you not?” she asked, as she came up to him with
outstretched hand.

“Yes, and how is your father?”

“I do not know. I haven’t seen him for over an hour. I—am afraid——” She
paused, and looked tremblingly at the chief, who was standing, grimly,
by the door.

“Trust in me,” the scout whispered. Then he turned, and a revolver was
pointed at Thunder Cloud’s head. “I am sorry to again place myself in
opposition to you, chief,” he said sternly; “but it’s a case of white
blood against red. You must give up this girl’s father.”

The Apache chief’s eyes flashed savage defiance. “Never,” he replied,
and with a quick movement his hand went to the tomahawk at his belt.

Buffalo Bill fired, but to wound, not to kill. The bullet struck the
hand that was gripping the handle of the tomahawk, and the grip
instantly relaxed. But the Indian never flinched. Not a cry issued from
his lips.

“Must I kill you, or will you surrender?” demanded the king of scouts
coldly.

The head of a white man showed itself above the hole in the floor. Sybil
Hayden saw the head, and uttered a shriek of fear.

Instantly Buffalo Bill whirled, and at the same instant a tomahawk
whizzed, and a pistol shot rang out. The Indian’s weapon, hurled with
the left hand, went wide of its mark, and the bullet failed to do more
than graze the scout’s scalp.

The man at the trap was Black-face Ned, and as soon as the bullet sped,
Sybil Hayden, scarcely realizing what she did, sprang to the edge of the
hole, and began to kick the villain in the head. As he howled and tried
to turn so as to shoot her, she changed her tactics and jumped with all
her force upon Black-face Ned’s hands. This was more than he could
stand, and he dropped back to the floor of the cellar.

Buffalo Bill was not a witness to the commendable actions of the
colonel’s daughter. He was occupied with Thunder Cloud, who had followed
the throwing of the tomahawk by a savage rush forward.

One hand was practically useless, but he made the best possible use of
the other. Sybil Hayden watched the struggle first with anxiety, then
with delight. The Indian, even at his best, would have been no match for
the muscular, scientific king of scouts. Two minutes after the assault
the Indian was lying on the stone floor, and the victor was banging the
red man’s head against the stone.

There were no cords about with which to tie up the chief, so Buffalo
Bill coolly proceeded to cut strips from the skin suit of the Indian. A
sufficient number, tied and knotted, served the scout’s purpose, and
when he arose to his feet, Thunder Cloud was powerless to accomplish
further harm.

Buffalo Bill glanced at the open hole in the floor, and shook his head
sadly. “I am afraid my comrade has been killed,” he whispered. “That
villain fooled him and fooled me. I had no reason to suspect that he was
in the cellar. I don’t understand why he came back.”

“I do,” replied the girl, with a little shiver.

The king of scouts nodded. “Yes,” he said, “he hated to give you up. He
is more courageous than I had given him credit for.” As he spoke, the
scout moved toward the hole.

“You mustn’t go down there,” expostulated the girl. “It would mean death
for you, for, of course, he is waiting, and his pistol is ready.”

Without having appeared to hear the girl, Buffalo Bill stood near the
edge of the trap and called down: “Pete, are you there?”

There was no answer.

“I’ll soon know how the land lies,” said the scout quietly. He replaced
the door over the hole, and then held out a revolver. “Take this,” he
said to the girl, “and stand by the trap. I am going out for a little
while. When I return, I hope your father will be with me.”

Sybil Hayden took the pistol and sat down by the trap. “You may rely on
me,” she declared firmly.

Buffalo Bill went out, and, reaching the rear door of the castle, threw
back the bars and opened it. Stepping out, he looked along the back wall
of the building. There were no Comanches there, nor anywhere in the
inclosure.

Surprised and ill pleased, the scout walked around to the front. No one
there. The front gate of the wall was open, and Buffalo Bill went
through the grove of trees and looked down the valley. No sign there of
a human being.

He thought he understood the situation. While he was talking with
Thunder Cloud in the side room with the trap, Wild Bill and the Yelpers
had stolen along the other side of the castle, and gone out into the
valley, their objective point being the cliff home of the Comanches.

How Wild Bill had learned of the departure of the Apaches the king of
scouts could not guess, but he must have known that the Apaches had
deserted the castle, otherwise he would have remained to besiege the
building.

Returning to the rear, he reëntered the castle, and then began a search
for Colonel Hayden. Every room in the castle was investigated, but the
colonel could not be found. Mystified and vexed, the scout returned to
the room where he had left Sybil Hayden and Thunder Cloud.

The situation in the room had not changed. The Indian lay on the floor,
and the girl was sitting by the side of the trap.

“Didn’t you find my father?” she asked, in astonishment, mingled with
alarm.

“No,” replied the scout gravely, “but the chief knows where he is, and
I’ll make him tell me, or I will know the reason why.”

Going over to Thunder Cloud’s side, Buffalo Bill stooped, and said
sternly: “Where did you put Colonel Hayden?”

The Indian, who was in full possession of his senses, promptly answered:
“He should be hanging from the big cottonwood at the lower end of the
valley.”

Sybil Hayden uttered a despairing cry. “No, no,” she wailed, “you
couldn’t have sent him out to die.”

“Of course he couldn’t,” said the scout consolingly. “He is mad, and he
wants to torment you.” Then to the Indian: “Why do you lie? Don’t you
realize that you are in a mighty ticklish position?”

“Thunder Cloud has spoken the truth as it appears to him. The father of
the white maiden went off with Black Wing and the Apache braves, and the
order of Thunder Cloud was that the white man who is responsible for
Thunder Cloud’s disgrace should be hanged like a dog from the cottonwood
tree.”

“The order may not have been carried out.”

The Apache chief smiled grimly. But he said no word in reply.

Buffalo Bill tried to comfort the colonel’s daughter. “From all
accounts,” he said, “Black Wing is a decent sort of an Indian. He was
bossing the Apache outfit when he left for the cliff. He wants peace. Is
it in the line of peace to do an act that would bring the military down
upon him? Hardly. So cheer up. I’ll bet anything that your father is now
alive and in good hands.”

Somewhat reassured by these words, the girl dried her eyes and insisted
upon an immediate departure for the home of the Comanches.

“I’ll go as soon as I have attended to Black-face Ned and have found out
what has become of my friend Alkali Pete. Remain here, and in half an
hour, at latest, I’ll be ready to depart.”

The girl, much as she desired to get out of the castle and run to that
cottonwood tree, did not interpose any objection to Buffalo Bill’s
proposal. She knew he was acting as one true friend would act toward
another, and so, without a protest, saw him leave the room.

The king of scouts reached the mouth of the tunnel, and then looked
about for evidence that would show whether or not Black-face Ned was
inside or had again retreated to the open country.

There were many footprints about; some made by the scout, Thunder Cloud,
and Bat Wason, whose dead body was where the scout had left it, and it
required much perspicacity to arrive at the truth. At last the scout
became convinced that Black-face Ned was either in the tunnel or the
cellar. The most reasonable supposition was that the villain was in the
cellar.

But Buffalo Bill realized that he was undertaking a dangerous piece of
work when he entered the tunnel. Still, he did not hesitate.

Much to his relief, he made the journey through the tunnel without
encountering the leader of the outlaws.

He had moved noiselessly, and when he reached the entrance into the
cellar he stopped and listened intently.

A sound as of muffled breathing reached his ears. “That can’t be
Black-face Ned,” thought the scout. “It must be Alkali Pete.”

The darkness was intense. Buffalo Bill knew the location of the trap,
and, believing that the outlaw leader was under it, he began to glide
cautiously along the side of the wall.

Every ten feet he would stop and listen.

Suddenly his foot struck an obstruction, and he came within an ace of
falling over it.

The obstruction was a human body. No sound had followed the striking of
the scout’s foot against the body, and, agitated by the fear that he had
come upon the lifeless form of Alkali Pete, Buffalo Bill knelt quickly
on the ground and placed his ear to the breast of the unknown. The heart
was not beating. Next the scout passed a trembling hand over the
unknown’s face. Cold, but not icy cold. Death must have taken place but
a short time before the scout’s entrance into the cellar.

Buffalo Bill arose with a feeling of relief. The dead man was not Alkali
Pete. The face was that of an Indian. The scout had felt the high cheek
bones, the sharp nose, the retreating forehead, and the long, coarse
hair of an Apache.

His relief at finding that his fear was unfounded quickly gave way to a
feeling of wonderment. How came the dead Apache in the cellar? And who
had killed him?

A slight noise in front of him made him put a tighter grip upon the
knife he had drawn upon entering the tunnel. The noise was as of some
one stepping softly.

Believing that Black-face Ned was approaching, the king of scouts
crouched by the wall, and waited with tense nerves for the enemy to come
within striking distance.

The steps drew nearer, and then stopped. Suddenly a match flared, and
Buffalo Bill saw the face of the leader of the outlaws. He had come to
the body of the Indian for the purpose of assuring himself that the
savage was dead. Before the match went out the villain saw the king of
scouts. But the sight of his enemy came too late for him to take either
offensive or defensive action. Buffalo Bill sprang forward as the
villain looked up, and struck him a powerful blow between the eyes.

Black-face Ned collided with the hard ground with such force that his
breath left his body.

Not until the victorious scout had removed the villain’s weapons did he
light a match.

The light exhibited a spectacle that brought a cry of joy from his lips.
Ten feet away, with his back against the wall, sat Alkali Pete, rubbing
his eyes.

“Pete? Alive?” the king of scouts exclaimed, and the answer came dryly:

“I shore don’t know. Come over hyer an’ pinch me.”

The match went out just as Black-face Ned’s limbs began to twitch.

Buffalo Bill sat on the villain’s chest, and said roughly: “Are you
going to be quiet, or must I give you a sleeping dose?”

“Oh, I’ll be good,” whined the now thoroughly frightened man. “I missed
the trick, and I am willing to leave the field to you.”

“See that you don’t change your mind.”

Lifting the outlaw in his arms, the king of scouts bore him to the side
of Alkali Pete. “I am shy on cords,” he said to the lanky plainsman.
“Got any about you?”

“Ther one that held my wrists is hyer in my lap, an’ when ye ontie my
ankles ye’ll shore corral another,” was the reply.

“Ah, I am on. You were tied up, and you’ve got your hands loose.”

“Ye’re singin’ on ther right key, Buffler.”

After the villain had been tied up, the king of scouts asked anxiously:
“How are you feeling?”

“Sorter down in ther mouth. Made a fool slip when I kem inter the
cellar. Thar warn’t any Wild Bill down hyer.”

“I know. We were both fooled.”

“An’ I never knowed I’d been played fer a sucker ontil a few minutes
ago. I struck ther ground, an’ a club struck me. Reckon Black-face Ned
opined he’d put me outer business fer good an’ all. Made a big beefsteak
thar, son. He shore didn’t know that my head is some thicker nor a
paper-shell almond. I hev been a’feelin’ uv ther old cabesa, an’,
barrin’ a leetle lump, it’s shore somewhat intact.”

“I am glad to hear you say that, Pete,” responded Buffalo Bill
earnestly. “I thought you were all in when I discovered that Black-face
Ned was here.”

The lanky plainsman stood up and stretched himself. “What all’s happened
since I ca’mly deposited myself inter the lap of ther enemy?”

“I’ll tell you after you have satisfied my curiosity on one point. An
Apache was killed here in this cellar after you were downed. Do you know
anything about the affair?”

“Not a blessed thing, Buffler. I war sleepin’ off my headache when ther
killin’ kem off. Ask ther black devil at yer feet, an’ he’ll tell yer
what ye want ter know.”

“That’s so. Ned”—speaking to the captured outlaw—“what about this
Apache? Did you kill him?”

“Yes,” was the surly answer. “Had to. I took him for you.”

“Then he made a noise coming through the tunnel?”

“Enough to put me on my guard. I suppose he thought there was no one
here.”

“What was his object in coming to the cellar? Do you know, or can you
guess?”

“I don’t know, and I am not good at guessing. But I do know this: The
Indian was Thunder Cloud’s right-hand man, second in command, you
understand.”

“He came back to see Thunder Cloud. Something had occurred on the march
to the stronghold of the Yelping Crew. An important discovery had been
made, or there was a slip of some kind. Maybe he became suspicious of
Black Wing, and came back to urge Thunder Cloud to come to the cliff and
boss operations.”

This speech was directed to Alkali Pete, who at once replied: “Let’s get
ther kunnel an’ light out fer ther cliff. Ef thar’s goin’ ter be a
mix-up, an’ it shore looks thataway, I’m hankerin’ ter take a part.”

Buffalo Bill was seized with a cold fear. He had, for the moment,
forgotten about the colonel.

“I haven’t yet told you,” he said gravely, “that the colonel went with
the Apaches and Black Wing.”

“What fur?” Surprise and dismay were in the tone.

The king of scouts repeated the appalling statement made by Thunder
Cloud.

Alkali Pete groaned. “I shore sees ther p’int, Buffler. Ther ’Pache this
yer Black Face downed moseyed back ter tell Thunder Cloud that ther
order ter hang ther kunnel to ther cottonwood hed been carried out.”

“I won’t believe it,” returned Buffalo Bill, hoping against hope. “Some
other reason brought him back. I’m going down to the cottonwood
immediately. But first I’ll get speech with the girl.”

Black-face Ned had brought his rifle to the tunnel, and the king of
scouts thumped on the trapdoor with the muzzle of the weapon.

“Ye won’t get ther girl ter open ther trap, Buffler,” said Alkali Pete.
“She’ll think ye aire Black-face Ned, fer sure.”

As the door did not open, the king of scouts yelled at the top of his
voice: “Open. It is Cody who speaks.”

If the sound penetrated to the room above, no indication of the fact was
given.

“I’ll have to go around and into the front door of the castle, Pete.
It’s a waste of time, but it can’t be helped.”

“Goin’ ter leave Black-face Ned hyer?” asked the lanky plainsman.

“No, we’ll take him along with us.”

The bound outlaw was conveyed to the outer air, and there set on his
feet and conducted to the front of the castle.

Leaving the prisoner with Alkali Pete, Buffalo Bill entered the
building. As he stepped into the hall he saw that the door of the room
with the trap was open.

The circumstances induced a feeling of uneasiness, for the scout had
closed the door when he went out of it less than half an hour before.

At the threshold he stopped in amazement. Sybil Hayden had gone, and
Thunder Cloud lay as if dead upon the stone floor.

The king of scouts walked to the body, and his amazement was
intensified.

The Apache chief was dead, and there was a bullet hole above the right
temple. His hands, freed from the leathers that Buffalo Bill had used to
secure them, were stretched out and clenched.

No time was wasted in the room. Hastening back to Alkali Pete, the king
of scouts announced his astonishing discovery.

“Ther Injun got shet of the leathers, and was aimin’ ter do up ther gal
when she plugged him. O’ course that’s the way it happened, Buffler.”

“You are probably right. There is no other sensible explanation. But why
did she leave the room? I requested her to stay until I returned. There
is something queer about the affair.”

“Maybe she lit out ter hunt you up. Got tired o’ waitin’.”

Buffalo Bill went to the rear of the castle, and, not finding the girl,
returned to the front, reëntered the building, and searched all the
rooms. No sign of the girl anywhere.

Alkali Pete had to confess that the matter was beyond him. “Gals aire
pecooliar,” he remarked. “Ye never know what they aire plannin’ ter do.”

Buffalo Bill did not hear the last words of his comrade. He was walking
toward the open front gate, his eyes on the sandy ground.

At the edge of the grove of trees he stopped and called to Alkali Pete.
“Come on,” he said. “The girl went off this way. I have found her
tracks.”

The lanky plainsman, his arm in that of Black-face Ned, started for the
grove.

“There are plenty of other tracks, mostly Indian,” the king of scouts
said, “but it was easy to pick out Miss Hayden’s. She has gone down the
valley.”

“To take a look at that cottonwood, I reckon,” was Alkali Pete’s
rejoinder.

“Probably. I hope we will find her there, and also that she has
discovered that her father has not yet been killed.”

The walk to the end of the valley was quickly performed.

The surprise of Buffalo Bill was great when he saw, sitting under the
cottonwood, Sybil Hayden and her father.

Both rose as their eyes fell on the two scouts. With a happy smile the
girl spoke.

“I have been waiting for you,” she said, as she came forward to meet the
king of scouts. Then, as her eyes fell on Black-face Ned, she added:
“You have done well.”

Her next words were addressed to Alkali Pete, and they were spoken with
such warm earnestness that the homely plainsman blushed. “I am so glad
you are here and well. You don’t know how badly I felt when I found you
had fallen into a trap.”

Colonel Hayden, while this talk was going on, was shaking hands with
Buffalo Bill. He was in a joyous mood, and the compliments he paid to
the valiant king of scouts caused the recipient of them to vigorously
shake his head. Sybil relieved his confusion.

“You must be anxious to learn how I came here,” she said. “Didn’t you
guess what occurred in the room? Thunder Cloud got the use of his hands,
and was reaching forward to snatch my pistol when I saw him and fired.
My eyes were on the trapdoor while he was working himself free, for I
thought I heard a noise below.”

“After I had killed the chief I wanted to get away. I was faint, and the
sight of the blood was more than I could stand. I rushed out of doors
and looked around for you, Mr. Cody. Not finding you, I determined to
hurry to the end of the valley and find out whether or not the Apache
chief had lied. I got to the cottonwood, saw, to my delight, that no
human body was hanging from it, and was about to retrace my steps to the
castle when my father appeared. Black Wing had freed him, and he was on
his way to attempt my rescue.”

Colonel Hayden now made other points clear.

“Black Wing is all right,” he averred. “He promised Thunder Cloud that
he would hang me to the cottonwood, but he never meant to keep that
promise. He is an intelligent Indian, and a true friend of the whites.
He knows that you, Mr. Cody, and Wild Bill are friends, and that I am
your comrade. Besides, he had had an understanding with Mr. Hickok, and
the two were acting in accordance with that understanding.”

Buffalo Bill whistled softly. “And Thunder Cloud was fooled, was he?
Thought Black Wing was really working for peace, eh?”

“Yes. He pulled the wool over Thunder Cloud’s eyes, and now Thunder
Cloud’s Apaches are on their way either to a reservation of Uncle Sam or
to bloody death.”

“Wild Bill and Black Wing have fixed up a trap, then?”

“I think you would call it one. The Apaches will come out of the holes
in the cliff, and, instead of marching out into the open to arrange a
treaty of peace, they will be invited to a duel. Wild Bill wouldn’t
stand for an ambush, so that the fight will be a fair one.”

“It hasn’t commenced yet, or we would have heard the firing,” said
Buffalo Bill. The speaker looked at his watch. It was a few minutes
after four.

“Five o’clock is the time set for the scrimmage,” explained the colonel.
“The palavering is going on now.”

“Time enough to get there before the fun begins,” said Buffalo Bill.
“I’ll hear the rest of your story, colonel, and then I’ll start.”

“I’ve told all there is to tell, Cody. I was released by Black Wing
about half a mile up the hill.”

“But you have not said anything about the Apache, Thunder Cloud’s
lieutenant, who left the band and returned to the castle.”

“I didn’t know that he returned. He was walking by the side of Black
Wing when I left the band.”

“How did he take your release? Didn’t he expostulate with Black Wing?”

“Yes, he did, and I remember that he gave me a savage look when I went
away.”

“I think I understand,” declared the scout, after a moment’s thought.
“The Apache imagined that Thunder Cloud would be angry when he learned
that his murderous order had not been carried out, so he deserted the
band soon after you left, colonel, and hurried back to the castle for
the purpose of informing the chief of your release. He selected the
tunnel way for his entrance, because he wanted to avoid being seen by
me. He knew, of course, for Thunder Cloud must have told him, that I was
free, and he was afraid that I would suspect his errand and try to queer
it.”

“I think he suspected more than that,” said Colonel Hayden. “Black
Wing’s noncompliance with Thunder Cloud’s order may have set him to
thinking, and he may have feared that Black Wing meant treachery.”

“We’ll shore never learn ther rights of ther matter,” put in Alkali
Pete, “fer Thunder Cloud an’ his leftenant aire both takin’ it easy in
ther happy huntin’ grounds.”

Colonel Hayden nodded. “I guessed that the Apache never got into the
castle,” he said.

“But you didn’t guess that the Honorable Mr. Frams here gave the Apache
his quietus. Yes, Black-face Ned played into our hands, and I’ll bet
he’s mighty sorry for it.”

The villain scowled, but said nothing. He was in an unenviable state of
mind. He was without resources, and saw ahead of him the gallows.

But he determined to make one strong appeal to the man he had so
grievously injured.

“Let me go, colonel,” he pleaded. “You’ve got your daughter back, and
you’ve cleaned me out of friends. Let me go, and I’ll start for Mexico
and never come back. I have made a mistake, and I am sorry for it.
You’ll sleep better if you turn me loose.”

Colonel Hayden’s face hardened. “You contemptible scoundrel, don’t talk
to me,” he replied, and then turned his back on the villain.

Buffalo Bill’s voice was heard after a short silence. “Colonel,” he said
quietly, “I am going to take this man off your hands and deliver him
into the hands of the Apaches. He has killed the Apache who would have
been chief had he lived, and for his offense he must undergo an Indian
trial. I can assure you it will be short, and that there will be no
appeal from the judgment.”

Colonel Hayden smiled grimly. “As you will, Cody,” was the reply he
made. But Buffalo Bill’s announcement had caused Alkali Pete to raise
his eyebrows.

“Ain’t ye takin’ a losin’ contrack, Buffler?” he inquired. “How on arth
aire ye goin’ ter turn over ther rapscallion ter ther ’Paches when ther
prospecks aire that ther ’Paches will soon be _non est combusticus?_”

“I intend to stop the massacre,” returned the king of scouts quietly.

“Ye do, eh? Well, ye aire takin’ a mighty big job onto yer shoulders.”

“I have taken larger ones, Pete.” This was said in no boasting tone,
rather as a matter-of-fact statement.

A flood of recollections deluged Alkali Pete’s mind. He nodded and
smiled. “I reckon I’ll haul in my horns, Buffler. Ye’ll make it; jest
how I kain’t conceive, but ye’ll make it, or thar’ll be a circus.”

“And to make it I must be moving,” the king of scouts replied. “You must
remain here with the colonel and Miss Hayden, Pete. I’ll be back before
dark.”

With these words he took Black-face Ned by the arm and moved away.

Half an hour later, and ten minutes before the time fixed for the
outcoming of the Apaches, Buffalo Bill and his prisoner reached the edge
of the opening in front of the cliff dwellings.

Wild Bill saw him coming, and rushed forward to meet him.

“I am in time,” said the king of scouts, with a smile as hand met hand.

“If you had come earlier you would have suited me better,” declared Wild
Bill earnestly. “I have been worrying a bit about you. Thunder Cloud
told Black Wing about the rattlesnake business, and I believed you were
on velvet back there in the castle, otherwise I would never have left
the place without trying to find you. But you are here at last, and I’m
mighty glad to see you. You’re just in time to see a sensational
spectacle. The Apaches are up in the cliff rooms now, but in a few
minutes they will come out, and then Beelzebub will proceed to pop.”

“I have heard about the trap you have laid for the Apaches,” said
Buffalo Bill disapprovingly, “and I have hurried here to have you
withdraw it.”

“Withdraw it. Have you gone daffy, Cody?”

“No, I am as sane as you are. Look here, Hickok”—speaking with serious
earnestness—“you are a white man, aren’t you?”

“I have always passed for one,” was the smiling reply. “What of it?”

“Just this: A white man, the type of the higher civilization, does not
lay traps in order to take a mean advantage of an enemy. He fights fair,
he despises the tactics of the savage.”

Wild Bill’s face flushed with anger. “Do you mean to insinuate that I
have hatched up a low-down scheme to entrap the Apaches?” he said hotly.

“Keep your temper, Hickok,” returned Buffalo Bill quietly. “We have been
friends too long for any serious difference to arise between us. You
have not yet coolly considered the situation. You have, I am sure, acted
on impulse. Don’t you know that, if your plan goes through, the Apaches
will be at the mercy of the Yelping Crew? They will come expecting to
treat for peace. You and your crowd will be all ready for a fight. The
announcement that it is war, not peace, will throw the Apaches into a
state of consternation so that they will not be able to put up any kind
of a fight against you. The scheme is unfair; it is more than unfair, it
is——”

“That will do, Cody,” interrupted Wild Bill, his countenance red with
shame. “I see the point. I was hasty, reckless. I did not take a cold
squint at the matter. The scheme won’t do. Come with me while I do some
responsible haranguing. Time is mighty short, for the Apaches will be
out of the holes in a minute.”

Wild Bill reached the group of Comanches, and began to talk rapidly.
Headshakes and low, fierce mutterings were heard as he urged a change of
plan. After all, he argued, it would be better to have peace. A fight
against the advice of Buffalo Bill, who represented the United States
government, would draw down upon them the wrath of the soldiers. They
would be driven from their home, and, if they did not succeed in
escaping to Mexico, they would either be killed or placed on a
reservation.

Ten minutes went by while the talk went on. When Wild Bill stopped,
satisfied that he won his point, he uttered an exclamation of surprise.
The Apaches had not come out. What had happened?

“There is a screw loose somewhere,” the king of scouts remarked, with a
clouded brow. “Have you seen an Apache since you came here?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“Black Wing knew that five o’clock was the time for the confab over the
treaty, did he?”

“Sure.”

“Then something has happened to him. Send one of your Comanches down
close to the cliff and have him call to Black Wing.”

“I’ll go myself.”

Wild Bill ran to the base of the cliff and shouted: “Black Wing! Are you
there?”

No answer. The call was repeated. Still no answer.

Astonished beyond measure, Wild Bill returned to Buffalo Bill and the
waiting Comanches. “I don’t believe there’s a soul up the cliff,” he
said to the king of scouts.

“I am of your opinion. Here, hook onto Black-face Ned for me, and I’ll
soon solve the riddle.”

Without waiting for an answer, Buffalo Bill ran to the mouth of the
cave, entered, and climbed up the rope that depended from the windlass
above. As his head appeared out of the hole in the stone floor, he saw
the dead body of an Indian.

The face was upturned to the ceiling, and was the face of Black Wing,
the Comanche. The king of scouts, with serious mien, stood a moment by
the body.

A glance disclosed the manner of death. The Indian had been tomahawked.

The other rooms were vacant. The Apaches had gone, and with them the two
outlaws, Flag-pole Jack and Shorty Sands. But Black Wing had not been
killed by either of the outlaws. They used pistols or knives, never
tomahawks. The Indian had met his death at the hands of an Apache.

Buffalo Bill went back to the group of fantastically attired Comanches.
His story was received first with amazement, then with savage
indignation. Every face was turned toward Wild Bill.

The white leader of the Yelping Crew faced the Indians with flashing
eyes. “Black Wing shall be avenged,” he said, in a voice that cut like a
knife. “Peace be hanged. We’ll march to the castle, for the Apaches have
gone back, of course, and camp there till we starve them out.”

Buffalo Bill knew that the time for conciliatory talk had passed, so he
uttered no protest, but said quietly: “I think as you do, Hickok. The
Apaches somehow got on to Black Wing’s plan and killed him. Then they
hurried to the castle, taking the cut-off over the ridge that I took
when I went from here this forenoon. But they may not stay there. The
finding of Thunder Cloud’s body, the discovery of the dead Indian in the
cellar, and the escape of the white prisoners will, I think, send them
out again. And if they come back here they will come by the regular
trail. Great Heaven, Hickok, they will come by the cottonwood tree!
Alkali Pete and the Haydens may see them coming, but the chances to
escape observation are poor. Come on, we must meet the fiends before
they reach our friends, if it is possible to do so.”

The words were scarcely out of the scout’s mouth before the Apaches
appeared.




                              CHAPTER XV.
                         THE FRUITS OF VICTORY.


Buffalo Bill saw the redskins rush out of the bushes into the open, and
at once dropped to his knees and fired. A volley from the Apaches
drowned the report of his rifle.

Black-face Ned, struck in the head by a bullet meant for Wild Bill,
staggered and fell upon the kneeling king of scouts, sending him flat
upon his face. Shots and bloodcurdling yells rent the air as he was
trying to arise.

When he got to his feet he saw a strange sight. The Apaches were running
up the mountainside, pursued by enemies from two sides.

Wild Bill and all but four of the Yelping Crew were chasing the Apaches,
while from the brush out of which the foe had emerged Alkali Pete and
Colonel Hayden were using their weapons with telling effect.

The king of scouts joined in the rush of the Yelpers.

But the Apaches, demoralized by the attack in the rear, won out in the
running race. They were out of range when the pursuers reached the top
of the ridge.

Seven had been killed, and there were not more than ten, the two outlaws
with them, who were able to get to the castle.

On the ridge, the king of scouts said to Wild Bill: “Go on and invest
the castle, and I’ll join you after a while. I must have a talk with
Colonel Hayden.”

“All right, but be quick, Cody, for it will be dark before long.”

Alkali Pete was coming up the hill as Buffalo Bill began the downward
walk. Below, on the flat, stood Colonel Hayden and Sybil.

As the two scouts met, Sybil Hayden was hastening to the side of a
wounded and dying Apache.

In her hand was a canteen of water that her father had given her.

The Indian, who was sitting up with his hands at his throat, took the
canteen and drank until he almost choked.

Buffalo Bill and Alkali Pete joined the girl, and the colonel came up
while the Apache was speaking.

“Black Wing was a traitor,” he said, in answer to a question put by the
king of scouts. “He would have sent the braves of Thunder Cloud to be
massacred if the white friend of Thunder Cloud, he who is called
Flag-pole Jack, had not taunted him with treachery and forced him to
tell the truth.”

“Black Wing was a fool to admit he was leading the Apaches into a trap,”
said Buffalo Bill.

“He was angry and reckless,” replied the Apache. “The white man has a
cutting tongue, and he lashed Black Wing to fury. Then when the Apaches
learned how they had been deceived, Black Wing was made to pay for his
treachery.”

The last words were spoken just above a whisper. In a few minutes the
Apache was dead.

“I must go on and rejoin Wild Bill,” said the king of scouts to Colonel
Hayden, as the quartet walked away from the scene of death. “As for you
and Miss Hayden, my advice is, go to the camping ground by the creek—the
place is safe enough now—and stay there to-night. Alkali Pete here will
go with you, and in the morning you can set out for civilization.”

The lanky plainsman said nothing to this speech. But his homely face
wore a look of keen disappointment. As he caught Sybil Hayden’s smiling
glance he reddened, and attempted an explanation for his apparent
exhibition of discourtesy. “I think, I shore do, that Buffler orter come
with us. He’s got no call ter be buttin’ inter a squabble atween ther
’Paches an’ ther Comanches. Don’t ye see, Miss Hayden?”

“Yes, I see,”—and the smile broadened. Then she added wickedly: “You
wouldn’t go back and help Wild Bill and the Comanches, would you? An ox
team couldn’t make you go. Am I right?”

Alkali Pete gave a shamefaced look at the smiling girl, and then turned
an appealing glance on Buffalo Bill.

The colonel spoke at this juncture. “Your plan shows a good heart, Cody,
but you forget that you are under my orders.”

The king of scouts bit his lip. “That’s so,” he reluctantly admitted.
“And what is your order?”

“That you go with us and let Mr. Allen proceed to the castle.”

The lanky plainsman’s eyes danced with pleasure. But the new arrangement
was not carried out. Sybil Hayden vetoed it.

“I have not had my say yet,” she declared, with an expression of
determination on her pretty face. “You may all do as you please, but I
am going back to the castle. I am interested in the squabble, as my
friend, Mr. Allen, calls it. I want to be a looker-on in Venice. And,
besides, I hope to induce you three husky men to come with me. Perhaps
the end may come the sooner for your presence and assistance.”

“But, Sybil, the danger,” expostulated her father. “You have had enough
of harsh experience, I should imagine.”

“No use talking, dad, I’m going to have my way. There is no great
danger. There will be about twenty men against a dozen.”

“You are talking strangely for a woman,” returned the colonel severely.
“I am surprised at your conduct.”

“There, there, daddy”—speaking caressingly—“you have miscalled your
feeling. You really want to go to the castle. Now, be honest and tell
the truth.”

“Well, I would like to go,” replied the colonel slowly, “but not under
your conditions.”

The argument went on, and finally the colonel capitulated.

The quartet reached the grove in front of the castle just before dark.
There was found the greater part of Wild Bill’s force. Two Comanches had
been detailed to watch the mouth of the tunnel, and three others had
their station at the rear of the building.

“You are sure, Hickok, that the Apaches are inside, are you?” asked
Buffalo Bill.

“Yes. Several shots have been fired from the windows.”

“What is your program?”

“To stay here and starve them out. Can you suggest a better one?”

“I will tell you in a minute. Did those shots from the windows do any
damage?”

“No. They were fool shots, fired to annoy us, I suppose, to give the
impression that the inmates of the castle defied any attempt to rout
them out.”

“You’ll have to stay here a month, Hickok; that is, if you are allowed
to stay, before the garrison will be out of provisions.”

“Nonsense. I know, by what Black Wing told me, that there is not enough
grub in the shebang to last a dozen men a week.”

“True, but suppose there are but two persons in the castle?”

Wild Bill caught his breath. “Do you mean——”

“Yes,” the king of scouts quickly interrupted. “I mean that the Apaches
are not in the castle. They are playing trick against trick. Flag-pole
Jack and Shorty Sands are inside, no others are there, and the shots
were fired to make you believe the whole force of the enemy is in there.
Do you catch on? At this minute, if I am not clear out of my reckoning,
the Apaches are preparing to sneak up and massacre your whole outfit.”

“They will come from the rear, then.”

“Naturally.”

Wild Bill, who had been sitting on the ground, arose to his feet and
issued some quick orders to the Comanches.

Four of them at once stole away in the darkness, going along the edge of
the valley, two on each side.

As soon as they had departed, Buffalo Bill went to Sybil Hayden’s side
and whispered: “There is likely to be trouble soon, and you must not be
where you would run the chance of catching a stray bullet. Go around the
wall until you get to a large, low-growing pine. Climb the tree, you
will find it easy work, and wait until it is safe for you to return
here.”

The girl at first refused to go, but upon her father’s supplication she
left for the pine.

She had been gone five minutes, and the scouts sent out by Wild Bill had
just returned with a startling report, when a scream, fraught with
deadly terror, awoke the stillness and pierced Colonel Hayden’s heart
like a knife. He was running along the wall in the direction of the
sound when Buffalo Bill dashed by him, going at race-horse speed. A
pistol shot was fired when the king of scouts was within a few yards of
the pine tree.

Quickly following the report, a heavy body fell from the tree, striking
the ground with a thud.

“That was not the girl,” said Buffalo Bill to himself, with
positiveness. Then he called out in a thrilling whisper: “Miss
Hayden—where are you?”

“In the tree,” was the answer given in a shaking voice. “I—I can’t get
down.”

“Are you hurt?”—anxiously.

“No, but—I am stuck.”

The king of scouts struck a match, and, stepping forward, looked at the
body that had fallen from the tree. It was that of Shorty Sands, and the
outlaw was stone-dead.

Climbing into the tree, Buffalo Bill found that Sybil Hayden’s form had
become wedged between two limbs. By using all his strength he was able
to bend back one of the limbs so that the girl could move out. When both
were on the ground she told her story. She had climbed into the tree,
and was between the limbs when she heard a movement above her. Looking
up, she saw the dim outlines of a man’s form, and immediately gave
utterance to the scream that was heard at the front of the castle. Next
she tried to leave the tree, but found to her terror that she could not
move.

A hissing whisper caused her to stifle a second scream. “If you yell
again, I’ll cut your heart out.”

Up to this time she had not thought of the pistol she carried. It was in
her bosom, and she took it out just as the outlaw was about to swing
himself to a limb opposite to her. As his feet touched the limb she
fired.

“Did I kill him?” she whispered faintly.

“I couldn’t have made a better shot if I had been in your place,” the
scout answered. “He’s dead, all right, and a good riddance to bad
rubbish.”

They were on their way back to Wild Bill and the Comanches when they
heard a groan. It emanated from some person not many feet from them.
“Who is it?” whispered Buffalo Bill, while Sybil Hayden clutched his arm
tightly.

“Hayden,” was the hoarse reply. “I ran against a root, and fell and hurt
my head. Is Sybil safe?”

“Yes, father,” the girl answered, as she ran forward and knelt beside
the colonel. “I am without a scratch.”

At this moment a wild commotion arose in the valley, not one hundred
yards away. The air was pierced with shots and yells, and it was evident
that a fierce fight was in progress.

It was over when the king of scouts reached the open space beyond the
grove of trees. The Apaches who had planned to bushwhack the Comanches
had themselves met with a surprise.

Of the band that had stolen silently up the valley, but three escaped,
and these were never again seen in the Hualapi Mountains.

But one Comanche was killed.

Buffalo Bill was not surprised to hear that Alkali Pete had done his
share in the work of extermination. The lanky plainsman had exposed
himself more than once, but he seemed to bear a charmed life, and had
come out of the fight without a wound.

“Only one enemy to attend to,” said Wild Bill, after he had heard the
story of Sybil Hayden’s adventure. “Flag-pole Jack is in the castle, but
we will get to him by the way of the tunnel.”

“Let him go,” urged Sybil. “You have done enough.”

Wild Bill would have made reply had not one of the Indians detailed to
watch the tunnel come up as the girl ceased speaking. He had a report to
make, and Wild Bill looked pleased when it was made.

It was short but important. Flag-pole Jack had attempted to escape
through the tunnel, and had been shot and killed as he was crawling out
of the long hole.

“All’s well that ends well,” said the colonel joyously.

The white contingent of the force that had routed the Apaches slept that
night in the castle, and next morning left for the desert and the
civilized places beyond.

Wild Bill resigned his position as acting leader of the Yelping Crew.

Colonel Hayden and his daughter went on to the military post in Wyoming.
They parted with Buffalo Bill, Wild Bill, and Alkali Pete at Laramie.

What was said and done at the parting left the two scouts blushing like
schoolboys.

“Kissed me, kissed me,” murmured the lanky plainsman, as he walked away
with the king of scouts. “Didn’t she know’t I’m a married man?”

“Your status as a husband cut no ice with her, Pete. It was purely a
matter of generous sentiment. Tell your wife, she won’t be jealous.”

“Ye don’t know her, Buffler. This aire is one o’ ther things I’ll shore
keep ter myself.”

There was a pleasant twinkle in his eyes as he rubbed his cheek.

Upon their arrival in Laramie, Buffalo Bill received orders to proceed
at once to Fort Grant. Alkali Pete elected to remain at Laramie, but
Buffalo Bill and Hickok pushed on to Fort Grant, where they met with old
Nick Nomad and Buffalo Bill’s Indian pard, Little Cayuse. From Fort
Grant the outfit hit the trail for Skyline, where their services were
needed.




                              CHAPTER XVI.
                          THE MAN WITH A PAST.


The man who answered to the names of Tom Conover and Toltec Tom squared
his drooping shoulders and stood up more sturdily on his shaking legs.

“No,” he said to the man who asked him to have a drink at the bar of a
cheap saloon near by, “I’ve cut it out!”

The tempter laughed skeptically, and Conover lurched past, his face
flushing to a deep red.

It was already flushed and somewhat swollen from the effects of alcohol.
High on the forehead was a scarlet nick—a three-cornered scar—extending
well up into the hair.

Conover pulled an old brier pipe and a handful of loose tobacco from a
side pocket of his corduroy coat, filled the pipe and thumbed the
tobacco down in the bowl as he went on, his hands trembling.

“Yes, I’ve cut it out—for good!” he muttered. “I’ve been a fool for the
past month, but I won’t be any longer. I’ll straighten up and be a man
again, if I can, and then I’ll get back to God’s country. No more of
this for me—I’ve had enough of it.”

He stopped, at the foot of the street, and swept a glance over the town
and surrounding country, at the little, sunburned valley below, and the
ragged hills beyond rolling away into higher and higher elevations,
which were rimmed in and ringed by scarred and splintered mountains. The
sight of those mountains depressed him.

The view of the town was not more prepossessing. It was a straggling
mining camp, without beauty of outline or architecture. The houses were
cheap affairs, half of them on the main street being saloons or gambling
dens where the miners from the mountains spent their hard earnings
riotously.

“I’m sick of it,” he said, “and I’m goin’ to git out of it.”

For the first time he lapsed into a hint of the dialect to which he had
so long been accustomed.

Again he looked at the desert reaches of the scarred mountains, where it
would seem that even a crow would have hard picking to get a living.

Then he took from an inner pocket of the old corduroy coat a single
playing card—the queen of hearts; and he looked at it, with a strange
emotion showing in his puffed and scarred face as he passed on down the
slope.

He was soon at the edge of the town, though cheap Mexican houses,
chiefly of mud, stretched on still farther. Before the doors dark-faced
children played in the dust, and now and then from some deep window was
visible the swarthy, Indianlike face of a Mexican woman.

Where a mesquite tree grew at the side of the road he stopped. No house
was near, and he sat down on a stone, dropping heavily as if tired.

Though he had sturdily refused a drink that morning, his mind was not
yet relieved of the effects of recent potations. For a month he had been
on a “spree,” and the results showed in his face and general appearance,
and still more in the workings of his mind.

He held the playing card out before him and looked at it steadily,
clutching it in one trembling hand, and as he did so tears came into his
red eyes and trickled down his swollen cheeks. To a certain extent they
were maudlin tears, yet they testified to a real and deep emotion.

“The queen of hearts,” he said; “the only picture I’ve got of her—ever
had of her; it don’t look like her, yet it makes me think of her. And I
don’t want to think of her no more; it’s bad business, and it don’t do
me no good. It’s what set me to drinkin’ and howlin’ round like a locoed
Injun. I reckon I played the fool ginerally and made a swath-wide
nuisance of myself. But no more for me—this is the end of it.”

Rising, he stepped up to the mesquite tree and pinned the card to it;
then he went back and sat down again on the stone.

After staring at the card a while he drew out his revolver and began to
shoot at it. His hand was unsteady and his first shot went wide, but the
next cut through the middle of the card.

“She’s dead, and the past is dead, and now I’ll kill even the memory,”
he muttered. “I’ve hung to that card a long time, and it was all I had
that suggested her; now even that goes. I don’t want to think about it
any more. I didn’t treat her right, and she didn’t treat me right;
and—but what’s the use o’ thinkin’? It’s all gone, and dead; and she is
dead; and here goes the only thing that’s left to remind me of her.”

Again his revolver cracked spitefully in the clear air of the morning.

The bullet nicked a hole in the forehead of the picture.

He stared at it, his face paling a little.

“Just where I got the lance head of old Fire Top that time,” he said.
“That was a stem-winder—wonderful that it didn’t finish me! If it was
that old heathen who was dead, instead of her! But he’s still livin’ to
do more meanness in the world. Yes, I wisht it had been him; or that
this card was his ugly, painted mug that I’m shootin’ at. He wouldn’t be
waitin’, though, for me to set here and plug him like this; he’d be
doin’ something himself, like he did before.”

His revolver swung between his knees, in his right hand. With his left
he touched significantly the scarlet scar on his forehead.

But for that disfiguring scar and the marks of dissipation revealed so
plentifully in his countenance, Tom Conover would not have been a
bad-looking man. There was a week’s growth of stubble on his face, but
with that cut away, his features would have been comely enough. His eyes
were of a steely blue. They were watery now, but normally they were keen
and farsighted—the eyes of a man long used to looking on the vast
reaches of the mountains and deserts, where for so many years he had
made his home. He was tall and straight, too, with a symmetry of form
which his recent debauch, and the baggy clothing he wore, could not
wholly hide. As for his years, he was probably fifty, or near it; and
his hair was tinged with gray. It had been black, and round the edges of
that livid scar it still showed black, thrusting the scar out by way of
contrast, so that it seemed to stand forth as vividly as a cattle brand.

His face hardened as he touched the scar with his finger and old
memories swept over him, and once more he looked off at the serrated
mountains against the sky line. A notch there drew and held his gaze,
and in imagination he traveled along it, by way of a trail he knew well,
far into the ragged range.

There had been strange doings in some of the valleys of those mountains,
and he had taken part in them. His mind began to fill with unpleasant
pictures.

He frowned as they trooped in on him; then, snatching up his revolver,
he fired again at the queen of hearts. Shot followed shot in roaring
succession, until the revolver was emptied and the playing card was torn
into shreds.

His fusillade drew Mexicans to the doors of their huts and shabby
jacals. The playing children scampered out of the street dust and out of
sight. There were also cries of indignation, and of fear, together with
some sharp commands laid on him to desist.

But he only laughed with unnatural recklessness and gayety as he
proceeded to empty his revolver and shatter the card.

When the last cartridge was spent and the card hung but a thing of
shreds, he got up from the stone, pulled the remnants of the card from
the trunk of the mesquite, and ground them out of sight into the deep
dust of the road.

“The bullock carts will make a finish of it, if I haven’t,” he said, as
he looked at the hole his heel had gouged. “And now maybe I can git away
from them old memories. When I go back East I want to be another man—a
new man altogether, and I don’t want to think even of the things that’s
happened out here. I was in the wrong, of course; but not all in the
wrong. And I don’t want any more gold—I mean any more hunting for gold,
or nothing. I jest want to git away—away—away!”

His voice rose.

At the end of this outburst, as he turned about, he became aware of a
commotion in and about the huts and jacals, and in the road which led to
the town. Mexican women were shrieking and wailing, and the voices of
Mexican men rose in curses in the local patois. Some of the men were
issuing from the huts in a threatening manner.

“Well, what’s up?” said Conover, staring. “My shots have been scaring
these greasers, I reckon.”

He laughed harshly, and turned toward the town, having thrust his
revolver out of sight.

Some of the men issuing from the huts now dashed up to him and sought to
lay hands on him. He threw them off.

“What’s up?” he demanded.

One of them drew a knife and sprang at him.

He laughed again, bitterly this time, and, catching the little Mexican
by the arm, he twisted the knife out of his hand and threw it into the
roadside chapparal.

“Oh, no!” he said. “I don’t let any pig-eyed greaser stick his dirk into
me. What you want?”

“_Diable!_” the man grunted, picking himself up and making a dash for
the tall, shabby American, naked-handed.

Conover again threw him off, as easily as he would have hurled aside the
attack of a child.

He was aroused now, and his appearance had changed. Though his face was
still puffy and his eyes watery, his tall form straightened into sinewy
outlines; the trembling, too, had gone out of his hands and arms.

“You devil!” he said to the fallen man. “Keep off, or——”

He looked up the road toward the town, where a crowd had appeared, a
crowd which increased in numbers, and was led by a man Conover knew to
be the town marshal.

With one eye on the howling Mexicans, who were trying now and then to
get at him, Conover stared at the advancing crowd.

“What’s Ben Woods want? Coming for me, is he? Well, that’s queer! They
don’t pull a man in this town for a little shooting, as a usual thing,
unless he kills somebody; and all I’ve been potting is an old playing
card. I was a fool for even doing that—a fool and drunk, or nigh it! A
man can’t slay a memory by shooting a card to pieces.”

He stepped with quick stride to the side of the road, where he had a mud
wall at his back; so that he was now able to face the Mexicans and also
watch the crowd that hurriedly approached from the direction of the
town.

The patois of these peons was strange to him, but he was beginning to
catch words that he understood, and slowly the meaning of what they
meant filtered in.

One of his bullets, glancing against a rock, had entered a Mexican jacal
and struck a Mexican woman, injuring her severely. It was the husband of
the woman who had tried to knife him; and her brother had run into the
town and summoned the marshal with a direful story.

The marshal was now coming, with a posse, to arrest the “wild American”
who was supposed to be shooting up the Mexican portion of the town. The
reports of the revolver had given point to the story of the woman’s
brother.

“Hit a woman, eh?” said Conover incredulously. “Hit a woman when I was
merely shooting at the representation of one? Is that what you’re
howlin’ about?”

He flung a glance at the woman’s husband, who had crawled out and
recovered the knife, and was again trying to get where he could use it.

“Keep off!” he snarled to the man with the knife. “If I shot a woman, it
was an accident, and a fool thing to do; but it wasn’t meant; and I
ain’t goin’ to let you drive your sticker into me because of it. Keep
off, or I’ll choke you!”

The Mexicans, gaining courage by reason of the approach of the marshal
and his men, began to crowd Conover, gathering in a gesticulating and
frantic mob between him and the tiny Mexican huts where the women stood
and yelped like coyotes.

Seeing that the Mexicans were in a murderous mood, Conover now drew his
revolver, coolly thrust cartridges into it, and, cocking it, he
threatened them with it, as he began a slow retreat.

Thus retreating, he came up against the forces of the marshal.

“I surrender!” he said, turning and holding his revolver toward Ben
Woods. “Whatever I’ve done was a fool trick, and unintentional.”

Ben Woods, the marshal, a wiry, middle-aged borderman, came up and took
the extended revolver.

“What’s it mean?” he said, his men crowding in behind him and looking
curiously at Conover and the excited peons. “You’ve had a fight down
here?”

“No,” said Conover.

“It’s reported that there was a fight, and you shot a woman.”

“Let me explain,” said Conover. “You know me, and you know that when
I’ve been boozing, or coming out of one, that I’m a fust-class fool; and
not always responsible at other times. I’d been drinking until I got up
against the Woozy-wooz.”

“You mean you’d had the D. T’s.”

“That’s what I mean; I didn’t just have ’em, but mighty near it. I would
have, if I hadn’t stopped. And the stoppin’ was almost worse than goin’
on. You know how ’tis; you’ve seen lots o’ the boys that way. Well,
them’s me; and I was nighabout crazy, I reckon. But I’d cut the stuff
out, and meant to stay by that resolution.

“So I ambles down here a while ago feelin’ about as good-humored with
myself and the world as a she-wolf that’s lost her cubs. And because I
was nervous, and didn’t know what to do with myself, I began to shoot at
a target. It was a card that I had stuck up on that mesquite; if you’ll
look at the mesquite you’ll see where some o’ my lead plunked into it
while I was shooting. I wasn’t shooting at anybody, nor dreaming o’
harmin’ anybody.

“Then these wild men jumped out at me, slingin’ their crazy lingo; and
I’ve just waked up to the discovery that some o’ my lead must have went
astray. They say I hit a woman. It’s the first time for me, Woods, and
I’m sorry if it’s so. I didn’t know it, and didn’t mean it.”

Ben Woods looked at him intently.

“That sounds straight, anyway,” he said.

“It’s the truth, and the whole truth!” asserted Conover. “What would I
want to be shootin’ a Mexican woman for, anyhow? Ask these chaps if the
woman wasn’t in her house? I never seen her, and she must have been.”

The marshal turned to the Mexicans.

“Was the woman in her house?” he demanded fiercely.

They pressed forward and began to make excited statements; yet out of
what they said he managed to extract the confession that this was so.

“There wasn’t any crazy shootin’ up of this part of the town, then?” he
said. “It was reported there was.”

The Mexicans clamored about him, declaring that the woman was dying, and
demanding the immediate punishment of the man who had shot her.

“But if he didn’t shoot at her, and hadn’t any intention of hittin’
her?” said the marshal, trying to lull the storm.

They still clamored.

Woods turned from them to the man who was now his prisoner.

“This thing will have to be looked into, anyhow, Conover,” he said
regretfully. “If the woman dies it may make trouble for you. But we’ll
hope she’ll git well. Anyway, I don’t see but I’ll have to take you to
jail until the thing can be looked into.”

His tone was almost an apology, and Conover understood it as such.

The deep flush, accentuating the liquor-red of his face, noticed once
before that morning, came again; his blue eyes contracted and narrowed;
for a moment he looked defiant, his hand dropping toward the revolver
pocket hidden by the corduroy coat. He forgot for the instant that he
had surrendered the weapon.

Then his mood changed, and he laughed, a harsh sound that had no
merriment in it.

“Oh, all right, Woods!” he said. “Just as you say. I wouldn’t shoot a
woman—not even a Mexican one; I ain’t that kind, and you know it. I’ll
go with you.”

He stepped forward, almost as if pushed by the yelping Mexicans who
crowded his heels; and the marshal’s men surrounding him, he was led
away into the town, and cast into the town jail.

“Hard luck!” he said, when the marshal’s men were gone.

He looked disconsolately about his cheerless quarters—a narrow room,
dingy and disreputable, with one high, barred window, and a heavy,
barred door. It held nothing but a broken-legged stool and a shaky
wooden cot on which was a tattered government blanket and a makeshift of
a pillow.

“I dunno as it’s any use,” he muttered when he finished his survey. “I
intended to try to be a decent man, and here I am. When a man’s down,
even Fate kicks him. I didn’t even know there was such a creature in the
world as that Mexican woman, but one of my bullets goes huntin’ for her,
and finds her; and it lands me here. And if she dies——”

He shrugged his shoulders and dropped to a seat on the cot.

“It come about, of course, all of it, because that other woman died;
that got me to thinking again, and then I got to drinkin’ to keep from
thinkin’. I’m all sorts of a fool, on general principles, and when I go
to loading up with liquor I’m even a few more.”

Restlessly he got up from the cot, and, putting the broken stool against
the wall, he mounted it, and looked out from the barred window.

At first his gaze took in the town, and particularly that portion which
held the Mexican huts. He could even see the little mesquite tree where
he had stuck up the queen of hearts and fired at it.

Following the road which ran there, he looked off toward the ragged
hills and the mountains looming beyond them, his thoughts bitter.

As he did so, he became aware that horsemen were approaching the town
along that road.

He stood on the stool staring at them until they came up to the Mexican
huts and on into the street which led to the center of the town.

The horsemen broke into a canter.

“Injuns,” he said, “and three white men.”

He strained his eyes to make them out.

Suddenly a low whoop broke from his lips.

“Buffalo Bill, or I’m a sand hog!” he exclaimed, striking a palm against
the bars of the window.

He rubbed his eyes, and looked again.

“And the two white men with him are Wild Bill and that old trapper they
call Nick Nomad. Whoop! I reckon the Injuns aire some o’ Buffalo Bill’s
scouts.”

A change passed over his face.

“But mebbe they won’t help me. When Fate kicks a man she kicks him hard.
Yet there was a time when Buffalo Bill and me were pards. But that’s
long ago, long ago.”




                             CHAPTER XVII.
                     THE STORY OF QUICKSILVER JOHN.


Ben Woods, the marshal of the town of Skyline, met Buffalo Bill and his
pards and followers in front of the principal hotel of the town.

The hotel piazza was filled with “prominent citizens,” as a sort of
welcoming committee backing the efforts of the marshal, while people of
lesser importance filled the street on each side of the hotel and backed
against the opposite buildings in a curious wave.

Buffalo Bill’s arrival in the town had been hourly expected, and had
been watched for from the “lookout” station on the hotel roof.

As soon as his coming was announced the news was sent flying throughout
the community.

Woods stepped down from the piazza, extending to Buffalo Bill his thin,
wiry hand.

“It seems like you’ve been a long time coming, Cody,” he said, “but
we’re glad to see you.”

He flung commands at some Mexicans grouped near.

“Pedro, Sebastian—you fellers git a move on, and take the hosses—what ye
staring at? Yes, them’s Injuns with the gentlemen! Didn’t ye never see
any before? Well, you’ll have time to git acquainted later. Take the
hosses and hustle ’em to the stables.”

The Mexicans flew to obey.

The citizens on the piazza swarmed down behind the marshal, and the next
moment Buffalo Bill and his pards were being given a characteristic
greeting of the border.

“Any word about the child?” the great scout asked of Woods, almost
before the greetings were finished.

“Not a thing,” said Woods. “We’re reckoning that Injuns took him; that’s
what we got, from the little of the trail we could follow; though why
they would do it, or what they would want with the boy, puzzled us,
until——”

He stopped to present another “prominent citizen,” who had just arrived
in breathless haste and desired an introduction.

Leaving Wild Bill and old Nomad to converse with the group on and about
the piazza, Buffalo Bill accompanied Woods into the hotel, as soon as he
could do it without offense to the assembled people.

“I’ve sent for the kid’s father and mother,” said Woods, “and they’ll be
here in a little while, I reckon. It’s a curious case.”

“From the report I received, it is. You were about to say something a
while ago, but stopped to introduce that gentleman?”

“Oh, yes; I was sayin’, I believe, that the whole thing tangled us all
up. But I heard somethin’ this mornin’ which, maybe, is a clew. And, by
the way, I just now arrested and jailed the feller that give it to me.
Mebbe you know him? It’s Tom Conover, old Toltec Tom, some call him,
and——”

“Shot a woman?”

“Well, it was by clear accident, so he says.”

“Is she much hurt?” was the scout’s interested query.

“I’m hopin’ not, but we ain’t goin’ to be too rough on any white man for
a thing like that, especially if ’twas an accident.”

Buffalo Bill settled back in the chair he had taken. He and Woods were
in the hotel office; but the clerk had gone out on the piazza, and was
listening there to the talk of old Nick Nomad and Wild Bill. The
trapper’s heavy voice, uttering characteristic exclamations, floated in
at the window, accompanied by the comments of some of the citizens.

“Go on,” said Buffalo Bill to the marshal. “Tell me about the child.”

“Well, you know the story?”

“Not clearly. I was not at Fort Grant when your messenger arrived; so
what I know I received at third hand, from the commander there, on my
return. But he said that word had come from here of the kidnaping of a
child by Indians, and he ordered me to report here and see what I could
do.”

“Well, that’s straight, and nearly the whole of it. It’s Bill Morgan’s
boy, down at the foot of the hill over there. They live beyond the town,
ye see, and so it was an easy job for the reds to sneak in and do their
work, particularly as no one was thinkin’ of such a thing, and the kid
was allowed to play round outdoors all he wanted. I’ve sent for Morgan
and his wife, so’s they can tell you all about it, and jest how it
happened; but that’s all they know, or any one does, unless it’s Tom
Conover.”

He produced some cigars and passed them to the scout, as if the matter
under consideration called for such care that haste would be its ruin.

“Thanks!” said Buffalo Bill, accepting a cigar in the spirit in which it
was offered.

Woods struck a match, which he held out for the scout’s use, lighting
his own cigar from it after the scout’s was going. Then he settled back
in his chair with quite as much deliberation.

Before he went on with his story the clerk of the hotel returned to the
office, and some other men came in at the clerk’s heels. They ranged
themselves by the bar, where one or two of them called for liquor, which
the clerk dispensed from a long-necked, black bottle.

“What Tom Conover told me maybe amounts to something,” said the marshal,
“and maybe it don’t; but you’re entitled to know it, and it may help.
It’s this: About twenty or thirty years ago, he said, a child was
missin’ in jest about this same way. Skyline wasn’t standin’ here at
that time. The kidnapin’ was done south o’ here, at the old ’Doby Wells,
where a settler had pitched his shack and was trying to live. Injuns
swung down from the mountains and run off with the kid; they didn’t
massacree, nor burn the house, nor they didn’t make any ginral raid;
they jest snatched up the kid and hit the trail for the mountains.”

“And what became of the child?”

“Well, if anybody knows, I don’t; Conover didn’t seem to. He jest
remembered that. But he said he recalled that when it was done there was
talk around to the effect that every twenty or thirty years them hill
Injuns did a trick like that; what for I don’t know, and I reckon nobody
don’t. My idea, though, if I was put to it, is that if the thing ever
really happened, it was for a sacrifice of some kind.”

The scout smoked in silence as Woods talked.

“Anything else?” he said, when Woods stopped.

“That’s about all; only Conover was inclined to the theory that it was
the work of old Fire Top, and so was we; I mean this present case was
the work of that old heathen, we thought. Why he thought it I don’t
know, and he never said. He’d been boozing, as I’ve told you, and
whether he really knowed what he was talkin’ about or not I can’t say.
But there you have it.”

“What else?” the scout asked again, when the marshal once more subsided
behind his cloud of smoke.

“I reckon there ain’t anything else, that I know of.”

“Why did you think it was the work of old Fire Top?”

“Well, from the fact that a red who was supposed to be one of Fire Top’s
bucks was seen sashayin’ round Morgan’s place the day before, and from
what Conover told me this morning?”

“You found a trail?”

“Not a very plain one; but there was pony tracks behind the knoll below
the house—tracks of an unshod Injun cayuse—which must have been made
about the time the kid disappeared.”

“You followed them?”

“To the point where they entered the main trail leadin’ toward the
Cumbres. We couldn’t do nothin’ after that, for the main trail is hard
as flint, with a thousand tracks, if there’s one.”

“You might have made sure that the cayuse tracks didn’t leave the
Cumbres trail.”

“We tried to, but we didn’t find nothing—except this.” The marshal put
his hand in his pocket and drew out a battered piece of silver that had
been rudely fashioned into an Indian earring.

“Whoever wore that was most likely an Indian,” he said, “though it might
’a’ been a Mexican; they’re all alike in wantin’ to wear shiny things in
their ears and in their hair—Mexicans aire half Injun, anyhow, ye know.
One of my men picked that up below the knoll, as we was follerin’ that
cayuse trail; and I put it in my pocket.”

“Did you send a force toward the Cumbres Mountains?” queried the scout.

“Well, not all the way,” said the marshal, twisting uneasily in his
chair, for he knew that was a thing he should have insisted on. “I
couldn’t git any men that wanted to go farther than the Cross Timbers.
Fire Top’s Toltecs ain’t men that aire to be fooled with, and so I
didn’t go beyond that point. But I didn’t see any need, as we’d struck
no trail. And if it was Fire Top, and he got into the Cumbres, where he
holes up, then it wouldn’t do no good, anyhow.”

“Why?” said the scout quietly.

The marshal tried to laugh, but failed.

“Well, Cody,” he answered, “if you want to go into the Cumbres, and up
to Fire Top’s headquarters there, you’re welcome to; but not for me, or
any one I could git here to trail after me. It never was done but
once—by any one that came back alive; and that was when Quicksilver John
blundered down there by mistake, and got out again by mistake. It wasn’t
courage, but luck, that brought Quicksilver John out of there that time,
I’m telling you.”

He settled back again, and tried to hide his confusion by “smoking up.”

“Maybe you don’t know about Quicksilver John and that little adventurer,
Cody? You wasn’t in this section at the time, and I don’t think it has
ever got into print, so you’re pardoned for not knowin’ anything about
it.

“Quicksilver John was huntin’ for a cinnabar lode, as usual, and he hit
into the Cumbres, takin’ nothin’ but a burro and his tools and his water
bottle and grub. It’s a desert country, and he had a hard time straight
from the start.

“He didn’t know anything about Fire Top nor them wicked Toltecs of his,
and so wasn’t figurin’ on trouble from that quarter. He didn’t find any
cinnabar, but he struck the queerest Injun town that any one ever heard
of, or dreamed of; it had reg’lar houses, somewhat like them cliff
dwellers’ houses you’ve seen, or maybe read about. But some was
better—some was of stone. It was a bang-up place, for an Injun city, he
said; and he was wonderin’ whether it could really be Injuns livin’
there, or some settlement of whites he had never heard of, when the
queerest thing happened you could ever imagine. I dunno whether to
believe it or not! But Quicksilver John said that while he was studyin’
them houses, a big eagle, that he hadn’t even see, flapped down out of a
tree behind him and struck him between the shoulders.

“He was layin’ at the time on the edge of a precipice, lookin’ down; and
the blow of the eagle knocked him over the edge, so that he began to
fall. But, so he reported, the claws of the eagle had got fast in his
clothes, and that kept him from dropping down like a shot; the eagle
tried to fly with him, and that held him up a bit, though his weight
kept pullin’ the eagle down and down. He was too heavy for the eagle to
carry; but at the same time the efforts of the eagle to lift him up kept
him from droppin’ swift. So together they came right down into that
queer town, nighabout in the middle of it, the eagle flappin’ his wings
and screechin’, and him swinging his arms and legs and yellin’. It must
have been a queer sight.

“And it was that way they landed, clost by some Injuns, that wore red
feathers in their hair, and was otherwise ’most naked, except for a lot
of gold bracelets. When the ground was struck the eagle managed to pull
its hooks out of the clothes of Quicksilver John, and to fly off; and
there he was left, sprawlin’.

“Well, them red-feathered Injuns swarmed round him prompt, and whooped
and hollered; and they picked him up and carried him off to some kind of
a temple, where there was a great howdy-do about it. And then a priest,
or a king, or somethin’, come; Quicksilver John didn’t know who, or
what, for this priest, or king, or whatever, was all veiled, and wore a
robe of some kind.

“But, anyway, after Quicksilver John had been held some days, and
expected to be killed every minute, he was carried up to the top of the
cliff from which the eagle had knocked him, and told to git.”

The marshal stopped and puffed at his cigar, which had nearly gone out.

“And then,” he said, breathing deeply and blowing out the smoke, “you
can bet he got—he skedaddled.”

Some of the men who had come in and heard the story, laughed; they had
heard it before, and saw only its comedy elements.

“I reckon you don’t believe that story, Cody,” remarked Woods, glancing
at the scout. “It’s a purty stiff yarn, and I dunno as I believe it
myself. But what Quicksilver John wanted to tell it for, if it was a
lie, gits me; he didn’t gain anything by it.”

“He told it for the same reason that makes a man like to tell the
biggest fish story,” said some one in the crowd.

“He said,” went on the marshal, “that the Injuns was Toltecs, and was
under that old coyote called Red Feather, though whether Red Feather is
livin’ or dead, or anything much about him, nobody knows. Maybe there
ain’t any old Fire Top, and no such queer Toltecs in them hills; but
there aire Apaches there, and that’s enough for me. Wherever there aire
Apaches I keep out. Sabe?”

He hesitated, and went on:

“But Toltec Tom says there is, or was, a chief called Fire Top; and
Injuns wearin’ red feathers have been seen round here, and they’re said
to be Toltecs, and live in them Cumbres Hills. But that’s all we know,
Cody; maybe all that anybody knows. Except that this kid is gone—seems
to ’a’ been stolen—and we found Injun pony tracks, and this Injun
earring, or nose ring, or whatever it is.

“And so, after talkin’ the thing over, when we couldn’t do anything, or
very much, ourselves, we sent that messenger to Fort Grant, askin’ for
your help; and here you aire.”

He seemed mightily relieved that this was so.




                             CHAPTER XVIII.
                           THE STOLEN CHILD.


Before Buffalo Bill could comment on the queer story of Quicksilver
John, or on any of the other things which the worthy marshal of the town
of Skyline had imparted to him, there was a sound of scraping feet
beyond the door, in the direction of the piazza, and a man and woman
came into the office.

The marshal jumped to his feet when he saw them, and the scout also
rose, knowing that here were the father and mother of the child that had
been supposedly stolen by Indians.

The man was a sturdy-looking fellow of the miner type, about thirty
years old. The woman was younger and girlish, and was a beauty. Her skin
was fair, her eyes a bright blue, her hair a gold-brown; so that,
altogether, she had, in spite of the poorness and simplicity of her
clothing, something in her appearance that suggested one of Titan’s
pictures of angels.

So fair and girlish, though a wife and mother, she was, that Buffalo
Bill could not, as he came to his feet, repress a look of admiration.

“These are the people I told you about,” said Woods, introducing them.
“This is Morgan and Missus Morgan; and it’s their kid that has
disappeared.”

The blue eyes of the woman filled with tears as she looked up at the
tall and handsome scout who stood before her; his kind and kingly looks
warmed her heart, and gave her a feeling of confidence even before he
spoke to her.

As soon as the introductions had been put through by the marshal,
Buffalo Bill began to ask Morgan and his wife questions, finding them
intelligent and eager to impart all the information they possessed.

“He”—she referred to the child—“was playing out of the knoll when it
happened. He played there nearly every day when the weather was good,
and it’s been mostly good lately. I didn’t hear him cry out, or
anything, but I did hear the hoofs of a horse out there somewheres,
though at the minute I didn’t think anything about that in particular.
But somehow I got uneasy by and by, and went to the door and called him.
And when he didn’t come I ran out there—and he was gone!

“A good distance off, in the direction of the Cumbres trail, was a cloud
of dust; but I couldn’t see what was in it. For a minute I was that
scared I couldn’t hardly do anything. I ran all round, looking for him;
and then I ran to the neighbors; though maybe I ought to have done that
first.

“Then one of ’em told me that the day before she had seen an Indian
riding along there, with a red feather in his hair, and a blanket on
him, which she hadn’t thought much of at the time, as Indians come often
into the town.”

“Not the Red Feathers!” interrupted the marshal of Skyline.

“I don’t know what Indians they are, and the woman didn’t know that he
was different from any others; but when I told her about the cloud of
dust, she said at once it was probably an Indian done it, and told me
about the one she’d seen the day before, with a red feather in his hair.

“Then Mr. Jones—that’s her husband—he ran into the town here and
reported it, and after that a lot of men tried to follow the Indian,
but——”

She stopped with a pathetic break in her voice, and looked at Buffalo
Bill, tears showing in her eyes.

“How old was the child?” the scout asked, mildly and kindly.

“Fi—five years old!” she faltered.

“A boy, I believe you said?”

She assented by an inclination of her head, and put her handkerchief to
her eyes.

“If what Toltec Tom said was so,” put in the marshal, “the kid that was
stolen by the Red Feathers thirty years ago was a girl.”

The woman fumbled in the bosom of her dress and drew out a photograph.

“That’s his picture,” she said; “taken two months ago, when we was
visiting down in Madgeburg. Everybody says it looks like him.”

Buffalo Bill studied the photograph, seeing there a bright-eyed,
handsome little fellow in semisailor clothing, a smile on his lips, as
he looked straight out at the beholder and stood up sturdily on his
well-formed legs. His long hair fell down on the collar of the sailor
suit, and was, in front, cut square off across his well-rounded
forehead. It was the picture of an attractive, cheerful, healthy boy.

“Can you think of anything else it may be important for me to know?”
said the scout, as he handed back the photograph.

“You will try to find him?” she asked tremulously. “I can’t think of
anything else. Only, I have been hearing such awful things; and the
Indians are so cruel and terrible, and he’s such a little fellow, and so
good and dear. Do you think they will kill him—have killed him?”

“I don’t think they have killed him!” the scout declared with emphasis.

“And you think you can find him?” she quavered.

“Mrs. Morgan, I and my friends stand ready to do everything that can be
done in the matter.”

“But the delay!” she urged. “I have heard some awful talk—about how the
Indians sacrifice children, and torture them, and all that. It’s
breaking my heart.”

She began to cry; and in her nervousness it seemed that with difficulty
she restrained a desire to clutch hold of the great scout and thrust him
out of the office, and on the trail, in pursuit of the abductors of her
boy.

Buffalo Bill, understanding her feelings, said all that he could to
quiet her and give her the comforting warmth of hope. He repeated that
he would take the trail with his aids and run the Indians down.

“You will begin at once?” she urged.

“Yes,” he answered; “as soon as I can get ready for so long and
dangerous a trip.”

“It will be long—very long?”

She wanted her boy rescued instantly.

“They have probably retreated deep into the Cumbres Mountains,” the
scout told her. “We shall have to follow them there; and it will be a
dangerous journey, for which we shall have to make preparations. It is
an unfamiliar country to me, and my companions, too, and we may need to
look for a competent guide.”

“You’ll get none here, Cody,” said the marshal; “you couldn’t get any
man here to follow old Fire Top into the Cumbres—if it was old Fire
Top.”

There was an interruption at the door, and a man came into the office
hurriedly.

He was from the jail, and bore a letter.

“For Buffalo Bill,” he announced.

The letter was a note scrawled with a pencil on a page that appeared to
have been torn from a notebook.

When Buffalo Bill opened it, he saw by the signature that it was from
the jail prisoner, Toltec Tom.

It was brief, and ran as follows:

  “BUFFALO BILL: You may remember me, old pard, but perhaps you won’t,
  as we rawhided around together a good many years ago and our trails
  haven’t crossed much lately, if any. What all I’ve been doing since
  then doesn’t matter. But I hear you’re in town—saw you, in fact, as
  you and your friends came into the place. I’m putting up at the Town
  Hotel, and can’t say that I like the accommodations. I want to get
  out, and that’s why I write you. The marshal will tell you why I’m
  here, if you haven’t already heard about it. Come over and see me as
  soon as you can, and we’ll have a talk. I want to get out of this
  hole mighty bad.

  “Your one-time pard and present well-wisher,

                                                        “TOM CONOVER.”

“From Tom Conover,” said the scout, looking up and addressing Woods, the
town marshal. “He wants to see me, and I’d like you to go over to the
jail with me!”

Woods got on his feet.

“All right,” he said; “that can be arranged easy.”

The woman and her husband stood waiting.

“I’ll see this man who is held in jail here,” said the scout to her,
“and then I’ll make my arrangements. Cheer up. I can promise you that we
will do all that men can do to rescue your boy.”

He shook hands with her and her husband, and then with Woods left the
office and went out into the street, where Nomad and Wild Bill were
still “guffing” with the crowd that surrounded them and the Indian
scouts.




                              CHAPTER XIX.
                       THE TALK WITH TOLTEC TOM.


Buffalo Bill took Wild Bill and Nick Nomad with him when he walked to
the jail to interview Tom Conover. The marshal went along also, as a
matter of course. Left behind, Little Cayuse and his three Apaches
retreated to the stables to get away from the curious crowd, and busied
themselves there in attending to the horses.

Conover was pacing restlessly the narrow confines of his cell when
Buffalo Bill and his companions arrived.

The marshal brought him out into the little room which served as the
jail office, where he found the pards awaiting him.

“Hard luck, Conover,” said the scout, greeting him; “but we’ll hope you
won’t have to stay in here long. They’re getting ready to investigate
that shooting, and I’m told the woman isn’t really hurt much. I guess it
can be shown that the thing was a pure accident.”

“I was a fool for potting away with my hardware down by those huts,”
Conover admitted; “there’s where I was wrong. I hope you can git me out
of this without trouble; that’s why I sent for you.”

“We think we can do that,” said the scout cheerfully. “You know my old
pard, Wild Bill, I believe, and no doubt you’ve heard of Nick Nomad.”

Nomad had doubled himself up in a chair in an uncommunicative way, and
sat staring at Conover under his shaggy brows, taking his measure;
apparently the old trapper did not like his looks any too well.

But Wild Bill was in a different and amiable mood.

For a few moments they discussed the accidental shooting of the Mexican
woman; after which, without preliminary, Buffalo Bill introduced the
subject of the kidnaped boy.

“That’s why we are here,” he explained. “I am under instructions from
the commander at Fort Grant to take up this matter at once; which means,
probably, a trip into the Cumbres in pursuit of the kidnaping redskins.
You’re familiar with those mountains, I believe?”

Conover’s puffed face took on a deeper red.

“Just say that all over again, Cody,” he requested, for the purpose of
getting time to think.

Buffalo Bill rehearsed the story of the kidnaping in all its details, so
far as they were known, mentioning what had been said about old Fire Top
and his Toltec Indians, called the Red Feathers.

“Tell me what you know about old Fire Top and his Red Feathers,” he said
in conclusion, “and what it was made you think Fire Top probably had a
hand in his present case.”

Conover was still hesitating; and after that question was asked so
squarely he did not speak for some seconds. Once or twice he put his
hand up to the scarlet scar on his forehead, apparently not knowing that
he did it, and his hand trembled.

“Could I talk with you alone about this, Cody?” he said finally.

Old Nick Nomad, squatting silent in his chair, shot Conover a
distrustful glance.

“Certainly,” Buffalo Bill answered, rising. “We can go into that cell
you occupied, or——”

“Oh, we’ll clear out—go outside,” said Wild Bill, also rising.

But though he made the offer so quickly, he, too, seemed not at all
pleased.

The office was cleared, and Buffalo Bill remained alone with the
prisoner.

“Maybe I’m pertickler, and I know them fellers didn’t like it,” said
Conover. “But what I’m goin’ to say concerns that time I deserted
you—flunked like a coward, over on the Niobrara.”

“I haven’t forgotten it,” the scout admitted quickly.

Conover glanced away at the window, as if he desired to avoid the
scout’s direct gaze.

“Up to that time,” Buffalo Bill added slowly, “we had been good pards.”

“And never was afterward,” Conover added.

“That’s right; I went my way, and you went yours. They haven’t happened
to cross since, until to-day.”

“I’d like to make myself right about that Niobrara bizness, if I can;
but maybe I can’t. We was ringed in by old Rattlesnake’s Pawnees, you
know, and our horses was hid in some cottonwoods down by the river, and
you was wounded.”

“I’ll never forget it.”

“I wisht that I could,” said Conover. “I’ve wisht that a thousand times
since. But forgettin’ the past is a hard bizness, as I’ve found. Well,
though you was wounded, you said you thought you could hold them rocks
where we were against the Pawnees, and for me to sneak out and git the
horses, and then make a dash in with ’em, your idea being that maybe I
could rush through the Pawnee line up to the rocks in the darkness, when
you could climb to the back of your horse, and perhaps both of us git
away. It seemed the only chance, and it was as desperate a one as any
man ever figured on takin’.”

“I’ll never forget it!” the scout repeated.

“And you’ll never forget what I did—and that’s where the present trouble
comes in; for you’ll never feel like trusting me again. I made the sneak
all right through the Pawnee lines, but the reds were thicker than I
expected; and when I got to the horses my courage failed. It wouldn’t,
maybe, if I hadn’t been discovered; that rattled me, and scared me, and
instead of trying to git your horse to you I simply straddled mine and
cut out, leaving you there among the rocks, with them murderous Pawnees
all round you.”

Buffalo Bill nodded quietly, his face unchanged. Conover was covered
with confusion.

“But the next day,” said Conover, drawing a deep breath, “I tried to
make it right; I rode to the nearest fort and gave the word, and
troopers were sent right out.”

“And found, when they got there, that I had fooled the Pawnees and got
away from them unaided, even though I was wounded; and that the nest of
rocks to which you guided them was empty and the Pawnees gone.”

Conover was silent for a moment.

“It was a clear case of blue funk, Cody; I was scared, and I thought
only of my own scalp lock. Of course——”

“Of course you never expected to see me alive again?”

“I didn’t,” Conover confessed, “not even when I led the horse soldiers
to that spot. When I seen that the Pawnees was gone, my thought,
naturally, was that they had rubbed you out and got away; and I believed
that until I knew better, some time later.”

He stopped, and again his gaze wavered away to the window.

“That’s why I didn’t know if that note I sent you just now would do any
good; and it was the reason I didn’t want to talk about this before Nick
Nomad and Wild Bill. I admit I ain’t proud of that record.”

He still stared at the window, his face red and puffy, the corners of
his eyes twitching. The scarlet scar on his forehead seemed redder and
angrier than ever. His confusion was painfully apparent.

“And now about old Fire Top,” said the scout. “Just what do you know
about him? And why did you think that perhaps he and his Toltecs were
mixed up in this case of child-stealing? You are called Toltec Tom; I
don’t know why. Back at the time of that Niobrara matter you were simply
Tom Conover.”

“Yes, that’s so,” Conover admitted.

“Perhaps we can start the thing,” said the scout, seeing his reluctance,
“by having you tell me how you got the name of Toltec Tom.”

“I was a prisoner of the Toltecs once,” was the hesitating admission.

“Of Fire Top’s Toltecs?”

“Yes.”

“How long were you held by them?”

“A number of months,” said Conover, continuing to stare at the window.

“That was in the Cumbres Mountains?”

“You’re right.”

“Then, perhaps, you can give me an idea whether there is any truth at
all in this story of Quicksilver John, which the marshal here was
telling me about.”

He ran over hastily the points of the marshal’s story of Quicksilver
John.

“I think there was somethin’ in it,” said Conover.

“But it wasn’t all true?”

“Likely Quicksilver John would head the procession of champion liars, on
some points,” Conover averred.

“Tell me, in your judgment, how much of it was truth.”

Conover withdrew his gaze from the window.

“Cody,” he said, with sudden emotion, “there was too much truth in it.
But I can’t talk about it.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t want to talk about it!”

For the first time in many minutes he looked straight at Buffalo Bill;
and the latter noted now that the flush had gone from the puffy face,
giving place to a grayish pallor.

“There aire some things a man don’t want to talk about, Cody, and that’s
one of ’em, for me. But I’ll say this: I done you dirt there on the
Niobrara, because my nerve went back on me; I played the coward, and it
might have caused your death, as I thought it had, for a time. I ain’t
felt easy about that, and maybe I never will. But there’s such a thing
as a man being sorry for a thing like that, and willin’ to make amends,
if he can. That’s me.

“And now my proposition: Git me out of this hole, on this charge that’s
against me of shooting that poor Mexican woman, and then I’ll lead you
and your men into them Cumbres Hills, and straight to the home of old
Fire Top himself. Why I’m willin’ to do it I ain’t going to say, more
than that. It will help me to pay off the debt I owe you.”

“You can go straight there?”

“No man can do that, Cody; them Red Feathers aire always watching, as
I’ve reason to know. We’ll have to come it roundabout, some way. But I
think I can help you, and I’m willin’ to try. I’d like to feel that I’m
your pard again, and that that Niobrara debt is paid off.”

The pallor was going out of his face; his voice began to harden and show
a firmness that indicated a sense of increasing manhood.

“I’d like to stand straight up on my feet again, and have the feelin’
that I’m worthy to be Buffalo Bill’s pard, like in the old times. And
I’ll do the best I can; I can’t do more. I can’t tell you everything,
though, and you’ve got to trust me.”

The scout rose and stretched out his hand.

“I accept your offer, Conover,” he said.

“And forget the past?” said Conover, as if he could not believe it.

“All of it.”

“Particularly that time on the Niobrara?”

“I said all of it.”

“And overlook the fact that I ain’t tellin’ everything I know, for which
I’ve got reasons I don’t want to pass over now?”

“That, too. What I want is a man who knows something about Fire Top and
his Toltecs, and the way to reach them. For I’m convinced that he, or
his men, stole the child. What’s your opinion of that?”

“The stealin’ of the kid?”

“Yes. Why would he want to do it?”

“I don’t know; sacrifice, likely.”

But his voice was evasive again.

“But git me out of this, Cody,” he added, “and I’ll do what I can; I’ll
try to redeem myself. And say nothing about that old Niobrara matter to
Wild Bill and Nomad. They wouldn’t understand it, as you do; they’d
think I hadn’t changed, and was ready to desert, or lead you into
ambush, and things of that kind. Just keep that from ’em, will ye?”

Buffalo Bill nodded and stepped toward the door.

“That’s all right, Conover,” he declared. “Unless you make it necessary,
I’ll say nothing to them about it.”

“You’ve never mentioned it to ’em?” came the question, in a troubled
tone. “For, if you have——”

“I’ve never thought of speaking about it,” the scout asserted.

“I suppose you’ve had too many other things to think about, to keep
remembering a thing like that, so long ago?”

“You’re right there, Conover. Shall I call them in now?”

Conover hesitated again.

“Yes,” he said, “might as well, I reckon; but I’m thinkin’ they won’t be
overwell pleased to know I’m to be not only their pard, but their guide.
I could see they didn’t like me.”

Wild Bill, Nomad, and Woods, the marshal, were asked by the scout to
come into the office.

Then he laid out before them so much of the conversation had with
Conover as was needed to let them know that Toltec Tom was to be a
member of the party which was to hit the trail of the kidnaping Indians
and follow it wherever it went.

Nick Nomad, squatting in his chair, still shot distrustful looks at Tom
Conover.

“I don’t like his face,” he said to Wild Bill, after the interview had
ended.

“Why not?” Hickok inquired.

“You see that red scar on his forrud, re’chin’ up inter his ha’r?”

“Yes; but what of it?”

“It’s bad medicine.”

Hickok laughed with light incredulity.

“Laugh ef yer wanter,” growled the trapper; “but ef thet critter goes
along wi’ us you’ll be laughin’ outer ther t’other side o’ yer mouth
afore we sees this hyar town o’ Skyline ag’in.”

“Rot! Why, you superstitious old gorilla, what’s a scar on a man’s head
got to do with his character?”

“Lissen ter me,” said Nomad impressively: “Ther fust man I ever see what
had a scar jes’ like that war a hoss thief what stole frum me ther best
hoss I ever had—old Nebuchadnezzar; and that man war hung.”

“You hanged him?”

“I helped to do it; I pulled hard on ther rope.”

“And the second one?” said Wild Bill, laughing.

“Ther second one tolled me inter a game of poker some y’ars back when I
war greener than I am now, and swindled me outer everything I had,
leavin’ me on’y the old clo’es I stood in; and he’d no doubt took them
if they’d been wuth it.”

“And the third one?”

“Is this hyar feller that they calls Toltec Tom. Ef he goes wi’ us he’ll
do us; an’ that’s what he’s goin’ fer; no other reason.”

“You get worse and worse all the time, Nomad!”

“But even you don’t like him, Hickok!” the shrewd old fellow declared.
“Thet’s ther truth, an’ yer knows it; you don’t like ther looks of him
any more’n I do. Admit it.”

“I admit it.”

“Then, shell we let him go with us?”

“It’s not for us to say, Nomad; Cody is boss here, and we’re simply
trailing along with him, to help him as much as we can.”

“Waugh! Waal, I’m shore goin’ ter speak ter Buffler. He don’t know what
he’s bitin’ off when he pards in wi’ a wart hog like thet feller.”

Old Nick Nomad spoke his mind vigorously, elaborating to Buffalo Bill
the objections he had stated to Hickok.

But the great scout was skeptical, even though, a thing he did not
confess, he had still rankling recollection of that unpleasant incident
of the Niobrara; he said that he had agreed to take Conover along, and
that instead of being a handicap, he believed Conover would be able to
aid them materially.

It was the last word.

Whatever Buffalo Bill said went.




                              CHAPTER XX.
                            SIGNS AND OMENS.


The marshal and citizens of Skyline watched Buffalo Bill’s party out of
town with strange interest.

And it was a suggestive and attractive sight, even setting aside for the
moment the occasion of their going forth.

In the lead, stirrup to stirrup, rode Buffalo Bill and old Nick Nomad,
the scout mounted on his superb horse, Bear Paw, and Nomad astride of
Hide-rack. The contrast between the scout, with his erect, fine bearing,
and the wizened old trapper, was almost startling. Yet no one knowing
old Nomad could ever doubt that, in his way, he was a wonderful man.

Nomad would not ride with Tom Conover, so Wild Bill fell in at Conover’s
side, and they followed right behind Cody and Nomad.

The contrast here was almost as great, for Conover, with his baggy
corduroy clothing, his puffy face and watery eyes, and the livid scar
high on his forehead, resembled no more that dashing free lance of the
plains, Wild Bill Hickok, than Nick Nomad did Buffalo Bill.

There was always something light and jaunty in Wild Bill’s appearance,
wherever he was seen. He liked flashing bits of silver on the trappings
of his horse, and soft velvet in his attire when it could be had; even
though the attire was only that of a frontiersman and often rough from
hard usage. There was usually a light smile on his open, fearless,
almost reckless countenance; it rested there now, as he rode out from
the town of Skyline toward the forbidding mountains, even though he
could not be sure he was not riding out to meet death.

Behind Wild Bill and Conover rode Little Cayuse, the Piute Indian boy;
and at his side one of his Apache scouts.

The other two of his three Apaches brought up the rear of the warlike
procession; the four Indians silent and grave, with impassive, dark
faces; but their blankets were new and gorgeous in color, while their
clothing was paint and feather decked.

The marshal and the people of Skyline gave Buffalo Bill’s little caravan
a prolonged and rousing farewell cheer, which Cody returned with a wave
of his hand; then the little cavalcade broke into a trot, down the steep
incline of the plain below the town, and clattered away in a cloud of
dust.

It was just past midday.

Only that morning had Buffalo Bill and his small band entered Skyline;
and that morning Tom Conover, shooting to tatters the queen of hearts,
had accidentally wounded a Mexican woman and been thrown into the
Skyline jail.

Through the good offices of the great scout he had been released in
record time; and, the preparations for the pursuit of the kidnaping
Indians being hastened, the work for which Buffalo Bill had come to
Skyline was already begun.

Below the knoll back of Morgan’s, Little Cayuse and his Apache trailers,
Chappo, Yuppah, and Pedro, picked up the track of the supposed kidnaper.

To ordinary eyes the trail would not have been visible, and eyes as keen
and trained as those of the white men of the party would have made hard
work of following it; yet the three Apaches found it without trouble,
and pursued it with the certainty of bloodhounds tracking familiar game.

Little Cayuse and his Apaches took the lead now, and rode straight along
at a swinging gallop on their wiry, ponies, bending over as they rode,
their eyes searching the hard ground.

Suddenly Chappo drew in, and slipped like a snake from the back of his
saddleless pony.

When he stood up he held something small and shiny in the palm of his
brown hand.

“Ugh!” he grunted.

The object he exhibited was a tiny red bead, of a glowing scarlet, so
that it resembled a small scarlet berry or seed.

“Sabe?” he said, his black eyes searching the face of the scout, to whom
he exhibited his find. “Injun moccasin, Pa-e-has-ka; Injun kick um pony
make um go fast, and little bead fall off. Wuh!”

Buffalo Bill inspected it critically; and saw that it was a moccasin
bead, for a bead of a different kind is often used for moccasins than
those used for clothing, or for the hair.

“Right, Chappo,” he said. “What tribe—can you tell?”

“No can tell tribe,” said Chappo.

“That’s right, too, and I shouldn’t have asked it; for white men
manufacture the beads, and all Indians are able to get them, by purchase
or barter. But do you see anything else, Chappo?”

There was nothing more at that point; though a mile or so farther on
Little Cayuse, trying not to be outdone by his Apaches, made a discovery
that seemed really astounding; but which probably he would not have made
first if in his desire to excel he had not at the moment been some yards
in advance.

The discovery seemed to indicate that they were following the trail of a
woman!

Little Cayuse announced this with a grunt of surprise.

“Squaw trail!” he declared, something of scorn in his tone, for he held
to the Indian notion that a squaw is an inferior creature. It did not
please him to think he had been following the trail of one; there was no
honor in it. “All same only squaw, Pa-e-has-ka.”

The rider whose pony they had been following had there dismounted, for
some reason, and the prints of small moccasins were visible in the sand.
The tracks had been overlooked by the marshal’s men when they came that
way.

Tom Conover stared down at the marks pointed out by little Cayuse, while
the grip on his bridle rein tightened and his face became suddenly an
ashen gray, with all the high color driven out of it.

At the instant no one was looking at him; all were staring, like him, at
the small footprints pointed out by the Piute boy.

Buffalo Bill swung from the back of his horse and carefully examined the
tracks.

“The moccasins of an Indian woman,” he said; “yet the tracks don’t seem
exactly like those of an Indian. We can’t tell though, for she didn’t
walk about, to give us much of a line on that.”

Nomad drove old Hide-rack closer in and peered down, wrinkling his
brows.

“It couldn’t have been an Injun boy, eh, Buffler?” he said.

“It might have been a boy; but he was wearing a woman’s moccasins, if
so.”

“Waugh! Yer right, Buffler. Yer kin see thar whar ther fringe o’ beads
an’ quills cut inter ther sand at ther side o’ ther track; an Injun
buck, er even er boy, wouldn’t wear ther likes o’ thet, particularly
when on a difficult trail. All o’ ther female kind loves ornaments, and
sometimes it tell agin’ ’em, as hyar. Et war shore a woman, Buffler;
even an Injun boy wouldn’t wore a thick bead an’ quill fringe like thet
on the sides of his moccasins.”

Conover took no part in the conversation, but kept his horse back, and
apparently gave scant attention to the tracks in the sand.

But it was the subject of lively discussion, as the trailers continued
on their way.

Finding the spot where the trail of the woman—they were almost sure it
was a woman—entered the main beaten trail, they kept a close watch on
each side to see when the pony tracks left it.

When they found them they were much nearer the dreaded Cumbres
Mountains, and night was at hand.

They stopped, on finding a water hole, and went into camp. Nothing was
to be accomplished by hastening on in the darkness. In doing that, they
might miss the trail altogether, though it seemed now to point straight
to the notch before them, which for some time they had seen, and which
appeared to lead directly toward the heart of the Cumbres. It was the
mountain notch which Tom Conover had stared at so hard and often when he
was shooting the queen of hearts into tatters before the mesquite bush
just outside the town of Skyline.

Tom Conover was so silent that evening round the hidden camp fire that
it was noticeable.

Nomad spoke of it, in an aside, to Wild Bill:

“Thar’s two things, Pard Hickok, that don’t speak until they’re ready
ter strike—rattlesnakes an’ Injuns; an’ now I’m addin’ a third—this hyar
wart hog what w’ars that three-cornered red nick in his forrud. Ef
you’ll take a look at it by the flickin’ o’ that match which Buffler is
recklessly usin’ this minute you’ll see that it’s redder’n common, like
ther wattles of a turkey cock when it’s thinkin’ mischief.”

“You’ve got as healthy an imagination as a kid schoolboy,” said Wild
Bill, with his light laugh. “You’ll soon be finding a suspicious
circumstance in the fact that he eats just like an ordinary man.”

“But he don’t,” Nomad persisted; “he ain’t et a thing this evenin’,
though thar war a lot o’ good chuck in thet war bag which Buffler opened
up fer us. Thar’s somethin’ on his mind.”

Wild Bill laughed again, skeptically.

“What else, you superstitious old mummy?”

“Don’t go ter callin’ me names, Hickok, fer I won’t stand it; but I’m
watchin’ him constant. Ter-night I sleeps like er cat—wi’ one eye open.
An’ I dunno but I’ll tie my scalp lock down, so’s he can’t lift my ha’r
ef I sh’d fall asleep.”

Then he, too, gave a laugh; but it had not the merriment of Wild Bill’s.

Buffalo Bill talked much that evening with Little Cayuse and his three
Apache scouts. The great scout trusted the Indians, for they had been
true on many occasions; and though they had the redskin failings, they
were faithful and marvelous trailers.

The principal trouble with them was that they were more superstitious
and more governed by signs than was even Nick Nomad.

That afternoon, Little Cayuse had seen a circling vulture close his
wings and drop like a hawk shooting downward at prey. It was bad
medicine, for never before had he seen a thing like that; it foretold
disaster—some enemy, he thought, was observing them from the high
cliffs, and would drop on them with the suddenness of that drop of the
vulture.

Worse than this, Yuppah had crossed the trail of a three-legged sage
rabbit. That there might be no mistake about it, Yuppah had slid from
the back of his pony and closely inspected the rabbit’s tracks. The
rabbit, he believed, had four legs, but for some reason which boded ill
for this expedition, it was holding up one leg and using but three.

Buffalo Bill tried to make Yuppah see that the rabbit had lost a leg;
that a coyote had probably nabbed it at some time, and it had escaped
with the loss of a leg, bitten off by the snap of the coyote. But Yuppah
would not believe it; the rabbit had four legs, he said—all rabbits
have—this was a spirit, or witch rabbit, and bad luck was sure to
follow.

That night Nick Nomad tried to sleep like a cat—with one eye open; but
he failed, because he was too tired to lie awake all the time, and the
night was so quiet it lulled one to sleep.

Every one else slept soundly, except Little Cayuse, who stood guard the
first half of the night, and Chappo, who acted as sentry the last half.
Neither of them, so they declared afterward, heard nor saw anything,
though their superstitious fears, it seemed to the scout, ought to have
been enough to keep them wide-eyed until morning.

But in the morning came a startling discovery, which showed, also, that
at some time in the night one of them, at least, had been asleep.

Tom Conover was gone from the camp! And no one had known when he went.

The fact of his disappearance was announced by Nomad, who awoke early,
and, looking round for him, did not find him, and had hardly expected
that he would find him.

“Whoop!” he shouted, and sprang to his feet; he had lain down with all
his clothing on. “Waugh! Me no cumtax this. Onless, mebbe, it’s ther
whiskizoos workin’!”

What whiskizoos were was a thing old Nomad had never been able to say to
the satisfaction of Buffalo Bill or any one else. But whenever the old
trapper came company front with what struck him as much out of the
ordinary, or supernatural, or inexplicable, then the whiskizoos had been
at work. He never tried to explain beyond that.

His whooping exclamations brought Buffalo Bill and Wild Bill out of
their blankets and roused the sleeping Indians, starting also to his
feet Chappo, who was on guard, but at the moment was squatting in a
growth of sagebrush by the camp fire, hugging his rifle between his
brown knees.

“What’s up?” demanded Wild Bill, pulling out his revolver and staring
round.

“Lookee thar!” said Nomad, pointing to the spot where all had seen Tom
Conover lie down for his night’s sleep. “What is it yer sees thar,
anyhow?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s jest what I see, too—nothing; and Scar-face Conover ought ter be
layin’ thar, hadn’t he? Whar is he? Call ther roll, Buffler.”

Buffalo Bill looked about, and off over the surrounding country.

The sun had not yet risen, and a gray haze, of early dawn, hid much of
the rugged landscape from his view.

“Cayuse?” he called, a strange quaver in his voice.

“Ai, Pa-e-has-ka.”

“Yuppah!”

“Huh!”

“Chappo!”

“Wuh!”

“Pedro!”

“All same here, Pa-e-has-ka!”

Little Cayuse and his Apache scouts lined up.

“The white man who was here is gone,” said the scout shortly. “Find his
trail.”

“Ai, Pa-e-has-ka.”

They began to circle the camp, with heads down, black eyes scanning the
earth and rocks.

At once they were puzzled, if not baffled; there was no trail of a white
man’s boots leading out from the camp.

Wider and wider grew the circle in which they swung, closer and nearer
they bent their heads to the ground.

At last, more than a hundred yards out from the camp, Chappo uttered a
low, triumphant whoop.

He stopped, staring at the ground, and the other Indians hastened to
him.

Buffalo Bill and his white companions walked out to where the Indians
were grouped.

“Me find um, Pa-e-has-ka,” said Chappo proudly.

He pointed to the ground.

“Waugh!” said Nomad. “Thar’s his boot heel, shore enough! But how’d he
git hyar without making tracks before this? Whiskizoos ag’in, I reckon.”

Without a word Chappo began to search the ground in the direction of the
camp, which he soon was aided in by the other Indians. They talked
excitedly, using many gestures, their guttural words flowing so fast
that no one not an Indian could make out just what they were saying.
Even Little Cayuse, being a Piute, could not comprehend all the words of
the Apache scouts who worked under him.

Buffalo Bill and the others, following along, saw now what the Indians
saw, but none would have seen, probably, but for that discovery of the
boot-heel mark.

The owner of the boot heel, apparently, had got out of the camp without
stepping on the ground, merely because in doing it he had stepped on a
blanket laid on the ground.

It was all plain enough, after it was understood. A blanket had been
spread down and walked on; then the loose end of it had been flung round
in front and that walked on; with a continued repetition of this until
what was supposed to be a safe distance from the camp was gained. The
place where this blanket maneuver was discontinued was rocky.

When they had run back to the camp in this way, the Apaches and Little
Cayuse returned at once to the spot where the boot heel had been
discovered.

There was but one indentation; the next step had been taken on solid
rock; and after that the trail went, as it were, “into the air”; it
could not be followed farther at that point.

“Waugh!” grunted old Nomad. “What does yer think o’ et?”

Little Cayuse and his Indian trailers halted and began again their vocal
gymnastics, when the trail disappeared on the rocks.

“Whiskizoos,” said Nomad, staring about. “No man what w’ars a red scar
like Conover does kin be honest, and from ther fust I said it.”

The Indians talked of the three-legged rabbit, and of the vulture that
dropped for its prey like a hawk.

“Heap bad medicine!” said Chappo, deeply disturbed.

Little Cayuse, inasmuch as he was the chief of the Indian scouts, dared
not, in the presence of Pa-e-has-ka, express what he thought; but his
dark face looked troubled and his eyes were big and bright. Buffalo Bill
saw him paw a circle quickly through the air.

The circle, emblem of the egg, is everywhere the “sign” of life; and
life is the opposite of death. Little Cayuse made the “life” sign, to
keep away the shadow of death.

All looked off toward the Cumbres Mountains. Scarred and splintered, the
bare peaks lifted themselves in the gray morning. The high rays of the
rising sun struck them and seemed to burn there.

As they did so, the outline of a great black head—the head of a giant
with grizzly black hair—came into view on the side of the nearest of the
mountains.

The Indians lifted groans of fright and horror and dropped downward on
their faces, groveling.

Old Nomad uttered a snort of amazement, and stared until his little old
eyes popped.

“Waugh!” he grunted.

“Thunder and carry one!” cried Wild Bill, with biting scorn, as he
addressed the trapper. “Have a bit of sense, will you?”

“You see it? You see it, eh?” said Nomad.

“Anybody can see that, of course; he’d be blind as a mole if he didn’t
see it. But what of it?”

“It’s a head—a black head—the head of a giant! Whiskizoos!”

“Fiddlesticks! Can’t you see, Nomad—you can if you aren’t an idiot—that
that which looks like a head is just a big, cavernous hole in the side
of the mountain, ringed all round, where you think you see hair, by a
fringe of chaparral! The sunshine is lighting up the rest of the
mountain, but that hole lies in the shadow, and is black. It
happens—just happens—to take the shape of the head of a negro, with
bushy, or woolly, hair. But it’s only a rocky hole, ringed round with
chaparral.”

Nomad looked again, incredulously.

“Whiskizoos!” he sputtered. “Waugh! It’s shore bad medicine; and the
skedaddling of ole Scar-face Conover means trouble for the hull of us,
ef we go on. I’m ready ter backtrack ter wonst.”

“Look at it again,” urged Buffalo Bill. “The head is disappearing, as
the sunshine creeps down into the hole.”

It was true. In a little while the black head was gone, and they could
see the deep hole, with its fringe of chaparral, clearly outlined on the
mountainside.

“Yit that don’t mean that we won’t have a heap er trouble ef we go on,”
said Nomad. “I’m fer backtrackin’ prompt.”

The Indians still groveled, with their faces against the ground, praying
mightily to the spirits of the mountains; they were in a blue funk.
Three-footed rabbits, eccentric vultures, and giant black heads on the
mountains, were altogether too much for their courage.




                              CHAPTER XXI.
                    GIANT FOOTSTEPS AND DEVIL BIRDS.


Seeing that his Indians were for a time useless, Buffalo Bill took up
the work of searching for the lost trail, calling Wild Bill to his aid.

“Probably you can’t blame Indians,” said the man from Laramie, “but it’s
enough to make a sensible man sick, the way Nomad acts. I hope he’ll see
a whiskizoos some day, and that it scares him to death.”

Wild Bill’s disgust over the superstitious behavior of old Nomad amused
Buffalo Bill mightily.

“It’s as useless to blame Nomad as to blame the reds,” he said; “he
lived with Indians the better part of his life, so that naturally his
mental machinery works somewhat like that of an Indian.”

The keen-eyed scout had not searched far, out on the edge of the hills
away from the lost trail, before he made a discovery; though just what
it meant he was at first at a loss to know.

“See here,” he said to his pard, and pointed to a depression in a little
hollow of loose sand that lay between some rocks. “What do you say that
is—what made it?”

Wild Bill took in at a glance the shape and dimensions of the
depression.

“Ask me something easy,” he said; “it looks as if a round stone, or,
rather, an egg-shaped one, had fallen and made that; but, if so, where
is the stone?”

“It’s a footprint,” Buffalo Bill declared, when he had looked farther.

“An animal’s, then; no man ever had a foot as big as that.”

“Whatever made it,” the scout asserted, “went on across these rocks; for
you can see here where pebbles were dislodged. This little stone was
turned, too; the thing, man or animal, stepped on the end of it, and it
flipped over as he lifted his foot and went on. That’s clear enough.”

It was, to men trained to close observation, as they were. The side of
the small, flat, sharp-pointed stone which was now uppermost was of a
different hue from the side that had weathered, and was now turned
underneath, and of a different hue from the other stones about it.

Accompanied by Hickok, Buffalo Bill went on across the rocks, looking
carefully ahead of him; for there was always the danger of ambush, as
they were now in unknown and hostile Indian territory.

The trail of turned pebbles, with here and there an overturned stone,
guided them, until they came again to a sandy depression between rocks,
where once more they discovered an oblong hole suggesting the footprint
of some large and unknown animal.

But at the side of this footprint was a bright, new rifle cartridge, and
finger marks that were surely made by a human hand, where fingers had
obviously reached down to pick up the dropped cartridge, but had failed.

Buffalo Bill looked at this intently.

“That’s plain enough,” he said; “this is the trail of a man, who passed
along here in the darkness, or, perhaps, in the moonlight, for there was
a bright moon along toward morning. Being in a hurry, or not able to see
well, he now and then stepped into one of these sandy hollows, and here
he dropped a cartridge from his belt, or out of his pocket, and tried to
find it, but failed, probably because in the bad light he couldn’t see
it.”

“Thunder, and carry one!” was Wild Bill’s exclamation. “I reckon, Cody,
if you’re right—and it looks it—the fellow is a giant. That print is as
big as the spoor of an elephant.”

Looking back, Buffalo Bill saw the three Apaches still prostrating
themselves. But Little Cayuse, remembering doubtless that he was a
chief, and possibly ashamed of his show of fear, had withdrawn from
them. Yet he was still staring at the mountain, as if wondering what had
become of the black head.

Observing Little Cayuse’s attitude, Wild Bill laughed.

“You see what it will mean, pard, when they discover these big tracks.
They’ll be sure they’re the tracks of the giant whose head they saw over
there.”

Buffalo Bill had already thought of that.

“And Nomad will be as bad,” Wild Bill added. “Here’s a whiskizoos for
him that’s worth thinking about. What do you make out of it, Cody,
anyhow? Was the fellow who went along here a giant, or did he have a
case of deformed feet?”

As it was a question that could not be answered, the scout did not try
to reply, but, standing on the rock by the sandy depression, he signaled
to Nick Nomad to bring down the horses.

Nomad was seen to shake his head lugubriously; but he got up the horses,
and began to pack the camp kit and other belongings, after having
saddled and bridled the animals.

Having seen the old trapper begin this, Buffalo Bill went on with the
work in hand, accompanied by Wild Bill, who made a running fire of
comment in low tones, with now and then a characteristic humorous
expression.

“What about Little Cayuse and the ’Paches?” Hickok asked after a while.

“It’s no use to argue with them now. When he sees the horses packed and
the camp abandoned, Little Cayuse will come on; and you may be sure the
’Paches will trail along not far behind him, in spite of their fears.
You see, Hickok, they’ll be more afraid to stay behind than to go ahead;
to be with us gives them a sense of protection they can’t have when by
themselves. Yet they’re not cowards; they’re simply superstitious, and
scared by their superstition.”

“The same as Nomad?”

“Yes; only Nomad will listen to reason sooner than the reds. You can see
that he’s bringing the horses down now.”

When they had followed the strange trail over the rocks for some
distance, finding it anything but easy work, as at times there was not a
thing to be seen and even the direction had to be reasoned out, they
came down from the rocky hill to a stretch of sand, which reached on in
a narrow valley toward the mountain which had shown the black head.

The big tracks, seen only twice before, were here plainer than print,
where they entered and continued on the sandy area.

“The fellow was no giant, anyway,” said Buffalo Bill, looking at the big
footprints.

“No? How do you make that out?”

“The tracks are too close together, you will observe. We may rightly
suppose that a giant with feet as big as those tracks indicate would
have long legs, in proportion, and would take long steps; but you can
see that the steps are only about as far apart as they would be if made
by an ordinary man; in fact, either you or I would step farther. The
fellow had big, heavy feet, or wore large and heavy shoes, that is shown
by the way he scraped his feet along, as if they were too heavy to lift
out of the sand. Right out there, I judge, he broke into a run, from the
way the tracks look.”

“Right, Cody!” assented Wild Bill. “You don’t need any Apaches to trail
round and play Eliza’s bloodhounds for you; you’re fully equal to that
trick yourself.”

Without waiting at the edge of the sandy plain for the arrival of Nomad
and the horses, they continued to follow the big tracks, and as a result
soon made another discovery.

A horse had come down out of the edge of the hills and crossed the
narrow plain here, going in the direction of the mountain; and the man
with the big feet had apparently followed it.

The small hoofs of the horse, and the fact that it was unshod, told that
it was an Indian pony; while the depth to which its hoofs had sunk in
the sand indicated that it carried a heavy burden.

While the two scouts were making these discoveries and discussing them
they came upon a shining bit of metal lying in the sand. Of the shape
and size of a twenty-dollar gold piece, it was not so round. One side,
perfectly flat, showed hammer marks, while on the other side was the
rayed image of the sun. The workmanship was Indian, without a doubt.

“Indian money?” said Wild Bill, as they looked at it.

“More likely an Indian ornament. Or it may be some sacred emblem. There
are sun-worshiping tribes down here in the Southwest, you know; and I
don’t doubt these mysterious Toltecs we’re trying so hard to visit have
got a lot of sun-worship practices and traditions. So, this has a
meaning for us.”

“Yes?”

“This pony was ridden by an Indian, and the rider dropped this bit of
metal.”

“It’s pure gold, I think.”

He bit it, and tested it by ringing it against the barrel of his rifle.

“It’s gold, all right, Cody. Maybe the pony was loaded up with gold like
it, judging by the way he sank into the sand here. And perhaps old Giant
Foot was chasing after the Indian, to get some of the gold.”

Buffalo Bill understood that his pard was making wild and half-humorous
guesses, in lieu of something tangible to hit upon.

“Well, Hickok, we’ve made a beginning,” he said, with immense
satisfaction; “and now we’ll turn back and get something to eat, and
talk the thing over while getting ready for another start. These trails
go straight toward the notch in the mountain there; we can see that from
here.”

“And they were made last night.”

“Or early this morning.”

“But this doesn’t tell us anything about Conover, Pard Cody; what of
him? Why did he make a sneak like that out of our camp?”

That was not easily answered.

The two pards met Nick Nomad at the edge of the sand, where the old
trapper had halted and dismounted.

“What yer goin’ ter do now?” was his querulous inquiry.

“We’ve found some trails that we’re going to follow, Nomad, as soon as
we’ve had some breakfast,” Buffalo Bill informed him. “It isn’t healthy
to begin a hard day’s work on an empty stomach, so you may open that war
bag, while I start a fire here, and we’ll boil some coffee and have
something to eat.”

Wild Bill, looking across the slope of the hills, saw the four Indians
bunched together and staring down at the party of whites. He waved to
them, and Little Cayuse started down the slope reluctantly.

When Little Cayuse was halfway down, the three Apaches began to follow
him, coming along in single file.

“Just let them alone—pay no attention to them,” Buffalo Bill advised
Hickok. “They’re no good right now, but we can work this thing out
without them, and they’ll trail along behind us rather than be left.”

Nomad was silent, getting out the food and the cooking vessels; but what
the scout stated was not lost on him.

“You’re goin’ ter try to foller thet ole Scar Head, Buffler?” he asked
at length.

“We don’t intend to trouble ourselves in the least about him, Nomad,”
was the reply. “We brought him along for a guide, as he knows more about
this section than any of us; but as he seems to have deserted us, we’ll
just go on without him, and let him work out his own salvation. We’re no
worse off than if we hadn’t started with him.”

Nomad shook his head in vigorous dissent.

“A heap wuss off!” he asserted.

“That’s as one looks at it, perhaps,” said the scout. He would not argue
the matter with his trapper pard.

“Yer ain’t any idee why he done it?”

“No.”

“What has yer found out thar in ther sand?”

Buffalo Bill explained the nature of the discoveries made.

“These hyar reds seem ter be havin’ more gold and silver than they kin
well kerry, jedgin’ by ther way they drap it,” commented Nomad, as he
inspected the gold piece which the scout showed him. “Recklect thet
silver yearring, we thought it war, which war let fall thar by Morgan’s,
whar ther kid was took, an’ now this hyar gold ornyment!”

“Perhaps we’ll pick up enough gold and silver along this trail to pay us
for our time and trouble,” remarked the scout, laughing, as he put the
gold piece away in his pocket.

By this time Little Cayuse had reached the edge of the small sand plain;
and the Apaches, who had hurried their steps, were right behind him.
Little Cayuse halted and looked at Buffalo Bill; apparently he expected
a rebuke of some kind.

But Buffalo Bill chose rather to ignore what had happened.

“Have the Apaches come in, and we’ll get something to eat in a short
time,” he said to the Piute boy. “We’ll likely have a hard day of it,
and we want to start in with well-lined stomachs. Nomad, I suppose you
watered the horses?”

The trapper started guiltily, a flush spreading over his hairy face.

“Waugh!” he grunted. “Buffler, I clean fergot it.”

The discovery that he had been so derelict seemed to arouse him, and he
sprang with vigor to the back of Hide-rack, and, taking the reins of the
other horses; he led them back across the ridge to the water hole, close
by which they had made their night camp.

When he had watered the horses and returned, the breakfast was ready,
the meat roasted to a turn, and the coffee smoking hot in the tin
coffeepot.

Buffalo Bill called the Piute and his Apaches to the morning meal,
avoiding any mention, for the time, of the things that had so disturbed
them. It was the best course to pursue, under the circumstances. Yet
they did not eat well—their appetites were gone for the time.

Only when the scout ordered a forward march, after breakfast, did Little
Cayuse bring up the matter that troubled them.

“Apaches say um bad medicine, Pa-e-has-ka!” he said.

Buffalo Bill looked directly at him.

“You are the chief of these Apaches, Little Cayuse,” he stated. “And a
chief must be brave, if his followers are to be brave. Tell your Apaches
to go on and follow the trail they will find out there. You can see some
of it here.” He pointed to the gigantic footprints. “Out there is the
trail of an Indian horse, joining this one. Are you ready to obey
orders, Cayuse, or shall I go on and leave you and the Apaches here?”

His tone was stern, for the first time.

Chappo, Yuppah, and Pedro looked at each other, a shrinking expression
in their black eyes; but Little Cayuse, thus appealed to, straightened
his muscular shoulders and lifted his head.

“Ai, Pa-e-has-ka,” he said, “Little Cayuse go on.”

He strode forth into the trail left by the big-footed man.

For a moment or two the three Apaches hung back, talking among
themselves; then Chappo followed Little Cayuse, and the others, with
shrugs of their naked shoulders and apprehensive glances at the
mountains, went along behind him, each stepping in the tracks of the one
before, Indian fashion.

“We’re ready, Nomad,” said Buffalo Bill, swinging to the big saddle on
the back of Bear Paw.

Nick Nomad scorned to show the white feather where an Indian led the
way. Without even a grunt he mounted Hide-rack, and the trailing of the
big tracks and the hoofprints of the Indian pony was begun.

Yet though they went on, the Indians were silent and apprehensive.

The double trail led to and into the notch in the range; then on through
the notch, with the mountains on each side growing higher and wilder.
But nothing of a startling character was seen or heard. The notch lay in
deep silence.

For a whole day the party went on, without trouble.

The next day began much the same. And they entered another mountain
notch, like the first.

In places the way was so stony, being but naked rock, that even the
Apaches could see no marks of hoof or footprint; but as it was so
manifestly impossible for those they were following to have left this
notch, the party continued on, reasonably sure that when the soil was of
a friendly character they would find again the tracks they had so long
followed.

And so it came about, as they descended from the notch into a scarred
basin, which lay like a burned cup in a niche of the desolate mountains,
that the trail was picked up again—the giant footsteps, supposed to be
those of a man, and the hoofprints of the Indian pony.

During that long ride of a day and more the three white men talked at
intervals of the mysterious disappearance from their midst of Toltec
Tom, and of what it meant; how he had sneaked out of the camp, hiding
his footsteps by using a blanket.

One thing gave them food for thought—it was not one of their blankets he
had used; therefore, some one had come to him, bringing him the blanket
with which he had hid his tracks.

From that fact they had reached the conclusion that the reason the pony
tracks sank deep into the sandy places was because the animal carried
double—bore Toltec Tom and whoever it was who had come to his
assistance.

Who was that person?

They could not guess, unless it was the Red Feather who had stolen away
the child from the town of Skyline, and had dropped the silver earring
in the trail close by the knoll at Morgan’s. If true, the same person
had dropped the sun-stamped gold piece.

That person, they had argued, was an Indian; and what they had seen the
previous day indicated it was an Indian woman.

But had an Indian woman, the stealer of the child, also stolen or
enticed Toltec Tom to leave the camp in that mysterious manner during
the watches of the night?

Here was a puzzle.

Buffalo Bill admitted that its explanation rested in the future. All
they could do now was to go on as they had been doing and see what would
come to pass.

One of the things which developed was of a character to again frighten
the Indians and cause Nomad to talk once more of the whiskizoos.

The vulture seen previously, or another similar bird, was observed to
hover over the trail some distance before them, and then close its wings
and drop, like a hawk descending on a rabbit.

The Indians went on, even after that; but when they came to the spot
where the vulture had hovered and shot downward, and discovered at that
spot, or near it, singular bird tracks in the sand, they were thrown
into a panic.

“The devil bird!” said Chappo, speaking to his companions in their own
language.

He stood up, wild-eyed, and repeated it to Little Cayuse in broken
English, the other Apaches, grouped by him, shaking with renewed terror.
Little Cayuse seemed almost as much moved.

Buffalo Bill rode forward and looked at the track of the “devil bird.”

There is the sand, close by the pony trail, where the marks of an
immense claw of a bird, at least a yard in diameter. Yet the keen-eyed
scout soon saw that, while a clever imitation, it had not been made by a
bird, but by human fingers tracing it in the sand for a purpose.

That purpose, of course, was to frighten the Indian trailers. Which
showed, also, that either the rider of the pony or the man who made the
gigantic steps knew Indian trailers were following.

Buffalo Bill pointed this out to Little Cayuse and the Apaches, and
argued the thing with them.

But the Apaches only looked at him stolidly now; they refused to go on
again.

“Yer remembers thet story o’ Quicksilver John,” said Nomad, “and how a
big eagle come an’ knocked him off ther cliff aidge down inter ther town
of them queer Toltecs. I opine this is ther track o’ thet identickel
eagle; and it war thet we saw in sky hyar, ’stead of a vulture.”

“Thunder, and carry one!” exploded Wild Bill. “Nomad, you old
weenywurst, you’re as bad as the Apaches.”

“I ain’t believin’ in no devil bird,” expostulated the trapper; “but yer
heerd yerself about thet eagle, how it grupped Quicksilver John in ther
slack o’ his coat, and jest lifted him gentle down off ther clift inter
ther town. Yer heerd thet.”

“But didn’t believe it.”

“Waugh! I’m believin’ it, now.”

Buffalo Bill was still talking to Little Cayuse and his Apaches.

“Stay behind, then,” he said at length, losing his patience at last; “we
can get along without you! There’s the trail straight behind us, to the
town of Skyline; take it, and get back there as quick as you can.”

He rode on, and, Wild Bill following, Nomad could not but do the same,
if he did not want to hang back with the shrinking Indians.

Buffalo Bill did not glance back, but he had not ridden far when the
sounds he heard told him that Little Cayuse and his Apaches were
following. Their fears would not let them retreat alone; they wanted the
protection of the white men.

Rounding some ridges in the sunburned valley, where a strange mist had
seemed to rise, they came upon a number of bubbling mud springs, which
emitted, with the ocherish mud, a fetid odor.

Close by these springs, and running off toward the barren flanks of the
mountains, were a petrified forest of considerable size, but the trees
were prostrate, and some of the trunks and branches were broken.

There were more of these mud springs, some with bases of red, where the
overflowing mud, impregnated with that color, had built up fantastic
formations.

One of these springs threw up its muddy jets at regular intervals, with
a whistling sound which ended like the shriek of a madman.

Naturally, these things only tended to make the Indian trailers think
they were being plunged now into some inferno presided over by demons.
If it had seemed safe to run away incontinently, they would have done
so.

Beyond the valley holding the petrified trees and the mud springs was
another mountain notch.

The trail pointed straight into it. Buffalo Bill followed the trail. He
kept his horse at a canter much of the time, so that the Piute boy and
his Apaches were forced into a run. His object was twofold—to get over
the ground as fast as possible, and to hurry the Indians along so
quickly they would not be given time to consider too much the apparent
perils they were running into.

The notch they entered now was narrower than the others, with steeper
walls, of a cañonlike character, and high cliffs naked and sun-seared.
In addition, many of the cliffs were banded and streaked with ocher and
vermilion, and with various combinations of these, mixed in with duller
colors. Sometimes it was as if the cliff walls had been laid up
regularly with lines of stones of these colors. The tops were a fiery
red. And as the narrow avenue before the party was of that same reddish
hue, the general appearance was what one might imagine to be that of a
gateway to the infernal regions.

The Indians, instead of hanging back, now kept close to the heels of the
horses, with frightened glances cast now and then behind.

Old Nomad was as silent as the Indians themselves.

Even Buffalo Bill and Wild Bill did not talk much; the rainbowed avenue,
pinching in about them, had a depressing effect.

“Waugh!” said Nomad, when daylight was seen shining like a white star
ahead. “I’m glad ter git outer this hyar, anyhow. I’ll sing praises an’
shout halleluyers, when I hears water runnin’ ag’in and sees grass
growin’.”

But there was no water and no grass, apparently, in the region beyond
this red notch. A flat basin lay there, like the dried-up bottom of some
old lake; except that near the middle of it the bottom seemed to have
dropped out, and showed a ragged rent or hole, with precipice edges on
the nearer side and sheer cliff walls, rainbowed, on the farther.

Smoke ascended in thin columns out of that deep hole, and though from
where they were the hole seemed small, Buffalo Bill saw that really it
was very large, covering a space of a mile or more in its widest
diameter.

He drew rein involuntarily in the mouth of the notch, and sat looking
off at that hole and the smoke columns mounting out of it into the
turquoise-blue sky. One of the columns was like mist, and much larger
than the others.

“Waugh!” ejaculated Nomad, drawing Hide-rack back by a jerk on the rein.
“I been lookin’ fer ther Pit, and thar she is.”

Buffalo Bill took out his field glasses, screwed them into focus, took a
long look, and passed them silently to Wild Bill.

The Indians stood wide-eyed and staring.

Little Cayuse swung his hand through the air, making that egg-shaped
circle; it was his prayer to the Indian spirits to give him “life,” in
this dire emergency, instead of “death.”

As they gazed at the queer valley and queer hole a score or more of
mounted Indians bobbed into sight and swooped down on an object that had
not yet attracted attention.

The Indians were so near the end of the notch that their painted bodies
and faces, and their singular ornaments, could be seen; likewise the
tuft of red feathers which each wore in his hair. And their yells
reached the group in the notch.

The Indians swung ropes, presumably of rawhide, and cast them at the
object, which apparently had been crouching on the ground beside a rock.

The object rose into full view, and was seen to be a man.

Buffalo Bill, with the glasses again in his hands, turned them full on
the man whom the red-feathered Indians lassoed.

“The baron!” broke from his lips. “Baron von Schnitzenhauser!”

“Thunder, and carry one!”

“Waugh! It cain’t be; it jes’ cain’t be, Buffler!”

But there was no doubt about it. Buffalo Bill knew the baron too well.
There was the round body and the slender legs, like a pippin on a pair
of toothpicks; there was the characteristic clothing; even the baron’s
frightened face could be seen distinctly with the glasses as the lariats
threw him down.

There was but one thing strange and puzzling—the shoes the baron had on
his feet; they bobbed up into full view as he fell forward under the
pull of the ropes.

Then even that mystery was solved; the baron was wearing Dutch wooden
shoes.

That explained the gigantic tracks in the sand. The baron, wearing those
monstrous wooden shoes, had been the man following the tracks of the
pony.

He had reached the spot where he now was, had been detected there by the
red-feathered Indians, and was now their prisoner.

It was impossible to help him, though near enough to be distinctly seen,
he was still too far off to be reached quickly.

Throwing him to the back of one of their ponies, the Indians bore him
off, as Buffalo Bill turned his field glasses, for the second time, over
to Wild Bill.

“Schnitzenhauser,” he said, as if it were difficult to believe, “and
captured by the Red Feathers! That’s the Toltec town right ahead of us,
in that hole, I think, and they’re taking him there. But we can’t do
anything, just now.”

The only thing they could do was to watch and wonder while the Red
Feathers made off and disappeared with their prisoner.

“Wooden shoes!” grunted Nomad almost incredulously. “What war ther Dutch
fool w’arin’ them fur, somebody tell me!”

But no one was able to inform him.




                             CHAPTER XXII.
                       THE BARON AND TOLTEC TOM.


Schnitzenhauser, a prisoner in the town of the mysterious Toltecs, to
which he had been taken hastily, was met there by a white man, who
visited him in the little prison into which he had been thrown.

It was a marvelous prison—a gem of marble and gold; Schnitzenhauser had
never even dreamed of anything like it, and he had been carefully
inspecting it. The bars across the narrow window seemed to be of pure
gold, though, as they were so hard and strong, some alloy must have been
used. The lock and the key of the door, also, seemed to be gold.

The German was wondering if he could not in some manner wrench those
gold bars away, and, on getting out, carry them off with him, for he
hoped to escape, and it was a sudden lust for gold which had brought him
into his present peril.

While the German was testing the gold bars by feeling of them and
licking them with his tongue, the door was opened, and the white man
mentioned came in.

Red-feathered Indians were visible behind the white man as the door
swung open, but he closed the door with a jerk, and none of the Indians
offered to enter.

“Howdy!” he said, looking at the German.

“Yaw,”, said the German, staring in surprise, yet pleased to know that a
white man was in this place. “I vass pooty goot, bud I don’t like diss
chail pitzness. How you vass yourselluf, heh?”

“Set down there, and let’s have a talk,” said the white man, motioning
to a bearskin rug on the floor, while he dropped down against the
opposite wall.

The baron clattered obediently across the stone floor with his heavy
wooden shoes and dropped heavily down on the bearskin; astonishment was
growing in his round face.

“You vass a vite Inchun, heh?” he asked.

“No, I’m a prisoner, like you.”

The baron twisted his head round with a comical jerk and stared hard at
the white man.

“You ton’d loogk id, mine frient,” he declared. “A brisoner ton’d can
come unt vent vhen he likes—nein! He is putt indo a blace like diss.
Yaw, I dinks me dat iss so, unt dhe troot. You vass come here like a
vree mans yet already.”

The white man, who was none other than Tom Conover, did not laugh at
this sally; his face had a serious, grave look.

“It would take a good deal of explainin’,” he said, “to make you
understand all about it—how I came to be here.”

“Bud nod so mooch, py chinks, to dell how I come to pe here!”

“You were captured by the Indians out on the plain there.”

“You pet you!”

“What was you out there for?”

“Vhat vass you here for? Dell me; unt mebbe I opens oop.”

“I’m goin’ to try to get you out of this.”

The German came to his feet with a clatter.

“Chumpin’ raddlesniks!” he cried, his eyes opening wide. “You vass nod
makin’ shokes uff me?”

“Certainly not,” said Conover, with the utmost seriousness. “I’m sorry
you fell into the hands of these Indians, and I’ll try to get you away.”

The baron clattered across the stone floor and stretched out his hand.

“I shake you der hant py for dat,” he cried; “unt vhen he meeds me, I
tell Puffalo Pill I have meed vun vite Inchun vat iss a shendelmans.”

“You know him?” cried Conover, amazed.

“Do I know heem? Veil, I dhinks me so I do. I haf his bard peen yit
already. Unt I know Vilt Pill, unt old Nomat, unt all dem odder vellers
vat drail rount mit heem. I know heem petter as I know eenpoty.”

He was shaking Conover’s hand vigorously.

“How does it happen?”

“Vat? Vy, he know I vass a courageous Cherman, unt so he make me hiss
bard.”

“You wasn’t with him, out there?”

“Nein! I vass py my lonesome selluf; I strike straighdt indo dis gountry
on mine own hooks. You see dose?” He withdrew his hand and hammered on
the bars of the window. “Das vass der glimmer vat I voller—I am drawed
here py der shine uff golt. I git der—vat you gall id?—der golt fever.”

“So you knew there was gold here? How did you find that out?”

“I tidn’t knowed id, but I guessed id. I vill exblanation do you.
Fairst, I vass brosbecting in dese moundains. I t’ink me as eferypoty
iss afrait do come in here, den nopoty hass peen in here. You see dose
boint? Yaw. So I came, mitout peing told py eenpoty.”

“It was a foolish thing to do.”

“Meppy so. Now it loogks id. Bud I ain’d deat yit. Uff I peen kilt soon
py dese Inchuns I gan’t hellup id; unt maype, as you say, you vill gid
me oudt uff here. So I make diss exblanation. I come hunding der golt
for; unt look dere!”

He hammered the gold bars again, clattering about noisily with the
wooden shoes.

Noticing that the white man glanced at the shoes, he said:

“Der likes uff heem I vear vhen I vass a poy, in der olt gountry. So I
dhinks, vhen I blan diss drip, vooden shoon is maype petter as leadher
vuns; maype der sand don’t purn t’rough der vood so pad as t’rough der
leadher. Unt I vass righd; id don’t. In dese I valk all tay t’rough der
hot desert uff der sands, unt I ton’d feel id.”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” Conover admitted. “But I should think they’d
be so clumsy you couldn’t get along at all.”

Schnitzenhauser dissented vigorously, and danced across the floor to
show how light he was on his feet, in spite of the clumsy shoes.

“Id make a heab uff tifference uff a veller peen used to ’em,” he
asserted. “Dey vass Cherman shoes, unt I vear dhem as a poy already. It
make me feel youngk again vhen I bud dese on my feed. Yaw, dat iss so.”

“About this other matter,” said Conover. “I’m told you were following
the trail of the pony that came, in here. I didn’t see you, but that’s
what the Indians reported here.”

“You didn’t seen me?”

Conover had made a slip, probably, but he smiled.

“I might as well tell you just how it was,” he said, “and then you’ll
have a clearer understanding. A child was stolen from the town of
Skyline. You know where that is?”

“Apowet. But I ain’d neffer peen dere.”

“A certain woman stole that child from there, and set out to bring it
here. The Indians here didn’t know it—didn’t know she intended to do it,
though it so nearly concerned them.”

“Vat iss? Chilt sdealin’ iss a mean pitzness.”

“I reckon you’re right about that. But that isn’t my story. She set out
with the child, and Buffalo Bill and some of his pards——”

“Vat!” The German flounced round, staring. “Dit you say Puffalo Pill?”

“Buffalo Bill and his pards, Nomad and Hickok, set out, with another
man, to follow the trail of the person who kidnaped the child.”

“De chilt iss in vat blace?”

“It is here.”

“Donderundblitzen! Id iss here!”

“Right here in this town.”

“Den Puffalo Pill iss caming?”

“He and his pards are out in the hills beyond the town now, and the
Indians are planning to capture him.”

“Mein himmel! Iss dot de troot?”

“Yes, they’re out there, and I reckon the reds will sure bag them. I’ll
get to that directly, and give you a plan whereby maybe you can help
them, if they’re not captured before night.

“The other man who set out from Skyline with Buffalo Bill and his pards
had been in this part of the country before and knew about it, and they
took him along as a guide because of it. But one night when the whole
camp was asleep, even the guards, this woman, who had gone on with the
child, and then had turned back to see if she had been followed, entered
their camp, and awoke this man, without arousing the others.

“There was a time when this man had been the husband of that woman. She
is a white woman, not an Indian, and he had loved her; I don’t suppose I
could make you understand just how much he had loved her. And he had
been told that she was dead. He had not seen her for a long time, but he
still cared so much for her that when he heard she was dead he went on a
high old drunk, and——”

“A mighdy foony vay to show he vass sorry apowet id!”

“When he got over it, and cut out the liquor, he determined to turn his
back on the past and go far away, never to come back. Yet he didn’t; he
went with Buffalo Bill, when it seemed he could do some good; for he had
come to the decision to try to do some little good in the world
hereafter, if he could.

“I’m just telling you this so that you’ll understand something of the
way he felt when he woke up there in the camp, and saw that this very
woman, his wife, had waked him. The moon shone, and when he first saw
her face he was sure it was her spirit.

“She beckoned and put her hand on her lips; and he got up and followed
her. He couldn’t help himself—it was as if he was in a dream, and he
rather thought it was all a dream at the time. So he did just what she
motioned him to do—stepped carefully on the blanket she laid down for
him to step on, and so, using that to hide their footsteps, they went
out of the camp. The moon was shining bright.”

At intervals the staring German uttered strange German exclamations. Yet
even then he did not understand the spirit in which this confession was
being made; could not understand that Tom Conover felt the necessity of
telling this, explaining this apparent desertion of Buffalo Bill, to
some one. That the German had been a pard of the great scout was really
the thing that drew it out of him; he hoped it would reach Buffalo Bill
in that way, and that he would understand.

“I still thought I was in a dream,” he went on, “or that I walked with a
spirit. The woman had a horse, and we both mounted it and rode away
toward this place. In a notch of the hills she picked up the child,
which she had left there when she went back. And so we came on here. But
I didn’t know you followed, or that we had been seen.”

The German stared harder now.

“You—you vass diss mans?”

The flush deepened in Conover’s face and made a more vividly crimson the
deep scar that disfigured his forehead.

“I was that man!” he confessed, almost as if he stood convicted and
abashed before this German.

“Mein himmel!” The German threw up his hands.

“I don’t expect you to understand it—my feelings,” went on Conover, “I
don’t really suppose that anybody ever can; so I’ll not try to make it
plainer, but——”

The baron danced round the room in his excitement.

“Den id vass you,” he said, stopping short, “vat I vollered; you unt dem
vomans. You vass bot’ uff you riting on vun horse.”

“Yes; and you got yourself in this fix by following us.”

“Id vass der golt she hat vat I voller—der golt on her pridle unt
sattle, unt on her dress; she vas vair shinin’ mit golt unt silver. I
seen her ter tay before, ven she bass me py; but I tidn’t see no chilt.
Unt den in der moonlighd, ven I vake me oop, I seen her vonst again, unt
a man’s mit her, unt she shine more as efer like golt mit dem
moonlighds. Unt I t’ink varefer dat golt peen so blentiful iss der blace
for me; unt I voller, unt I come here by der drail. Yaw, dat iss der
troot. Unt id vass you, unt diss golt vomans. See here!” He hammered
again the window bars. “Golt varefer you loogk; gold door latchges.
Inchins mit gold earrings unt praceleds, mit golt breastbins unt
hairbins, mit gold gollars on der necks, mit golt arrow beats unt golt
on der lance boints. It make me grazy as a loonadicks, so mooch golt
varefer I loogk.”

He stopped, almost breathless.

“But I tidn’t see no Puffalo Pills follerin’ diss vomans unt you.”

“He and his pards are out in the hills now, but they’ll be captured. I
hope they will get away, but I don’t see how they can. It’s no country
for a white man to come into.”

“Yid you vass here—huh?”

“That’s different.”

“Vy iss id tifferend?”

“I couldn’t make you understand, but it is. You see, I am the husband of
this woman. We quarreled and I left her, years ago, but she never forgot
me, and she doesn’t want me ever to go away again.”

“Unt you ain’d goin’ do?”

“That’s not the point. I came here just to tell you to cheer up; that
I’ll get you out of this to-night, unless all my plans fail. I’d like to
get you to Buffalo Bill, with a message from me, telling him to
backtrack.”

“Bud der chilt?” said the German. “He vouldn’t go mitout id. Uff you
vass his bard peen, you know dot. Puffalo Pill gids all der time vat he
hass came for.”

Conover looked troubled.

“Yes, that is so,” he admitted.

The baron faced him.

“Dell me,” he said, “vy is diss golt vomans vant der chilt? I subbose id
iss pecause she hass god none uff her own.”

“Not exactly that,” said Conover evasively.

“No?”

“She had another reason altogether.”

“Der chilt iss to pe kilt—saccerivized? I haf heart uff der ligkes uff
dat.”

“No, not at all; it will be treated well.”

The baron looked puzzled.

“I’m your vriend, eenyhow,” he said, striking Conover familiarly on the
shoulder, “uff you gan gid me oudt uff dis, unt vare Puffalo Pill iss
now. Der Inchins ton’d gid him. Nein! Puffalo Pill iss doo smardt vor
eeny Inchuns vatefer. I know him; me, Baron von Schnitzenhauser, know
Puffalo Pill petter as he knows me.”

He stood up very straight, drawing himself to his full height, with a
clatter of the wooden shoes, and hammered his breast much as he had
hammered the gold bars.

“Dot iss me!” he said. “I am a prave mans, unt so iss Puffalo Pill. You
gid me oudt uff here undo vare he is, unt I bed you ve git does chilt
mighdy quick. Likewise,” he looked covetously at the gold bars, “ve gid
so much uff diss stuff as ve can load ondo ower horses. Olt
Schnitzenhauser ain’d dead vid, huh? Nein! You pet me dot ve—dot is me
unt Puffalo Pill—vill lif yid to make dings lifely for dese Inchuns.”

He held out his hand again.

“Bud I veels sorry vor you, sure; you petter gome mit us when ve make
t’ings lively py dis town. Der lifely pitzness vill pegin yoost as soon
as I am oudt uff here unt mit Puffalo Pill. Yaw, dot iss so.”

Conover rose a bit wearily.

“This gold here is heavily alloyed,” he said; “yet it is valuable, for
there is a lot of it. Those window bars are more than three-fourths
copper.”

He had said much more than he had meant to say about himself, but the
hopelessness, even the apparent uselessness, of trying to make this
German understand him and his viewpoint was impressed on him deeply.

The German was staring at the shining window bars.

Wearily Conover turned toward the door, which had been locked from the
outside after his entrance. On the door he tapped, and the key was
turned in the lock.

“Good-by for the present,” he said, squeezing the hand of the German.
“These fellows out here don’t understand English, so you needn’t be
afraid on that score; I know them well. And be ready for to-night. I
don’t know just how it’s to be done. But I heartily hope Buffalo Bill
can keep out of the hands of the Indians here until after to-night.”

For an instant it looked as if the baron meant to flounce out behind him
and fight a way through the Indians there, but the heavy door banged in
his face and he clattered backward, almost falling to the floor.

“Ach!” he gasped. “Vat a mans! Unt Puffalo Pill is dis town py! Der
baron ain’d dead yid! But der golt is pooty much cobber, eh?”

Outside, Conover had shaken off the Indians who thronged about him, and
took his way unmolested thereafter into another part of the Indian town.

Neither he nor Schnitzenhauser had heard rifle shots and Indian yells
far beyond the town; they were too far off.




                             CHAPTER XXIII.
                        BUFFALO BILL’S CAPTURE.


The Red Feathers who had discovered and captured the baron had also
discovered the presence of Buffalo Bill’s party, or had been informed by
the woman.

This was not immediately manifest, however. Buffalo Bill drew his party
back from the mouth of the mountain notch, intending to go into
concealment until by careful scouting he could learn something about the
Toltec town supposed to be in that hole in the plain.

By and by Buffalo Bill set out alone, intending to steal along the base
of the mountains which girt the valley, hoping to come on something
which would aid him. He had two reasons now for wanting to get into the
town which he was sure existed. The child was there, and so was the
baron. Toltec Tom had so apparently deserted him that he concluded not
to trouble about the fellow, unless fate threw the latter in his way.

The great scout had proceeded nearly a mile when a sudden outburst of
yells behind him, accompanied by a cracking of rifles, told him that his
friends had been attacked.

He began to backtrack at once, to assist them in this emergency, when he
discovered that some Red Feathers had got in between himself and the
camp.

Suddenly he found himself between hills, on the edge of a cañon, with no
way of crossing but an Indian footbridge of ropes, a thatching of ropes
and reeds—a swaying, flimsy structure, hanging over the cañon and
reaching from side to side.

There was no time for hesitation, and Buffalo Bill rushed upon the
swaying bridge, in an effort to cross.

In the middle of it he halted and drew his revolvers. By apparent
intention, he had been driven upon that bridge by the Indians who had
chased him, that he might be corralled, for other Indians now appeared
in the path on the other side of the cañon, closing in on him there, as
the others were closing in on him from the rear.

On each side Indians dashed to the ends of the bridge and began to hack
at the ropes.

Buffalo Bill was trapped, and death by bullets or arrows, or by a drop
into the cañon, seemed to await him, for even though he slew the
foremost of his foes he could not escape the other Red Feathers hurrying
to their aid.

Nevertheless, he stood defiantly on the swaying structure as the Indians
hacked at the ropes which held it at the ends. His threatening revolvers
kept the Red Feathers from rushing out upon him, yet it was soon
apparent that they desired to have him as a prisoner, rather than drop
him into the cañon or riddle him with their gold-headed arrows.

One of them, apparently a chief, put up his hand, shouted something that
stopped the work of cutting the ropes, and stepped to the end of the
bridge at the farther side. Buffalo Bill did not know it, but the chief
was old Fire Top.

What the feathered chief said Buffalo Bill did not comprehend, beyond
the fact that his gestures told he wanted the white man to surrender;
the language was one the great white scout had never heard, though he
was familiar with many Indian dialects.

He threw his revolvers down on the bridge, and followed them with his
hunting knife. It was suicidal to do anything else. The Red Feathers had
him at their mercy.

Then he held up his empty hands, palms outward, in token of peace and
submission.

A yell of triumph burst from the throats of the bedizened Indians, and
the chief who had spoken stepped out on the bridge to secure the
discarded weapons, while his warriors on the shores set arrows to their
bows and stood ready to slay the white man if he showed treachery.

Old Fire Top was a glittering fellow, shining with ornaments of gold and
silver, and with a breastplate of gold which nearly covered his bosom
and glittered brightly in the sun. It was native gold, fashioned rudely
by Indian hammers; in its center shone that rayed image of the sun.

“Gold must be cheap as clay round these parts,” was the scout’s
reflection. “I wonder where they got it all. It’s a good thing for them
that the white men over yonder at Skyline don’t know about it, and it
stands them in hand to keep the secret close.”

It was a thought which caused him to realize how great was his peril.
Only by killing the white men who fell into their hands, and covering
these mountains with a pall of terror, could the Red Feathers keep from
the outer world all knowledge of the wonderful stores of gold which it
seemed they undoubtedly possessed.

The chief threw the revolvers and knives to the shore, then produced a
thin rawhide rope, unwinding it from about his own body, where it had
been concealed by the gold-ornamented panther skin which he wore round
his shoulders and waist.

Without a word the scout submitted to having his hands tied and a length
of the rawhide rope passed loosely round his ankles. The end of this
rope the chief retained in his hand, so that if the prisoner tried to
run he could jerk it and trip him.

The chief motioned, and Buffalo Bill walked on across the bridge,
followed by the Indians who had chased him, and was surrounded at once
by those on the other side.

Closing round him and the chief, the warriors formed a guard and
conducted him hurriedly along the narrow mountain path until they came
to a series of steps cut in the stone and leading from the top of the
precipice down into the hole which held the Toltec town.

While descending these steps, which he saw could be readily guarded by a
few men, Buffalo Bill had a good view of the town lying in the bottom of
the deep cavity, the hole, as has been said, being above a mile in
diameter in its widest part.

The houses were flat-roofed, and most of them seemed to be communal,
indicating a large population. The streets were winding and narrow. But
near the heart of the town the thoroughfares were wider, and a large,
circular street was there, inclosing a low dome-shaped building whose
roof flashed in the sun as if it were of beaten gold. Close by it,
seeming a part of it, were other buildings that were smaller.

Near that dome-shaped structure rose what at first the scout took to be
the smoke of a large fire, but when he was lower down on the long flight
of steps he saw that a pool of some kind lay there, sending up steam,
and he recalled the mud pots he had seen hissing and bubbling by the way
he had come from Skyline.

He saw, also, as he got still farther down with his captors, that the
houses were of stone, a grayish-white marble apparently, and that they
were richly ornamented with gold, or with something which glittered like
that metal.

The stone stairway led to the circular street before the domed house,
and there a great concourse of red-feathered Indians, whose armlets, leg
bands, and other ornaments flashed in the sun.

In their midst, standing as on a pedestal, he beheld a white woman,
clothed in white, fringed deerskins, with a circlet of gold on her
abundant black hair, and behind her, his face pale and his manner
nervous, stood Tom Conover, staring at the captive scout.

“The traitor!” was the scout’s indignant thought, as he flashed Conover
a look of high scorn. “This is worse than that affair of the Niobrara.”

A way opened before him between ranks of Indians, and Buffalo Bill was
conducted through it into a stone prison.

When he was thrust in, and the door banged behind him, a human form
flung itself against him.

“Ach! Donnerwetter! Dis is awful!”

It was the baron.




                             CHAPTER XXIV.
                     BUFFALO BILL HEARS THE TRUTH.


Buffalo Bill knew the worst. He and his friends were condemned to death.
They were crouched together in the little prison, whose shining bars and
heavy door were too much for their combined strength. Wild Bill and
Nomad were there, as well as the baron and the scout.

The Piute and his Apaches, out scouting when the attack of the Red
Feathers was made on Wild Bill and Nomad, had escaped, perhaps by
running, and where they were now, or whether living or dead, could not
be told.

Though knowing now the worst, Buffalo Bill and his friends were not cast
down. Peril only seemed to quicken the spirits of Wild Bill. While as
for old Nomad, he did not fear Indians, nor did he fear death.

Nor was the baron as much alarmed as one might have expected.

About the middle of the afternoon Buffalo Bill was taken from the prison
and conducted to a room in the dome-shaped building which has already
been mentioned. From its general appearance Buffalo Bill had already
decided that it was a temple, perhaps of sun worshipers, and this seemed
to be borne out by the fact that over the wide portal through which he
was taken was a large, rayed image of the sun, in gold, resembling the
gold piece he had found in the trail.

He had learned from the baron that the apparent gold seen everywhere so
plentifully was not all what it seemed—was badly debased with a big
percentage of copper, but this representation of the sun, like the
smaller one he had found, seemed to him to be pure gold, and no doubt it
was.

When conducted into the room that was at one side of the main entrance
he found that it resembled a small sanctuary, and this was further borne
out by the robed figure that stood at its farther end, close by a fire
which burned red on a brazier of gold.

The robed figure had been feeding the fire, and an aromatic smell arose,
showing that herbs had been burning.

The thing that astonished Buffalo Bill was that in a glittering seat
close by the robed figure sat Toltec Tom. And when the robed figure
turned to face the scout on his entrance he beheld the face of a woman
of fifty years or more—a white woman surely—whose years had not yet been
able to obliterate the undoubted beauty of her youth.

Her robes were of white skin. The scout judged them to be dressed
deerskins, tanned to a snowy whiteness.

Her arms were bare, and on them were loops of gold whose flattened sides
showed the sun image. In her ears were earrings—pendants—also showing
that representation of the sun, and the front of the shining brazier
showed the same.

With his Indian guards crowding in behind him, Buffalo Bill halted when
he beheld Tom Conover and the woman. He looked accusingly at Conover,
and saw the red flush deepen in Conover’s face and crimson in the scar
on his forehead.

The woman looked up from the fire and beckoned to the scout, pushing out
a footstool in front of her, indicating that he was to sit on it.

The doorway closed, but the Indian guards were on the inside, and they
held their lances in readiness.

“This seems queer to you, Cody!” said Conover, trying vainly to smile.
“But you’ll understand it better, maybe, and then you’ll not think so
hard of me, perhaps.”

The woman paid no heed to this, but kept her dark eyes fixed on the face
of the scout as he came slowly forward and took the stool.

Then she sat down, leaning back into the arms of a chair that was graced
with a panther skin.

“There are some things that it is unpleasant to try to understand,” was
Buffalo Bill’s comment, in response to the words of Conover.

The light of the fire reddened the white robes of the woman and gave a
ruddy tinge to the cheek she turned toward it. She sat looking earnestly
at the scout for a moment without speaking, and when she spoke her words
were clipped and broken, showing that she had difficulty in using the
language.

“It is very hard for me to say the Ainglish,” she declared, “and I know
not hardly why it should be said, for all is fixed that you and your
friends go not out of this place, but it is for him to please,” she
nodded to Conover, “and he will tell you more things than what it is in
my power to tell.”

Conover half lifted himself with a sudden, eager impatience, then
dropped back.

“It’s this way, Cody,” he said: “she can’t handle the language like we
can, for, though she knew it when she was a child, and I’ve taken the
trouble to teach her what I could, it doesn’t come natural to her. I
asked her to have you come here, that I could explain; for I don’t want
you to think too hard about what has happened.”

When the scout did not answer, Conover went on hurriedly:

“It all goes back to a good many years ago, when I was captured by these
Indians, and would have been killed, if she had not saved my life. I
paid her for that, later, by marrying her. I couldn’t get away, and by
and by I didn’t want to; I only wanted to stay with her. As I shan’t be
able to make you understand that part of it, Cody, I’ll not try to; only
I’ll say this, there came a time when I would have died for this woman,
and that time ain’t past yet.

“But we had quarrels, in spite of the fact that I loved her better than
any other woman I’d ever seen, and then, too, I got jealous of the chief
here, old Fire Top. We had a regular duel about her, me and him, on
horseback, with lances, and that’s how I got this beauty mark.”

He tapped the scar significantly.

“The fight happened out in the hills beyond the town, and he left me
here for dead. When I came to myself, I was a bit hazy mentally, and I
cut out, without trying to get back. I feared, too, that old Fire Top
would kill me, after what had happened. And she had turned against me.
So I fled.

“That was a good while ago. I shan’t go into all the details—it ain’t
necessary. But I hit out for the white man’s country, and though I knew
there was gold here aplenty, I never cared to come back to try to get
any of it, for what is gold if you have to pay your life for it.

“I roamed round after that, here, there, and everywhere, and done all
sorts of work, and the years slipped past. I kept my own counsel. I
still loved this woman, and I knew if I spread round a report of the
gold in here adventurers would crowd in, and maybe the Toltecs here
would be annihilated and the woman killed, and I didn’t want that to
happen. I had come to like a good many of these reds, and, as I said, I
loved the woman, though I wasn’t sure that I’d ever see her again.

“A month or so ago I met one of the Red Feathers near the town of
Cochise—you know where that is—and he told me the woman was dead. He
lied to me, as I know now, because he was afraid I’d try to come back,
and he didn’t want it. But I took his word for it.

“That knocked me out—I went all to pieces; and in Cochise, and in
Skyline, I simply went on a spree that came nigh being my last. You know
about that.

“And you know how I chanced to set out with you for this place. When you
asked me what I knew about these Toltecs, and put it up to me, it came
to me that here was a chance to do a bit of good, in return for all the
wrong I’ve done, and also to find out about how the woman had died, and
all that, maybe. I still thought she was sure dead. And—I didn’t want
any more of that child-stealing business to go on. I’ll tell you soon
about that—all about it.

“I didn’t intend to desert you—I meant to play true blue, and when it
happened I felt that it wasn’t really desertion. She came to me in the
camp, when all were asleep, and woke me up, and I thought it was her
spirit, or that I was dreaming, and I got up when she motioned to me and
walked out on the blanket she put down, and then I got on the horse she
had and come here with her.

“If I was to die this minute, Cody, I couldn’t help doing that!” He
looked appealingly at the scout. “I couldn’t help it, and maybe I didn’t
want to help it, and I ain’t even sorry now, for, you see, I have got
her again, and she isn’t dead.”

He put his hand to his throat as if a lump choked him there. But the
woman sat impassive, without moving her face, on which the red light of
the fire flickered. To all seeming, she did not hear or understand a
word Conover was saying. Yet her bright, dark eyes were fixed on the
scout, as if she sought to read the emotions displayed in his
countenance.

“I think I can understand your feelings somewhat,” said the scout to
Conover.

“Thanks for that,” said Conover, his face brightening; “I was afraid you
couldn’t.”

“The Morgan boy is here—still here?” the scout asked.

“I’m coming to that,” said Conover. “As you’ve heard, every twenty or
thirty years a white child is stolen by these Toltecs, or, rather, by
their priest. This woman was stolen that way, when she was a child. She
was brought up here, and became the priestess of these Toltec sun
worshipers; that’s what she was stole for.

“They’ve got some kind of legend, or teaching, which directs that their
priest must be white, or nearly white. I suppose before there were any
white people in the country they took a very white Indian. It teaches,
too, that one priest must be a boy, and the next a girl, and so on, and
that they must be stolen from some place by the priest.

“It’s supposed that the Great Spirit picks out the child that is to be
taken. So when the priest or priestess thinks his or her death isn’t far
off, it becomes a duty for him or her to go out and find the child that
is pointed out by the Great Spirit.”

His voice choked again.

“She—Itzlan—that’s her Indian name”—he nodded to the woman—“thought her
time was near, and, believing with the Indians, she set out to find the
child, a boy this time, and she got this child of Morgan’s, and set out
to bring him here.

“She will teach him how to be a priest of the Toltecs, and so well that
he will want to be that, and never will go back to his people; that’s
the way it always is; she wouldn’t go back to the white people; she is a
Toltec through and through, believing everything they do. And it will be
that way by and by with this Morgan kid—he will be in time the white
priest of these Toltecs.

“She thought I was dead. But when she had left the child in the hills by
the trail and slipped back to see if she had been followed, and then saw
me, with you, she felt that she couldn’t go on again, unless I went with
her. That’s what she has told me. And so she planned to get me out of
the camp, and I’ve told you how she did it.

“And,” he licked his dry lips nervously, “that’s how it happened; and I
reckon that’s about all.”

“The child is to be kept here?” said Buffalo Bill.

“Yes, and be trained up for the high priest of the Toltecs; Itzlan there
will see to that. It’s laid on her as a part of her religion to do that,
and she’ll do it. The Toltecs felt grieved when she came back with the
child, for it was the first they had heard that she didn’t think she
would live long. But she says now, has said to me, that since I’ve come
back she doesn’t feel that way. It’s queer, ain’t it?”

He stared nervously at Buffalo Bill.

“So I want you to understand it, so you’ll know how it was, and won’t
think too hard about me. That Niobrara matter was bad, and likely you’ll
think this one worse.”

In spite of all, Buffalo Bill felt sorry for Conover; he could read the
mental suffering in his face, which Conover had endured, and he
understood the strength of the temptation to which the man had been
subjected.

“I suppose we are not to be released?” said the scout.

“She says not,” Conover answered, turning his gaze away. “I’ve tried to
get her to change that, but I can’t; it’s one thing she is set on.”

He turned again to the scout.

“This is the way she looks at it, and the way old Fire Top looks at it.
He’s the chief, and the head of the warriors, and in his way he has more
power here than she has. She’s the religious leader, you see.

“Well, she and Fire Top believe that the only way to keep white men from
coming here and driving out the Toltecs is for the Toltecs to kill all
that do come, and so make others afraid to come. She says the white men
love gold so that if they knew what was here they could not be kept
back, so many of them would come. But the white people won’t trouble the
place so long as they don’t know about the gold, and are made afraid to
come nigh it. I suppose she’s right about that.”

His face was troubled.

“I’d do something if I could, Cody, and that’s a fact, though you may
not believe it. I’m afraid I can’t do anything. I feel sorry about it,
and feel a bit responsible, as I set out as your guide to this spot. I
ought to have known better. But I meant well. Only I didn’t know Itzlan
was living, you see!”

“I understand,” said the scout. “We are to be killed, at the order of
this woman, so that knowledge of this place may not get to the world
outside. But you may tell her, for me, that she is making a mistake in
that, for if I and my friends do not return from this spot the United
States government will surely send here a force strong enough to
annihilate this whole tribe of Toltecs. I wish you’d make that plain to
her, Conover, if she doesn’t thoroughly understand my words now.”

The woman’s face was still impassive.

Nor did it change in its expression even when Tom Conover began to
translate to her in the Toltec language the threatening statement which
Buffalo Bill had made.

The scout could see that the woman did not intend to relent.




                              CHAPTER XXV.
                       THE HEART OF TOM CONOVER.


The battle that raged in the heart of Tom Conover after that interview
with Buffalo Bill can be but dimly indicated here.

In the end the man’s better instincts triumphed.

Buffalo Bill and his friends did not at once know this, however.

Night came early in the town that lay in the deep pit of the plain, the
evening shadows deepening there even before the sun had set on the world
outside.

Within the marble prison the darkness was soon so dense that, as Wild
Bill said, “it could be felt.”

No food had been brought to the prisoners, nor had any messenger come to
them, after that first announcement, conveyed by the woman herself, that
it had been decided in council they were to die.

They crouched in the gloom and talked as the slow hours slipped by,
while they waited, they did not know for what.

They tried the gold-copper bars of their prison again and again, but the
bars were too strong and well set; they could not even shake them. They
had no tools with which to hack at the marble walls, and probably if
tools had been in their possession they could have accomplished nothing
in that way.

“Ach!” grunted the baron, after a long interval of silence. “Dose vite
Inchin mans vass a liar peen, aber he ton’d come unt hellup me, like as
he said. Uff I hat someding to ead, I vouldn’t veel so pat, maybe. Here
iss a town full of golt, and noddings to ead.”

“There is enough to eat in the town, no doubt,” commented Wild Bill,
“but it’s like the gold—we can’t get it.”

“Aber I hund vor golt eenymore I hobes somepoty vill keeck me ka-vick.”

“I’m afraid you won’t hunt for gold any more, baron! But what’s the use
of being blue? Can’t we do something—can’t we sing a little? I’ve got a
voice like a crow, but I’d join in, if somebody would raise a tune.”

He began to sing a popular air that had a lighthearted lilt in it, and
it was wonderful what a change it made in their spirits. They began to
talk more confidently, and plan for a vigorous resistance when the time
came for it.

But later on their plans were altered.

A door of their prison, of which they had not known, opened behind them,
and snapped shut with a click, and they knew that some one had entered
the room. When the intruder spoke they discovered that it was Tom
Conover.

“I’ve made up my mind to help you,” he said, speaking in low tones. “You
are to be slain at sunrise in the morning, by one of the priests of the
Toltec temple. You saw the steaming lake that lies close by this
prison—right behind it, in fact. The temple and this prison were built
on this spot because of that boiling lake. Victims are stabbed on the
stone steps back there, which lead down to it, and then their bodies
tumble down into the lake, and that is the end of them, and people
standing on the other shore, when they see that the thing is done, set
up a great shout and afterward there are religious exercises in the
temple, led by the priests.

“I’ve seen it myself, more than once; all enemies are served that way;
and once a year, if no enemies have been taken, warriors are selected by
lot for the purpose. It’s a horrible business, and I never was in love
with it.

“And that’s the plan for you. I didn’t see at first how I could help it,
as Itzlan is determined you shall not leave here alive; but I’ve worked
out a plan.

“There is one Indian here who used to be my servant, and he will do
whatever I tell him, perhaps because he isn’t over-and-above bright.
Well, I have had him get your horses and tie them to those little pines
at the edge of the trail, where it comes down from that notch in the
mountains. You know the place. And I have had him tie your rifles and
weapons to the saddles. On one of the saddles he has hung two buckskin
bags of gold—pure gold; and that is for this Morgan boy.

“Perhaps I was a fool for doing that. But I’m going to risk it. And risk
the anger of the woman. I’ll pull through all right, for the woman will
stand by me, whatever comes. And I reckon,” he added thoughtfully, “that
I’ll need her, if it gets out that I did it.”

“Why can’t you go with us?” asked Buffalo Bill, who had risen.

The other prisoners had also risen, in their excitement, the German with
a startling clatter of his wooden shoes.

“You’d better take those blocks off your feet,” advised Conover, “they
make too much noise; your stocking feet will be best for you. Carry the
shoes in your hand, if you must have them.”

“Ach!” panted the baron, “der desert sand voult purn my feed off mitoudt
’em!”

“Then carry them in your hands. And now listen: Whatever the risk is,
I’m going to take it. This door I came through here is a secret one, and
only a few even of the Toltecs know of it. I’m going to hope that
suspicion will fall on some of those who do know. For I think it isn’t
understood that I possess the secret. Itzlan told me about it long ago,
but perhaps she even has forgot that she did. Anyway, I take the risk.

“Listen: You are to follow me quietly out of this place and down the
stone steps—the steps of sacrifice. There is a little path which we can
take past the boiling lake, and we can get out of town by it, for,
besides the lake, there are only a few houses, as the steam makes it
unpleasant for people to live there.

“I think we can get out of the town, as the night is dark, and the
steam, which is bad to-night, makes the air even thicker.”

He had dropped, or forgotten, nearly all of his dialect, his words
showing now, in his haste and excitement, that once, at any rate, he had
been a man of some education and attainments.

“When you reach the horses you will find the child there, tied up by the
bushes. My Indian friend has stolen him and placed him there, and I had
him give the kid a sleeping drink to keep him from making any noise. It
sounds cruel, but it seemed necessary.

“But I’m wasting too much time. No,” he said, as Wild Bill sought to
take him by the hand, “I don’t feel worthy to touch the hand of any
honest and upright white man. You know why. But perhaps I can right
things this way, and I want to, and I’ll take the risk. It will not be
so great, and Itzlan will stand by me and protect me, no matter what
comes.”

They heard him turn about.

“Follow me,” he whispered. “And take your shoes off, Schnitzenhauser. It
wouldn’t be a bad idea if all of you removed your shoes. We’ve got to be
silent as death itself, for if these Toltecs woke up to what’s
happening, not one of us would live ten minutes. There’s a guard in
front of the prison, but none out by that boiling lake. Even those
guards are ignorant of this secret door. Now, follow me.”

They heard him fumbling along the wall and were sure he was searching
for the hidden spring which moved the door.

“The horses were left out on the plain, for pasturage,” he said, as if
this were an afterthought, “so that my Indian had no trouble in placing
them where I told him to. The worst trouble was with the child. I had to
steal the kid out from under the nose of one of the temple priests, and
give him into the hands of the Indian. That was as hard a thing to do as
anything that is before us.”

The hidden spring clicked under his fingers.

The scout and his companions were anxious to interrupt, to tell him how
grateful they were, and beg his pardon for any wrong they had done by
misjudging him, but his manner and the tones of his voice, as well as
his direct warnings, kept them silent.

They heard the secret door spring open almost noiselessly.

“Follow me!” Conover repeated. “And step carefully. There is a flight of
stone steps here. Just follow my voice.”

He stepped aside, waiting until they had filed silently out of the
marble prison; then they heard the snap of the spring of the secret
door, as it moved back into place.

After that he put himself at their head, and, by whispering to them,
directed them where and how to step in order to follow him safely.

They felt the warm mist of the boiling lake on their faces and in their
nostrils as they descended the flight of steps toward it, and puffs of
hot steam were blown in their faces as they followed Conover in the
darkness along the narrow path skirting the lake. Below they could hear
its bubbling, like the sputtering of some giant teakettle.

It took iron nerves to repress a shudder as they passed along the lake
and thought of the fate that had been fixed for them by Itzlan and the
priests of the Toltec temple.

A half hour or more was consumed in getting out of the town, for a long
flight of stone steps had to be ascended, but they reached the upland
finally, with Conover still leading the way.

There he stopped.

“Good-by!” he said.

The moon had not yet risen—it rose late, toward morning; but in the
starlight they could see him, and could discern that he held out his
hand.

“I feel that I can shake hands with you now,” he said. “I think that you
will get away.”

“Come with us!” Buffalo Bill urged, as he shook heartily the hand given
him by Conover.

“No!” said Conover, with a positive click of his teeth.

Gravely he shook hands with all of them.

“No,” he repeated. “I’ve got to stay here! In the first place, since
Itzlan is still alive, I don’t want to go. In the second place, if she
gets into trouble I want to be here to help her. But I think there will
be no trouble for either of us. She has a lot of influence, and many
friends. It would mean war if any of the priests or chiefs turned
against her. So there will be no trouble. I’m even hoping that neither
of us will even be suspected of this thing.”

He pointed to the starlight.

“Off there is the notch, and your horses, and the Morgan kid; you’ll
find them all now without trouble.”

“You won’t come with us?” said the great scout, reluctant to leave him.

“No! And I’m hoping that none of you will ever come this way again.
We’ll not meet any more, likely. So, good-by, and success to you!”

He turned, as he said this, and broke into a run, as if he feared to
linger; and the darkness soon hid him.

Buffalo Bill turned about and headed toward the notch.

“Forward march!” he said. “We want to be well out of this before morning
comes. The Red Feathers will be hot after us as soon as they can see to
strike the trail.”

They found the horses, and the child, their arms and ammunition, and the
two stuffed bags of gold for the Morgan boy.

And in the darkness they rode away, wondering at their strange escape,
and questioning among themselves as to what had become of the Piute and
the Apaches.

But when morning dawned they came on the four Indians, who, hiding
beside the trail, had been trying to screw up courage enough to make a
scouting trip in the direction of the valley.

“Ai, Pa-e-has-ka!” they shouted.

They fell in joyfully behind the party of white men, and the flight was
resumed.

It was a running flight, kept up without regard for the comfort of man
or beast, until they knew they were well beyond the reach of the
Toltecs, whose pursuit they feared.

Two days later they placed the boy in the home of his parents, with the
bags of gold which Tom Conover had given him.

And their journey to and from the terrible Cumbres was at an end.


                                THE END

------------------------------------------------------------------------

No. 138 of THE BUFFALO BILL BORDER STORIES, entitled “Buffalo Bill’s
Totem Trail,” by Colonel Prentiss Ingraham, is a rattling good story in
which Buffalo Bill and his pards meet with some of the most wonderful
adventures that ever befell them.

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                          TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES


 1. Silently corrected typographical errors and variations in spelling.
 2. Archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings retained as printed.
 3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.





End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Buffalo Bill Entrapped, by 
Colonel Prentiss Ingraham

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