Buffalo Bill's Boy Bugler

The night of the opening day of the trial of Red Dick, Buffalo Bill and several of his pards struck town. With the scout were Hickok, Little Cayuse, and Skibo, the giant negro. Old Nomad was on the way, and might be expected to “lite” at any hour.

The scout’s orders were direct from the secretary of the interior at Washington. The encroachments of the cattlemen and sheepmen upon the Indian reservations and various clashes with the red men were breeding discontent, and promised a serious outbreak. Buffalo Bill had been instructed, also, to quietly look into the conduct of some of the Indian agents in the Northwest. Complaints were finding their way to Washington, and the rival political party was making campaign material out of them.

If the Indians were being cheated and robbed by unprincipled officers, the department wished to make an example of said officers and preserve peace and the good will of the Indians.

Intruders were flocking upon the Indian lands in search of gold, and herds of the white men grazed where no human foot had the right to set, except that of the red man. The buffaloes, which were the main source of food supply for the Indians, were slain by thousands. Excursionists and others shot the animals, and their putrefying carcasses thickly dotted the plains.

It was coming to the knowledge of officials in Washington that there was an “Indian ring,” which included a corrupt gang of miscreants at the national capital in league with others in the West. Through this band of rascals the Indians were provided with worthless rags for blankets and wretched meat in place of the supplies called for by treaty contract and provided by the government.

By the manipulations of unscrupulous agents and land thieves the cultivated lands of the Indians were being taken from them, and tracts of deserts substituted.

Buffalo Bill well knew that the whites were trampling on the rights of the red men, and his sympathies were known among both shades of skin.

Sitting Bull, the famous chief, had always hated the palefaces, and, nursing the wrongs of his people, he now refused to sign a treaty giving up certain lands. He had been threatened by bumptious officials, and on the strength of these threats he had gone among the powerful Sioux tribes, and exhorted them to prepare for war.

Such men as Generals Sheridan, Canby, Miles, Custer, and others foresaw serious difficulty with the Indians at a time when the general public in the East had been lulled into a sense of security in the belief that the Indian question had been settled for all time.

Buffalo Bill’s mission was to soothe and quiet the Indians, so far as possible; at the same time he was bringing to justice the leaders in as corrupt a gang as ever went unhanged. He found the whites not only robbing the red men, but at war among themselves over grazing rights.

Enforcement of the law was a farce, and right was much a case of might.

Bad men flourished and boasted themselves terrors of the universe. These wild and woolly fellows seldom met, but exercised their blatant powers over the more submissive portion of the public.

Buffalo Bill’s arrival had not been heralded, and he was not recognized at the most pretentious hostelry of the Gallatin Valley. With his pards he made up a quiet little party, who might have been attracted to town by the trial. No one seemed interested to the point of curiosity, and the scout was gratified that it was so. The men he was after might not so soon take alarm.

It was a typical border aggregation that thronged the tavern that night, the air filled with tobacco smoke and fumes of liquor and vibrating with loud talk.

Late in the evening Fighting Dan Grey appeared. He was “liquored up” and looking for trouble. He was dodged by all who could avoid him, but led men by twos and threes to the bar to drink his health. He was well supplied with the yellow metal, and everybody had to drink whom he invited.

Later Dan’s mood changed, and he wanted to play cards. He roped in one man, and desired two others. Far back in a corner the scout and the Laramie man sat smoking and watching the constantly changing aspect of a night gathering of Westerners going through all stages of acquiring a state of intoxication.

Fighting Dan espied them, and led his victim thither.

“Hyar are ther ombrays thet I propose ter hev er game er cyards with.”

Dan slammed a table across in front of the scout and Hickok, churned the partner he had impressed into service into a chair opposite one for himself, and said:

“Thar! I reckon the’s goin’ to be a game. Hyar, yew long-haired fellar, ketch holt an’ shake ’em out.”

Buffalo Bill smilingly humored the big, black bad man, whose counterpart in character he had seen many times. Hickok, too, sat in good-naturedly, and the quartette proceeded in a friendly game. The scout and the Laramie man won the first hand, and then Fighting Dan insisted that all go to the bar and “wash ’er down” at his expense.

The scout and Hickok declined. The bad man was in a towering rage at once. He smote the table with a bang that attracted the attention of every man in the room, and then he bellowed:

“So yer refuses to swaller pizen with me, does ye? Waal, Dan Grey won’t eat that kind o’ dirt fr’m no long-haired ombray this side o’ Tophet.”

Buffalo Bill sat calmly and smilingly, awaiting the subsidence of the bad man’s spasm.

Hickok held the deck, and idly shuffled the cards over and over. The other seized the opportunity to escape.

Half a hundred men turned all attention to the corner where sat the unruffled scout confronted by the roaring, dark-visaged giant.

Little Cayuse had entered, followed by Skibo. They were attracted to the scene at once. Skibo edged through the crowd until he was at Buffalo Bill’s back, and said in an undertone:

“’Scuse me, Mars’ Billyum, but don’t you want ole Skibo to squelch ’im?”

“No, no, Skibo; thanks. I guess it will soon blow over.”

But it didn’t blow over, and the bad man worked himself into a perfect frenzy while raving at the unterrified scout.

“I’ll make a pin wheel o’ you over my head,” he roared, leaning forward and grasping Buffalo Bill by the shoulders.

When he had done that the man from Laramie suddenly kicked the table over, and left nothing between the bad man and his intended victim.

Dan attempted to change the hold of one of his huge hands from the scout’s shoulder to the thigh for his usual spectacular performance, but he found his own wrist suddenly caught in a viselike grip.

The bad man struggled for the release of his arm, for a moment, and was manifestly surprised that he could not readily wrench the imprisoned member from the grasp of any man.

And then, before he realized the possibility of such a happening, the bad man felt his opponent step in close, and the next instant he was whirling through the air, to land on a table and crash with it to the floor.

Fighting Dan got up slowly, and for a moment stared at the scout in dazed surprise; then he reached for his guns. Before his hands had fairly touched their butts he found himself peering into the sinister-looking muzzle of the scout’s rigid revolver.

“Hold on, amigo!” he shouted; “I wa’n’t goin’ ter shoot; I was on’y goin’ ter take off me weapons an’ git ready ter mop up this hyar barroom with ye.”

“All right, neighbor; if that is your game I’m agreeable.” And without a quiver the scout handed his own gun to Hickok and stepped forward.

Dan deliberately laid his big revolvers on a table, spat on his hands, and then suddenly rushed.

The scout did not expect such a move from the previous deliberate movements, but he was not caught at a disadvantage. Wheeling like a flash, he caught the big fellow, half-buttocked him, and stretched the giant breathless on his back on the floor. The crowd cheered, and Fighting Dan regained his feet slowly, a sadder and wiser bad man. He had never suffered such humiliation before.

“Who be yew, amigo?” he asked, extending his hand.

“Friend,” answered Buffalo Bill; “I have never been ashamed of my name, but for to-night it is not to be made public property. I am steering my own canoe without instructions, and I don’t drink at any man’s order. I am willing to go some distance to please, but it is the business of no man here what my name may be. Good night.”

Buffalo Bill and his pards pushed through the cheering barroom gathering which had increased to a mob, and made their way to their rooms on the floor above.

After the scout had left the discomfited Dan relieved his mind as follows:

“By ther rip-roarin’ Jeehokibus! That there tarnal is a hull cyclone an’ a few whirlwinds ter boot.”

Buffalo Bill had hoped to escape recognition for a time until he could look into conditions in that locality, but he was not to be so fortunate, as he learned the moment the four pards were alone in their large double room.

Bozeman was only one of many of the older towns the scout expected to visit, in prosecution of his mission, to rout the rogues who were stealing both from the government and the nation’s charge, the red man.

“Pa-e-has-ka make um listen,” said Cayuse, as soon as the door had closed upon the outside. “Heap bad palefaces call Long Hair ‘Buffalo Bill.’ Pards in home of Great Father tell on string and talks. Pa-e-has-ka get letter come Virginia City. Bad Crow warriors wait in pass, shoot Pa-e-has-ka.”

“Where did you get that?” asked the scout of his Indian boy pard.

“All same make um believe sleep on floor Red Tiger Saloon; hear bad paleface talk.”

“Did you learn their names?”

“One Jim Price, other all same Dave. Jim give Crows bad blankets, bad meat, bad whisky. Dave sell Indians sand for hunting grounds, Jim pay Dave good blankets, good meat, good rum.”

“I see; Price is the Indian agent, and Dave is a land shark?”

“Ugh!”

“And they are going to send me a fake message, purporting to come by wire from Washington, to report at Virginia City. Then on the way I am to be ambushed and shot by Crow bandits?”

“Ugh!”

“Where do these fellows hang out?”

“All same Red Tiger—drink heap rum.”

“Perhaps I had better run over to the Red Tiger for a little while before turning in,” remarked the scout, once more buckling on his belt which he had removed.

“Me go?” asked Cayuse, an appealing look in his black eyes.

“Ole Skibo like pow’ful well to tote along, Mar’s Billyum,” urged the colored giant.

The scout laughed and said:

“Yes, if you wish, but I think it would pay you better to turn in and sleep.”

“My sentiments, pard,” added Wild Bill, as he sought the bed.

The other three went out quietly at a side door without meeting any one, and the noisy crowd in the barroom drowned all sound of their egress. Five minutes’ walk brought them to the Red Tiger Saloon, a place of ill repute, even for this wild country. There the cutthroats and gamblers congregated, and scarcely a week in the year passed without its tragedy at the Red Tiger. Card disputes sometimes ended in wholesale shooting, and, only two weeks before, three funerals resulted from one night’s rough house in the infamous inn.

When Buffalo Bill and his pards arrived the crowd had reached a stage of drunkenness which dulled its perception, and the strangers were unnoticed. Several men were stretched out on benches and floor in drunken stupor, and others were drinking or wrangling as to whose turn it was to treat. Others were attempting, with drunken persistence, to play cards, but the stakes at the corners were knocked about by gesticulating elbows, and coins rolled about the floor.

Cayuse looked about for a moment, and then approached the scout. In a low tone he said:

“Price play cards with heap fool drunks; steal um money; Dave drunk.”

The scout easily picked out Price, and when opportunity offered approached unnoticed. He also secured a good look at the debauched face of Dave, so that he could recognize the fellow if they ever met again.

Price was too drunk to be acute, but he was still sharp enough to rake in all the money of those with whom he was pretending to play.

Buffalo Bill closely watched the manipulations of this representative of Uncle Sam, and was soon convinced that the fellow was an unmitigated scoundrel who would rob his best friend if opportunity offered.

One man at the table, a miner, had been robbed of his last cent, despite his protest of unfairness. And then the inevitable row was started. The victim bunglingly attempted to pull a gun, and his motion was followed by half a dozen others who were grouped about the table.

Price was not so far intoxicated as the others, and deftly jerked a gun to a level with the other’s breast. Somebody in the crowd accidentally or otherwise discharged a revolver. A fusillade followed, principally into the floor and ceiling, but when the smoke cleared the man who had been robbed by Price was on the floor writhing with a bullet through his body, and Price was pushing through the drunken, shouting men with a smoking revolver in his hand. He had shot the man he had robbed and was getting away before officers arrived.

There was no doubt regarding who had shot the miner, in the mind of Buffalo Bill.

Buffalo Bill did not care to be held to testify in the pretended investigation which was bound to follow, so he and his friends slipped away. The report of the coroner would be the usual one: “Shot by an unknown in a volley by barroom crowd.”

Outside the scout awaited for a time the action of the town’s protectors. In half an hour the sheriff arrived, and in another half hour the Western coroner came to take charge of the remains.

Justice certainly did not move on the “hot foot” in that city of “courage juice” and bad men.

As the scout and his faithful negro and Indian pards were moving away there came a terrific explosion from the direction of the hotel. A moment later a red glare sprang up, and then hoarse shouts and screams of anguish rent the air.

“Must be a boiler explosion,” exclaimed the scout, hastening on, “and at or near the hotel,” he added.

His worst fears were realized. The disaster had occurred at the hotel, but it was not a boiler explosion. The entire wing in which Buffalo Bill and his pards had been assigned quarters had been blown up by some powerful explosive.

No other explanation was possible than that some one had placed a heavy explosive under the wing with malicious intent, the proprietor, who was soon found by Buffalo Bill, declared.

Hundreds of people flocked to the scene, and among them Buffalo Bill sought for his pard, Wild Bill Hickok, the man from Laramie, the hero of scores of daring exploits.

The wing was wrecked and the hotel burning, but the scout still hoped that by some miracle his partner had escaped.

The night wore away, and the fire was conquered only when the hotel was in ashes. Two other guests of the hotel were missing, and half a dozen had been more or less seriously injured.

Buffalo Bill haunted the scene of disaster. He could not give up hope that Hickok had escaped. But no clue was uncovered that led to any other conclusion than that Wild Bill had perished miserably.

Then Buffalo Bill began an investigation on his own hook to discover the author of the tragedy. Lambert, the hotel proprietor, had no idea regarding the miscreant or his object. He—Lambert—did not know that he had an enemy, and he could not imagine the object of any man in destroying his property, and at the same time taking the lives of innocent people.

The scout began to suspect that he and his pards were the object of the dynamiters.

“Were there any inquiries yesterday,” he suddenly asked of Lambert, “concerning the sleeping quarters of any of your guests?”

The hotel man started, and then answered:

“Yes; Dave Green asked me about you and your party—who you were and what rooms you had. He said he guessed he would see if he couldn’t sell you a quarter section up the valley.”

“Who was with him at the time?”

“Jim Price, the Indian agent.”

“Did you see either of these men about town after the explosion last night?”

“Yes, I saw Price, and he said Green was laid away, ossified, at the Red Tiger.”

“How soon after the explosion did Price appear?”

“Why, he showed up while we were trying to pull the people out of the wreck before the fire drove us away.”

“Thank you,” said Buffalo Bill.

“Why, you don’t suspect Jim Price of anything like that, do you?”

“Oh! I thought he might prove to be a good witness if an inquiry was made,” answered the scout.

In his own mind Buffalo Bill was satisfied that Price had attempted to blow the scout and his pards into eternity. So far as brave Hickok was concerned it seemed that the wretch had been successful.

Buffalo Bill had succeeded better than he had expected in the beginning of the unraveling of the government’s skein of Indian difficulties.

“Waugh! Of all ther sky-whoopin’ heifercats, that thar Hide-rack is ther plumb wust. Ther cantaknerous cuss has nigh shook ther liver clean outer my ’natomy, er rip snortin’ through ther mud all ther way f’m Virginy City. Ther pesky critter hain’t been doin’ er thing but layin’ on fat an’ a-storin’ up devilment fer more’n er month, while I been er cooperatin’ f’m er tumble down ther mounting. I say, Buffler, whar’s that onery pard, Wild Bill? I’m jest er itchin’ ter git my claw dogs outer his flipper. Whar’s Hickok?”

Old Nomad, Buffalo Bill’s trapper pard had “lit” after a long lay-off to nurse the injuries received through an accident. He arrived at Bozeman the next day after the fire, and lost no time in locating the scout.

“Nick, old pard, I’ve got bad news for you,” the scout answered. “The hotel was partly blown up night before last, and the section our room was in was knocked to splinters. Hickok was in the room asleep at the time, or at least we left him there, and he has not been seen since. The ruins have not cooled sufficiently so that we can find the body.”

The bluff and rough old trapper, who loved a fight and feared nothing, dropped back forlornly, and swept the perspiration from his brow with rough palm.

“You don’t mean it, Buffler! It jest cain’t be so! No, no, Buffler, our true-blue pard Hickok warn’t born ter be blowed up by a coward skunk. No, sir, Buffler, Wild Bill hain’t dead, an’ he hain’t been dead. When Hickok dies it’ll be a honorable death—er facin’ ther moosic an’ er gun in ’is fist.”

Old Nomad bounced out of his chair and out of his grief, ready for business, having convinced himself that his pard still lived.

“I feels it in my bones, Buffler, thet Hickok is er goin’ ter show up—hat, taps, an’ britches—et jest ther proper minuit ter save some of our scalps, same’s he allers does.”

“Good for you, Nick! Your confidence renews my hope. Let’s get busy with the work in hand and be prepared to welcome our Laramie pard properly when he comes back. I’m prime glad to see you in harness again, Nick, and I am anxious to introduce our new pard to you.”

“Gut er new pard, Buffler?”

“Yes.”

“What sort of er chap?”

“Oh, a light-complexioned little fellow, who joined us for his health.”

“What’s his name?”

“We call him ‘Skibo.’”

“Waal, you knows yer own bus’ness best, Buffler, but this here outfit hain’t no horspital corps, nor no reesort for nussin’ babies. I sh’d think ther place fer er consumptive wuz in er home somewhar, whar ther smell er powder wouldn’t make ’im faint.”

“He stands hearty victuals first-rate, Nick. I have seen him turn pale only once, and that was when a dead greaser came swimming down the river after him.”

“Waal, I’m glad ter know a dead greaser c’n swim, fer I hain’t never seen er live one what could. Whar is ther new pard—an’ thet thar redskin papoose?”

“Little Cayuse and Skibo have ridden out to a ranch to see the games to-day. A chap named Carson is celebrating his wedding, and is giving the boys a blow-out and a programme of sports. He offers good prizes for best riding, roping, tying, shooting, jumping, etc.”

“Why didn’t you go, Buffer?”

“I preferred to stay here to see if I couldn’t locate the body of Hickok.”

“Waal, yer can’t, ’cause he hain’t hyar! Yer mought jest ez well quit yer mopin’ an’ come erlong.”

“Are you going, Nick?”

“Shore! The’ hain’t goin’ ter be no prizes ter waste thet yer Uncle Nick can gobble onter. Not noways ef Nick knows hisself, an’ I think he do.”

“Very well; I’ll go with you.”

At the Carson ranch were gathered about three hundred miners and cowpunchers to partake of the hospitality of one of their number, swear allegiance to the new bride, and strive for the prizes in the day’s contests.

Out of respect for the bride’s request, the courage juice was indulged in moderately, and Buffalo Bill thought it about as orderly a crowd of the kind as he had ever seen.

The events were well under way when the scout and old Nomad arrived, but the latter immediately made inquiries regarding his entry to the events. They found Cayuse and Skibo, and the colored pard was introduced to Nomad by Buffalo Bill, who said:

“Nick, I want you to shake hands with our new pard, Skibo. Skibo, this is old Nomad, of whom you have heard us often speak. Nick, when you shake his hand, go easy, or you may hurt him.”

The trapper stared in amazement at the huge negro, who had been described to him as a light-complexioned little weakling.

“Waugh! Little—as er nine-y’ar-old buffler bull! Light-complexioned—as ther bottom ov er chimney pot!”

This was sort of exclamatory soliloquy, but the trapper was none the less hearty in greeting the grinning colored man when he got around to it.

“How are ye, Skibo? Buffler told me ter look fer er consumptive cuss, an’ you s’prised me. So you turned pale when you saw a dead greaser er swimmin’?”

“Yar, yar! Dat’s what Ah done. Ah specs Ah was whiter’n you be fer ’bout two whole minutes—an’ dat wa’n’t much of a day for gittin’ white, nohow.”

“Lookahyar! Don’t yer go fer ter hingin’ on my pinkan’-white complexion, ’cause yo’re so blamed dusky er smut coal would make er white mark on yore skin.”

“Yar, yar! Mars’ Nick. Yo’ shore is er white-libered, delekit-lookin’ blossom.”

The grinning pair, still shooting nonsense at each other, grasped hands, and old Nomad, who had a grip like the jaws of a rock crusher, found his match.

Nick and Skibo were bound to be good friends from that hour. There was no color line among Buffalo Bill’s pards, and Skibo felt that he was considered an equal.

Little Cayuse greeted Nomad with usual stoical mien, and remarked with twinkling eyes:

“Hide-rack heap fool mule; Navi all same pigeon—go like bullet.”

“Huh! Yeow little yaller rascal, Hide-rack will run over yore measly pinto some day; see if ’e don’t. Hide-rack’s ther best anermile south o’ ther old Missou, ’cept Bear Paw.”

“Ugh! Heap bones! Stumble much, fall down mountain, break Nomad neck. Ugh!”

The party stood near the corral watching a pony race as the entries scored down to the mark and were to sweep away across the plain for a mile. Forty men were in saddle in the race. Others had galloped far down the course, and few were left about the ranch.

Buffalo Bill and Carson, the proprietor, were cantering leisurely down the field, and the new bride had climbed to the seat of a prairie schooner to watch the contest, rather than to remain longer in the saddle.

“Tell yer what I’ll do, Piute; I’ll race yer down behind ther crowd ter see ther run, an’ if yer git thar fust I’ll buy yer ther purtiest young cannon in Bozeman.”

“Ugh!” acquiesced Cayuse, and the pair mounted and rode away.

Skibo was tired of riding, and disposed his form against the corral fence in as comfortable position as possible. He heard an uproar among the cows and horses within, but before he could arise to investigate there came a terrific crash, and a great Texan bull burst from the inclosure.

Excited first by the shouting and shooting, and then infuriated by the glimpse of darting ponies and the cheers of the men as the field got away, the animal in its frantic plunging had broken loose, dashed through the herd, and swept the fence away like a row of jackstraws.

The first thing that caught the brute’s eye when he had gained liberty was a straw stack. He darted at it with lowered head, and amused himself for a moment by goring it. Then he turned and saw the white-covered wagon with the frightened young woman upon it, and dangling from one of the wheels the bright red pontiac of a miner.

The animal had really considered the straw stack a joke, and seemed to be at play, but that red coat set his passions aflame. With a maddened roar he pawed the earth and sent the gravel flying high in air.

Several cowpunchers far down the field heard the commotion and recognized its import at once. They put spurs to their ponies and tore madly back, yet they knew they could not hope to reach roping or even shooting distance before the fierce brute would charge the schooner with its helpless cargo—the fair bride they had come to honor.

The cowboys’ yells had attracted the attention of others, and soon the course swarmed with excited men and horses, racing toward the scene of pending tragedy.

The bellowing of the bull rumbled faintly above that of pounding hoofs.

These brave men of the plains, in a mission of life and death, drove the rowels into the sides of their steeds.

And then the foremost saw the brute charge, in spite of their yells to turn his attention to them. But even as they looked at the flying bull they saw a human being bound out from the corral across the path of the bull.

It was Skibo!

There the giant negro stood, with tense muscles, slightly crouching, facing the oncoming animal, unarmed.

The bloodshot eyes of the bull caught the new object in its path, and the brute slowed down for reconnaissance. It came to a dead stop within ten feet of the human form which disputed its progress.

But the pause was brief, for the colored man darted in like a flash, and seized the wide-spreadin’, needle-like horns of the bull.

Then began such a struggle for mastery between man and beast as the West had never seen.

It was not the battle of powder, and lead, and steel against brute flesh, but the conflict of brawn and brawn.

The animal in a perfect fury tried to hurl its antagonist off, and to trample, and gore the powerful man, who stooped to no form of torture to win the mastery.

Forward and back they surged, the negro’s great neck muscles standing out as he clung to the horns of the bull, and gradually forced the shaggy head to an acute angle, the nose pointing to one side and the horns another.

All the giant’s weight and great strength were thrown into this feat, and, like bands of steel, the muscles of the bare, walnut-colored arms held every inch gained.

The nose of the brute was now near the earth, and in that unnatural position both seeing and breathing were difficult. The animal’s breath came in hoarse, wheezy snorts, and he staggered as he plunged about, always endeavoring to throw off the foe.

How long could the brave man hold such terrific strain?

The terrified bride, with clasped hands, forgot her own peril in her anxiety for the safety of her rescuer.

The approaching cowboys dared not shoot for fear of injuring the negro. With whirling lariat they dashed nearer, but their aid was not needed.

With a superhuman effort Skibo had suddenly wrenched the animal’s nose upward until the bull lost its equilibrium and plunged sidewise to land feet up and horns driven into the ground.

Skibo had slipped one hand from horn to nostrils as the animal fell, and then, standing on the horns, with both hands holding the panting snout, he had the bull helpless and at his mercy.

In that position the colored man waited for the cowboys to rope the beast, and then modestly attempted to steal away.

But his escape this time was out of the question. Poor Skibo dearly paid for his heroism by becoming the object of such hero worship, and cheers, and slaps, and handshakes that he heartily wished the ground would open and swallow him up.

And to cap the climax the bride came forward, and, after thanking him in sweetest way and words, and while tears chased each other down her cheeks, and admiring miners and cowboys stood with uncovered heads, she unfastened from her throat a massive gold brooch, and with her own hands pinned it to Skibo’s trembling shirt front—“to remind you,” she told him, “of one who will ever and often think gratefully of you.”

Sleeping with his window wide open, as was his custom, “Wild Bill” Hickok, Buffalo Bill’s pard from Laramie, had been awakened by the shooting at the Red Tiger. His first thought was that his pards were in trouble, and, hastily donning his clothes and buckling on his belt, he did not pause to stumble along the corridors and through the crowd of inquisitive loungers, but sprang through the window and landed lightly on the soft earth twelve feet below.

As Hickok approached the Red Tiger, he could see the tall forms of the scout and of Skibo, and knew that they were all right. He would have entered, but, standing in the shadow of a building to reconnoitre, he saw something to change his plans.

Some one passed an open window with a lighted lamp, the rays of which fell upon two men conversing in whispers not twenty feet from him. Hickok recognized one of the men as the sheriff of the county, and the other, he felt quite sure, was the man who had been pointed out as the local Indian agent.

Wild Bill was curious to know what their private confab was about, for he had intuition that it concerned the arrival of Buffalo Bill and his pards.

Hickok glanced about him for means of getting closer to the pair. Near him was a door opening into the corner of the building which seemed to be some sort of a low warehouse,. He tried the door, and it opened readily at his touch; then he stepped inside and softly closed the door behind him. He felt like a burglar, and had no means of knowing what sort of a place it was, because it would not do to strike a match. The windows were uncurtained, and he had noticed that the two men stood close to one of them.

Once more the lamp passed a window in the adjoining building and revealed enough of Hickok’s surroundings to enable him to proceed. He was in a hallway that led to a room in the back and a stair to the story above. Along the corridor next the stairs were tiered barrels of flour, sugar, and pork, but next the outer wall a passage had been left to the room in the rear of the building.

The man from Laramie approached the window near which the men were talking, and, crouching there, could see their heads above the sill clearly outlined against the light of a stable lantern far down the street.

Hickok was wondering how he could raise the window within a foot of the heads of the men without their detecting him, when he discovered that he could hear their whisperings plainly. A pane of glass was gone, and he wondered why they had not heard him.

The first words Hickok distinguished were:

“Of course you’ll have to go through the performance of investigating the case, but don’t ring me in, and Dave was dead drunk all through it.”

“Yes, I’ll have to hold some o’ the boys for witnesses, but I ain’t goin’ in till I think all them that knows anything about it has got away.”

“Say, Rus, do you know what Cody is here for?”

“No; that’s what I’ve been trying to find out.”

“Well, he’s after me first, and Dave, and you, and anybody he can find who is mixed up in this Indian graft. I got a wire from Reynolds to be on my guard.”

The sheriff whistled softly.

“Does he know you yet?” he asked.

“No; he arrived at the wrong time. The trial has brought in so many strangers that it is pretty hard work telling who from which.”

“He must have been sent here by Washington authorities. How did they git wise?”

“Somebody has leaked to make political capital.”

“What’s goin’ to be done?”

“If we could get Buffalo Bill out of the way without direct suspicion, we would be safe for a long time—but how to get rid of him is the problem.”

“Couldn’t we get him outside on some pretext and have him ambushed by Indians?”

“Dave and I planned that, but Sitting Bull has raked in our renegades and taken them down the Yellowstone.”

“What rooms do Cody and his men have at the hotel?”

“The big one in the north wing.”

“Can’t we get at ’em there, some way?”

“I’ve been thinking of that. How would it work to try ‘Bloody Ike’?”

“He’d do it if there was a hundred plunkerino in it.”

“He can have it, and fifty dollars extra for every one of Cody’s men he gets.”

“There he is in the Red Tiger now.”

“Say, Rus, when you go in send Ike out here to me.”

“All right; so long.”

The Indian agent moved a few feet to one side and sat down on a box. Hickok was disappointed. He feared he could not hear the conversation between the agent and Bloody Ike. But his present position was the best he could do. He would wait.

Just then something happened that caused him for the moment to forget the man on the box and look to his own safety. He heard a step on the platform outside, a key inserted in the lock, and some one began fumbling with it. The Laramie man bounded behind some barrels, and crouched there.

The intruder, who was trying to unlock a door that was not locked, finally entered, struck a match, and glanced down the corridor and up the stairs, and then went out, securely locking the door after him and trying it several times after he had locked it.

“I see where I’m liable to arrest for ‘breaking and entering,’” murmured Wild Bill, as he once more crouched by the window.

Bloody Ike soon came, and held a long confab with the Indian agent, very little of which Hickok could hear.

As they passed the window moving away, the listening Hickok heard:

“Now, make a clean job of it. Fumbles don’t count. You must settle this Buffalo Bill’s hash and as many of the others as possible.”

“I ought to be able to do it right; I’ve handled the stuff for fifteen years in the mines—and in some other places.”

The last was spoken significantly.

Hickok was anxious to follow the fellows and prevent a tragedy. He had no fears for the safety of Buffalo Bill and his pards, because he had several times seen them about the saloon. He did not believe the Indian agent and Bloody Ike would attempt anything that night, but he wished to follow them and learn more of their plans.

Hickok tried the window, and found it fastened with a heavy prop over the lower sash. It required but a moment to remove this, raise the sash, and leap to the ground, but in that time the men he was after had disappeared.

The Laramie man hastened down the street in the direction they had gone, hoping to catch sight of them, but they had either entered some dive or had seen something to alarm them, and consequently fled.

Hickok finally went back to the Red Tiger, hoping to pick up his pards if he discovered no further knowledge of the plot to destroy not only Cody, but his comrades. The man from Laramie had not discovered the means by which they were to be disposed of, but he had learned that these men were desperate enough to stoop to any crime in order to continue their process of wholesale robbery of the Indian tribes.

He took a peep inside, but none of his pards were there. The coroner and sheriff were present and several hangers-on.

Hickok hurried away again, determined to get back to the hotel at once and tell Buffalo Bill what he had learned. He had not covered one-half the distance when there came a thunderous crash that made the surrounding low buildings rock.

Hickok paused to locate the direction of the explosion, which seemed to have come from all points of the compass at once. As he looked a familiar figure darted out from between two buildings and made down the street, keeping in the shadow.

“It’s Bloody Ike or I’m an ape,” muttered the Laramie man, taking up the pursuit.

Out of the settlement dashed pursued and pursuer, the latter confident that the former had been up to some deviltry and feeling that in some way it concerned himself and Buffalo Bill.

Half a mile out Bloody Ike reached an encampment of Indian traders who had several horses tethered on the plain. Hickok was near enough, crouched in the grass and weeds, to hear the conversation. The man wanted to buy a pony, and soon struck up a trade. Without even a saddle he mounted and rode away.

He was hardly out of sight before the Laramie man was bartering for a pony. He had noted one in particular that he wanted, for the little fellow was doing its best to get away and follow the animal ridden by Bloody Ike.

Hickok paid a generous price, and the moment he mounted the pony dashed out on the plain, in the direction taken by Bloody Ike, at breakneck speed.

“So,” said the Laramie man to himself, “I guess I can follow the trail if it is dark.”

He leaned well forward on the animal’s neck, and watched its ears outlined against the sky. At every attempt to whinny he slipped his hat over the pony’s nose.

After half an hour’s riding Hickok heard the whinny of a pony, clear and loud, not one hundred yards ahead. The animal he rode would have answered had he not jerked it suddenly back upon its haunches, and then dismounting slipped his hand over its nose until he could prepare a muzzle from the pocket of his heavy coat.

As soon as he was in the saddle, the pony again dashed ahead, as if determined to overtake the animal ridden by Bloody Ike.

The chase led into the foothills and then the rockier, harder climbing. Hickok kept a sharp lookout ahead, for he well knew that the pony he bestrode would overtake the other if possible, and he did not care to come upon Bloody Ike unexpectedly when the latter had halted and discovered that he was pursued.

As yet Hickok believed that his presence was unknown to the man ahead, but in this he soon discovered that he was mistaken, and to his own cost.

Pulling his pony to a standstill in a rough defile, Hickok listened for hoofbeats. Then almost at the pony’s feet he saw a spark, crawling and sputtering toward him.

Hickok hesitated not an instant, but drove the spurs into the animal’s sides, and it leaped to one side with a startled snort.

The pony’s jump took it over the edge of the narrow trail, where it lost its footing, and rider and horse rolled down a sharp declivity just as an explosion shook the hills and flying rock showered about them as they plunged into unknown depths.

Skibo was the hero of the occasion and had won the grand prize. Indeed, almost any one of the cowboys and miners would have risked his life a dozen times for the words or the gift of the bride. But probably no man among all those assembled there could have performed the feat of strength of the giant negro.

Back in town that night the news of Skibo’s wrestle with a bull had preceded him, and the modest darky was obliged to retire supperless to his room and remain there to escape the crowd that swarmed about the hotel to see him.

That night Buffalo Bill superintended a crew which removed the débris of the wrecked and burned hotel wing. No bodies were found, and a great feeling of relief swept over the scout.

But what had become of Hickok? was the question. He had dropped out of sight as completely as if the ground had opened and swallowed him. No one had seen him since he retired that night, and his partners had left for the Red Tiger.

The scout determined to make an active search of the town and surrounding country at once. He more than half suspected Price had in some way been concerned in the disappearance of the Laramie man. He had confided his fears and suspicions to Little Cayuse, and the clever Indian boy was at work in his own way, while the scout was watching the removal of the burned timbers from the hotel ruins.

When Buffalo Bill and old Nomad retired, well toward morning, Little Cayuse had not returned.

Two of the pards already had dropped from the roster in the war on rascality as practiced against “Poor Lo.”

“Whar’s thet papoose, Buffler?” asked Nomad.

“I don’t know, but I suspect that our Piute pard is hunting for Hickok. Cayuse is a boy of few words and many deeds. He tells what he wishes to do after it is accomplished.

“Thet’s jest his caper, an’ if he don’t strike er hoof mark it’s er mighty blind trail ter Wild Bill’s dodge corner.”

“I’m a little fearful that Hickok started an investigation of his own and has fallen into a trap of some sort. These men are bad ones, and would not hesitate at any crime.”

“Was ther rumpus t’other night er celebration in yer honor, Buffler?”

“I think the blow-up was intended for me and my pards, and it was only by a fortunate move of the wheel of fortune that all of us escaped. We must locate Hickok next at any cost.”

“I’m with yer, Buffler, ez long’s thar’s any wind in my bellowses.”

Skibo was snoring loudly, and Pa-e-has-ka and Nomad were about to seek rest, when Cayuse entered the room as silently as a spectre, and apparently under considerable excitement. He approached Buffalo Bill, and, after looking about as if fearing the walls had ears, said in low tone:

“Pa-e-has-ka make um listen! Wild Bill chase heap bad man over plains into hills after blow-up.”

“How do you know that, Cayuse?”

“Find um Injun sell ponies Bloody Ike and all same stranger.”

“Which way did they go?”

“Sun come up here, him go that way,” answered Cayuse, pointing southward.

“What time was that?”

“Middle sleep.”

“Well, Hickok has always shown great ability to take care of himself, but if he doesn’t turn up in the morning we’ll take a look down that way to-morrow.”

“Cayuse better go now?” asked the boy, his black eyes containing more of appeal than his words.

“No, not to-night, boy; but in the morning after you have rested and slept.”

“Ugh! Cayuse all same not squaw,” complained the Piute, as he sought his hammock, for he could not be induced to sleep in a white man’s bed.

Wild Bill had not arrived in the early morning, so Buffalo Bill and his three pards set out, their horses in fine fettle for the gallop into the foothills. They first visited the encampment of Crows who were peddling beads and baskets, and got a good description of Wild Bill, also the man of whom he was in pursuit and known to the Indians as Bloody Ike.

At noon they were far into the hills and had discovered evidences of recent human occupancy of the mouth of an abandoned mining shaft.

They entered and explored for some distance, but decided that the bird had flown.

Outside again Cayuse left the others, and his pinto took up the work of trailing with exceeding care. Half an hour later he returned and hurried Pa-e-has-ka away to look at a discovery.

Buffalo Bill found evidence of a recent explosion in a trail that led to the old mine by another way than they had come. For rods around the ground was covered with newly shivered rock, and a great mass had crashed down the mountainside.

“You remain here, Cayuse,” said the scout, after studying the situation for a moment; “I am going down into the gulch. If I am not back in an hour leave Skibo to guard the horses, and with Nomad follow my trail.”

“Ugh!” was the only reply of the Indian boy.

More than one hundred feet down the sharp and rocky incline the scout came upon the carcass of a pony.

“Ah!” he said, “the trail was mined, and horse and rider blown over the brink.”

Careful search revealed no trace of his pard, but still farther down he found the bushes beaten down, as though a body had been dragged.

It was what he had half feared since finding the evidence of a mined path—Hickok had been killed by a bomb and his body dragged away to dump into some old mine shaft or otherwise hidden from possible searchers.

The scout followed the trail for some distance in the brush along the base of the dump, and then came to a sharp angle in the rock, where a narrow shelf led down a circuitous way, apparently into the mouth of another entrance to the mine above, at a lower level.

The scout crept cautiously forward, ready for instant action if Bloody Ike or his pals were expecting callers.

But not even Buffalo Bill was prepared for the move which was adopted by the wretch hidden in the rocks above.

The scout heard a slight movement above him, and instinctively sprang forward and in close to the wall. As he did so a great mass of rock came hurtling down, struck the shelf where he had stood, and crashed onward into the abyss below.

Pa-e-has-ka was well concealed in his present position behind jutting rocks and a tangle of bushes and vines. By leaning far forward and peering upward through the thick foliage he commanded a view of the cliff above from whence the slide had started. He saw a wicked, bewhiskered face peering over the edge and anxiously scanning the deeper chasm below.

“Guess that fixed ’im!” the scout heard the man chuckle. “Waal, that disposes of two of ’em that we know about. Guess ole Long Hair won’t sashay round here huntin’ trouble right away.”

Buffalo Bill was tempted to put a bullet in the evil brain, but he had never yet pointed a gun at an unarmed or unprepared human being, be he ever so bad. He would await his opportunity to take the fellow back where he would receive just and legal punishment for his crimes.

Making his way cautiously into the mouth of the shaft, the scout secreted himself in a dark angle behind the rotting timbers, convinced that the fellow above would go to the base of the cliff to satisfy himself that his victim had been crushed to pulp in the avalanche of rock.

He had not long to wait. He saw the fellow clamber nimbly down from his hiding place, apparently well acquainted with every detail of the mountainside.

The fellow came within three rods of the entrance, and then suddenly swung over the edge of the rocky precipice, and was lost to view.

A moment later Buffalo Bill crept out and peered over the edge. He saw the man below him making his way from rock to rock, clinging to bushes and roots, and descending into the cañon.

The scout drew back and decided to explore the shaft for a short distance while the tenant was absent. He believed Bloody Ike was hiding here until the investigation following the destruction of the hotel had blown over.

He found his suspicions confirmed. In an alcove in the incline he discovered a rude cot of straw and blankets, and far down the one-time muleway he heard a pony whinny.

“So he keeps his pony in here, too,” mused the scout.

But just then he was startled by a human groan near at hand and promptly forgot the pony.

Striking a match, the scout eagerly scanned the place, and beheld a sight that sent thrills half joy and half uncertainty to his brain, while a feeling of rage swept over him.

It was the form of Wild Bill lying on a pile of mouldy hay, bound hand and foot and a rude gag in his mouth. The Laramie man’s bruised face and head made him an object of pity. His face, hands, and clothing were soaked in blood and eyes closed in semi-conscious condition.

The scout’s ready knife slashed the cords which bound his pard, and then he looked around. Near the cot was a pail filled with water, probably for the pony. Cody quickly brought it to the side of his wounded friend, and, kneeling, slopped the water freely in Hickok’s face and laved his brow and head, washing away the blood and gravel.

He was rewarded in a few moments by seeing the Laramie man open his eyes and by hearing him faintly ask: “Where am I?”

“With friends, old man; lie still.”

The scout chafed the hands and wrists of his pard and laid a wet handkerchief on the fevered brow. He poured a little of the water down the parching throat, and was gently fanning the injured man with his hat when he heard a slight scuff of a shoe, and, glancing up, beheld Bloody Ike just entering the shaft.

The man’s eyes had not become accustomed to the darkness, and he groped his way toward his cot, swearing to himself.

“Don’t know whether I got the ombray or not. Landslide was bigger’n I expected,” he growled.

“You’ll soon have your mind set at rest!” shouted Buffalo Bill, as with a bound like a panther he was upon the wretch.

The man attempted to reach knife or gun, but was too slow, and then a fierce struggle began.

For a minute or two they wrestled, and then both went down, with the scout on top. The rascal was frantically endeavoring to draw a revolver when a smashing blow from the scout’s fist ended the set-to.

In two minutes more Bloody Ike was securely bound and had been dumped none too gently on his cot. Then the scout went to the mouth of the cavern and sent forth a prolonged “Hoo-hoo-o-o!” for his pards.

Everything possible for the comfort of Wild Bill was done by his pards. Little Cayuse on the fleet Navi made all speed to Bozeman for a doctor, while Nomad and Skibo prepared a shelter in the open air, and the injured man was removed from the foul atmosphere of the old mine.

Buffalo Bill did not send for the sheriff, because he had already planned to “put the kibosh” on the chief county officer in the general round-up which he hoped would soon follow. These men were not to be tried before a local court. In fact, he had cause to distrust the court itself. Some things he had seen had led him to suspect that the local judge was in league with Price and the others. And as for a jury drawn from the countryside, Price had furnished liquor for too many of them for the scout to take any chances.

Buffalo Bill was aware that the most dangerous element of the “ring” was in Washington. There the plots were laid and such men as Price located where they could do the most good—or bad, as viewed from the standpoint of right and honesty. If other stations were as rotten at the core as this one there was work ahead for a long time to come.

Buffalo Bill, like Kit Carson and other famous scouts, had learned to sympathize with the red men and to befriend these simple people in every way possible.

The prisoner, known as Bloody Ike, refused to hold any conversation with the scout at first, venting his feelings in voluminous tirades and heaping vituperation upon them.

Then Skibo lost his temper at some vile abuse, and, seizing the villain by the belt and shoulder, raised him above his head, as though he was about to hurl him over the precipice.

Ike lost his nerve and begged for mercy. He was lowered to the ground and the powerful grip released only when he had promised to cease his abusive language.

The doctor came and pronounced Hickok on the road to recovery. He had suffered external injuries, and the lack of attention and resulting fever had done the rest. With his temperature at nearly normal, his mind cleared up, and all he needed was care and light food for a day or two.

The scout was impressed by the quiet earnestness of the professional man. There was much in his bearing to inspire confidence. The scout wondered why this university-bred youth had chosen such a remote field.

Beyond earshot of Bloody Ike the physician asked why the man was bound. The scout frankly told him, and was rewarded by much valuable information concerning the working of this gang of gamblers, thieves, and cutthroats. The physician said the better element of the people feared for their property and lives if they openly opposed these thugs, of whom Price was the acknowledged head.

Before departing the physician assured the scout that he should anxiously await a successful outcome of the latter’s mission, and said that if any information of value to the pards was discovered he would find some means to communicate with them.

It may be interesting to note here, while we are awaiting the recovery of Wild Bill, that the trial of Red Dick had ended in acquittal and the cattlemen were consequently jubilant and proposed to celebrate in honor of the event. The sheepmen and their friends withdrew, but many threats were made, and everybody realized that the end was far away and might yet embrace many tragedies.

Red Dick proposed to celebrate in his own way. He made a great amount of loud talk about hunting down and filling Fighting Dan with cold lead.

“I’ll fix him so he can’t swim,” raved the would-be terror of the town.

Fighting Dan was said to be hanging out near Three Fork, and his friends hastened to send him word that Red Dick was on his trail.

Red Dick first proceeded to organize a gang of his satellites to accompany him to Three Fork—“to see him ‘do up’ Fighting Dan.”

A dozen men on horseback galloped away on their avowed mission of murder, Red Dick dashing ahead and proclaiming in fearful language the things he would do to Fighting Dan. Some of those who knew Red Dick best declared that he was blowing his horn much louder now than when he considered himself within hearing distance of Dan Grey.

Buffalo Bill, standing on the heights and looking northward, saw a party of horsemen galloping away from Bozeman to the northwest. The scout’s interest was aroused at once. He wondered where this strong party of riders were going and what could be their mission. He could see an occasional white puff of smoke and knew that the men were firing.

The scout’s first thought was that it was a party sent out by Price to run down his own—Buffalo Bill’s—party. If that was the case they were on the wrong trail at the start.

Watching the party well out of sight, the scout returned to the camp ground and ordered Cayuse to saddle Bear Paw and Navi and prepare the bags for a long ride. He told Nomad and Skibo to keep constant watch over Hickok and the prisoner until his return; then briefly outlined what he had seen and his decision to look into the matter.

In half an hour the scout and Little Cayuse were galloping northward at a brisk pace, keeping well to the westward of town, so as not to attract attention.

They forded the Gallatin, then rode along the valley, keeping the river in view. The scout hoped by hard riding to get within view of the horsemen before dark.

The sun was barely two hours high, and from a slight elevation where they had pulled in to allow the horses to breathe the scout was scanning the plain through a field glass.

“Ah!” he exclaimed at last. “I was searching too far for them. Cayuse, I think we are in for some fun. Our men are trying to cross the river, and the ford is high and running wild. I guess they must have had a cloudburst to the northward yesterday or last night. Those fellows are attempting to reach our side of the river, but I don’t think they have seen us.”

“Ugh! Mebbe so we got near in cottonwood, watch um.”

“It’s a good notion, Cayuse,” answered the scout, reining Bear Paw toward the river bottom, along which were dense thickets of willow and cottonwood.

A mile farther on they halted in the thick green growth from which they could watch the manœuvres of the party on the opposite shore. Several ponies were dripping on the bank, as though their riders had attempted to stem the current and had given it up.

A group of half a dozen were working over one man, occasionally holding him up by the heels.

“Him all same drink too much,” observed Cayuse.

The scout smiled, but he was watching something far up river. At first he thought it a cabin that had been swept away. Then he decided that it was a great tree that had been uprooted and torn from its footing.

Nearer it came in the raging river, and, finally, as the party on the opposite side discovered it, they began dashing about, shouting and gesticulating, as if apparently they had formed some plan to utilize the tree in crossing.

The scout and Cayuse were interested but unseen spectators, and at last they saw what these cowboys hoped to do.

In the middle of the river was a jutting ledge. If the tree, which was whirling in mid-stream, would strike the ledge and swing around they would attempt to rope the end next to them. If successful and the sweep of the great lever could be held, they could cling to rope and tree and reach the shoal water on the opposite side.

The floating tree could not have behaved better. It struck the ledge branches foremost, slid along until more than half its length had passed the rock, and then paused, the current gradually swinging the roots toward the bank on which the men were waiting.

With a cheer several cowboys rode into the river with ready riatas. As the butt swung slowly but steadily toward them, two coils swept through the air and settled over a stout root which had been broken. Galloping up the bank, the men made the ropes fast in a clump of cottonwoods, and were ready for another attempt to cross the river.

The current was increasing every moment, and even though the worst part of the torrent was spanned it was no easy job to gain the other side.

Up to this time Buffalo Bill had not discovered that he recognized any of the party, but now a tall man rode down on a rangy sorrel horse and headed across.

“Him all same Red Dick,” said Little Cayuse.

“So it is!” exclaimed the scout. “Now, I can surmise what they are here for. Red has either escaped or been acquitted. If the former he is making a getaway. If the latter he is hunting for Fighting Dan to get square.”

Red Dick chose the up-river side of the lariats and reached the roots of the tree in good order, his horse swimming nobly, but it was a struggle to round the roots and gain the trunk, where it seemed harder work for the tired animal. The water sucked under the great log and threatened to pull both horse and rider down, too.

Then Red Dick clambered from the saddle to the tree trunk holding the bridle and both relieving the animal of his weight and helping its progress by the rein.

At the bushy top Red Dick’s progress was slow and difficult. He clambered over and through the branches, clinging to the rein and handicapping the horse. He had nearly reached the top, and was preparing for the last desperate struggle, when there came a startling interruption that promised disaster.

All eyes had been fixed on the progress of Red Dick, and no one had seen another tree which came sweeping along on the side of the river next the party of cowboys.

As Red Dick, clinging with one hand to the branches and with the other to his horse’s bridle, was about to launch himself into the saddle, the second derelict struck the taut lariats, and carried the roots of the first tree downstream, while the top in which Red Dick was perched swept upstream against the current at ten miles an hour.

The horse was swept under and Red Dick doused to the top of his sombrero. But he clung to the branches and came up sputtering and gasping.

The horse arose and gained the bank, where it began to crop the grass unconcernedly.

The anchor ropes had snapped under the strain, and the second tree had sailed on, but the first still clung to the rock, only it had changed position, and, instead of being across the current, the heavier root held its place downstream, and the top bobbed up and down in the washing waves above the rocks.

There Red Dick clung desperately and bellowed for help. The water forced him in among the branches, so that he could not pull himself up over them and gain anything like a comfortable position on top. And now and then the surging waters seemed to delight in lifting the butt and roots of the tree and ducking the red topknot of Dick in the murky depths.

At this stage a second party of horsemen appeared at the ford, on the side where the scout and Cayuse sat watching the fun. It was Fighting Dan and half a dozen well-armed sheepmen who had evidently set out for town.

They took in the situation and Red Dick’s predicament. Fighting Dan slid from his saddle and haw-hawed long and loud, slapping his buckskins and shaking his head in glee. His men, too, joined in a merry chorus, but kept their fingers on the triggers of their rifles, for across the river were twice their number of the enemy.

“So yer lookin’ fer me, are ye, Red?” yelled Dan, his voice echoing above the roar of the angry waters.

Red couldn’t reply just then, for one of his periodical duckings was coming.

When he came up choking, Fighting Dan resumed:

“Better look out er ye’ll put out ther fire in that ole red pate o’ yourn! Say, Red, honest now, what makes ye go in swimmin’ when ther drink is so muddy? Take yer medercine coollike, Red, ’cause yer know arter er chap shoots up his betters an’ gits ’quitted, fate allers does this ter ’im, ter cool ’im off.

“An’, then, ergin, Red, if yer can part comp’ny with that thar tree long ernough ter come over hyar I’ll lend ye some dry ammernution fer yer gun, an’ we’ll play high rooster in ther grass.”

Red Dick made no reply to the taunts of Dan. He was in no position to offer offense or defense. He was becoming tired and hopeless. He could see that no move had been made toward his rescue; in fact, there seemed nothing the men could do.

Fighting Dan rode down in the water to his horse’s sides and shouted to Red Dick:

“Say, Red, blamed ’f I b’lieve yer was born ter be drownded—yer’d look better hangin’. An’ I hates ter set hyar an’ see yer miss yer fate. What yer say, Red, had ye druther slop under an’ die now like er man er come ershore an’ take yer charnces with me?”

Red Dick gasped: “Save me!”

Fighting Dan slowly uncoiled his lariat, then he watched the loops as he arranged them immediately, and then turned to Dick.

“I hates ter do it an’ I hates not ter, so thar ye be, Red. I’m goin ’ter try ye once an’ ’f I git ye, yer hangs. Thet’s fair, ain’t it?”

The riata was swirling slowly about the dark man’s head.

The rope seethed through the air, and settled about Red’s neck, and was drawn taut, just as he was going under again.

Fighting Dan wheeled his horse and dug his spurs deep. The animal splashed furiously up the bank, while the swirling body of Red Dick at the end of the lariat fairly made the water boil.

Fighting Dan slid from his horse, loosened the coils about Red’s neck, threw the half-conscious man over on his face, and gave him a resounding slap between the shoulders.

“You shore missed drowndin’ by ther skin o’ yer neck,” remarked Dan, as the gasping, nearly suffocated man showed signs of reviving.

“Ye see ’f I hadn’t skun yer neck with ther rope ye’d been swimmin’ fer Davy Jones’ place o’ business now.”

“What ye goin’ ter do with me?” croaked Red.

“Yer fate ain’t fully settled yet, Red, but I shore think hangin’ is much more becomin’ ter yore style er beauty; don’t yer, Red?”

Buffalo Bill watched Fighting Dan out of sight with his prisoner. About the latter’s neck a lariat was tied just tight enough so as not to be choking, yet too close to permit of being slipped. The prisoner was allowed to cling to the saddlehorn and run by the side of the easily loping horse—and so they disappeared over the hill.

The scout realized that this hanging talk was all for the prisoner and his friends, and that the spectacular manner of Red Dick’s taking away was also to impress the men on the opposite side of the river, who were raving and yelling themselves hoarse in threats at Fighting Dan.

Buffalo Bill had seen enough of the big gambler to know that he would not seriously injure Red Dick, but had no doubt there would be a near lynching to scare the prisoner.

Turning back on the trail until dark, the scout and Cayuse went into camp, deciding to remain until very early in the morning and then ride for town so as to reach there early in the day. They had turned in scarcely more than an hour when they were awakened by hoofbeats of horses hard pushed. The riders were coming down river at a stiff gallop and directly at the camp of the scout.

“Make um saddle quick,” said Cayuse, springing up. “Him cowboys, Pa-e-has-ka,” continued the Indian boy. “No Injun ride same paleface puncher.”

“I’ll bet it’s Red Dick’s men, who have ridden to the upper ford, and crossed, and are now after Dan and his crowd,” said the scout.

The party went thundering by within a few rods, but did not see Cody and Cayuse. It was the cowboys from Bozeman, and there could be no mistaking their mission. They were shouting ribald threats as they rode, each trying to outdo his comrades in voicing what he would do to Fighting Dan.

“Something of an effort to keep up their courage, I should say,” remarked the scout.

“Ugh! Crows holler loud, all same fly ’way when eagle come,” offered Cayuse.

Once more the neighborhood was quiet and our friends were not disturbed, until just at the break of day Navi aroused the human branch of the expedition by a shrill and prolonged neigh.

Cayuse sprang up and approached his pinto to note the direction the sensitive nostrils were pointed.

When he returned he said, pointing to the west:

“Injun ponies that way. Mebbyso Crow warriors go cross.”

“Well, I guess we don’t care for their company, so we had better canter along ahead.”

As they were about to mount, an Indian pushed through a clump of willows, rode to within ten feet of the scout, stoically refraining from word or glance until he had halted his pony. Then, fixing his piercing eyes on the scout, the Indian said:

“What Pa-e-has-ka do here?”

Buffalo Bill looked steadily at the handsome Indian for a moment, and then answered as he advanced with extended hand:

“To help good Indians like White-man-runs-him against bad palefaces.”

“Ugh! Pa-e-has-ka heap brave paleface. Always friend of red man. Only one like um—Old Curly.”[A]

“Yes, chief, the Boy General is a friend of the Indians, and so is Buffalo Bill. The Great Father at Washington has sent Pa-e-has-ka here to stop the paleface robbers from stealing the red man’s land, blankets, and game.”

“Better stop bad palefaces selling fire-water to red man, too.”

“White-man-runs-him speaks well. His words are true.”

“Pa-e-has-ka heap brave and strong. Great Spirit love Pa-e-has-ka and Old Curly.”

The Indian turned his pony and rode away.

“Him honest Injun,” ventured Little Cayuse.

“Yes, Cayuse; good and brave, and he loves his people.”

At Bozeman the first man they saw that morning was Price. He was apparently in great haste and did not notice the scout and Little Cayuse. They rode into a stable, and Cayuse immediately started after Price on foot, at Buffalo Bill’s request.

The scout went to the hotel and waited; but he had hardly seated himself near the window and was preparing for a good smoke, when a young man hurried in and asked the clerk for W. F. Cody.

The scout overheard and answered.

“A note for you, sir,” the young man said.

He handed the scout a sealed envelope and went out without waiting for a reply or giving Cody an opportunity to ask questions.

The note read:

It was the signature of the young physician who had so favorably impressed the scout when he attended Hickok.

The scout made hurried inquiries and learned that the Mason & Moore ranch lay thirty miles to the northeast, up toward Crazy Mountains. He decided to wait until noon for Cayuse; if the Piute had not arrived at that time he would go alone.

Cayuse had not returned and at 1 p. m. the scout ordered Bear Paw saddled, and departed, after leaving word with the clerk for Little Cayuse when he should come.

If Price and his men had planned to first separate and then destroy the band of Uncle Sam’s workers, their plans were certainly working to perfection. Skibo and Nomad were caring for Wild Bill at the abandoned mine; Buffalo Bill was on a blind errand into a strange country, while Cayuse had disappeared in the wake of the chief villain of them all.

Buffalo Bill would have had his suspicions aroused by a message from almost any other person in the town, but he had formed an opinion of the young physician that was wholly favorable to the man.

He had left the town an hour behind when two men set out in the same direction.

Buffalo Bill passed a tumble-down hut with slovenly surroundings, but did not pause. When he had galloped ten miles beyond he was surprised by the boom of three heavy guns back in the direction of Bozeman. They were fired at intervals of about thirty seconds.

The scout wondered what it could mean, for he recognized the voice of an artillery piece—it was not a blast, as the uninitiated might suspect.

At mid-afternoon he was approaching a pass in a rough section of country, and the trail showed little usage. The sides of the ravine were broken and precipitous, while the banks of a small stream along which the trail ran were thickly clothed in willow. The scout, half instinctively, looked to his guns, and rode erect and alert in his saddle.

Somehow those three heavy reports had put a suspicion in his mind. Bear Paw was nervous. He pranced along the narrow trail uneasily, with sensitive ears darting forward and back to catch every sound, and nostrils breathing a half snort at every breath.

Suddenly the intelligent animal sprang forward so quickly as to almost unseat a rider who had never been thrown, and as he did so several rifle shots rang out and bullets whistled about the head of the scout.

The shots had been fired from both sides of the trail by men secreted in the dense growth. The nervousness of the horse had for the moment saved the scout’s life. The horse skimmed along the trail like a bird on the wing as the scout wheeled in the saddle with rifle ready to greet any who might try for a second shot.

In that position the scout was illy prepared for the next dastardly move of the men bent on taking his life.

A rope suddenly lifted ahead of the horse. The animal tripped over it, and plunged headlong down an embankment where river and trail veered sharply, and its rider was hurled far over, landing in several feet of muddy water and struggling to the surface half stunned by the impact.

The horse regained its feet and limped up the bank. The man swept the water from his eyes, and started to follow the horse, when four rifles clicked and a hoarse voice shouted:

“Say your prayers while I’m countin’ twenty, Buffalo Bill, for then you die.”

After Buffalo Bill and Little Cayuse had left their pards and the prisoner near the old mine in the mountains, old Nomad found time hanging heavily on his hands. He felt just a little hurt that the scout had not selected him for a companion on this trip instead of the Piute.

“Waugh! Ov all ther tarnation picnics yourn truly ever stacked up erginst this is ther plumb wust—jest leanin’ up ergin er rock fer erbout er month o’ Sundays ter see ’f ther pesky thing rises er sinks.

“I’ve been propped up here for two hull hours sence Buffler rode out er sight, an’ I hain’t so much ez seen er bird. I’m gwine ter huntin’ rattlers round this hyar mounting, an’ see ’f I can’t stir up some ’xcitement.”

“Are you uneasy, Nomad?” asked Hickok.

“Now, lookahere, pard! D’yu ever yank er catfish out on ther sand an’ then watch ’im flop? Waal, whut d’yu think erbout his bein’ oneasy an’ lonesome?”

“Why don’t you and Skibo wrestle?”

“Huh? Who—Skibo an’ me? Say, Hick, yer jokin’. When I wrassles I want a man ’cordin ’ter my strength, an’ science, an’ good looks. Now, thet thar Skibo, he ain’t in my class, noways. He might wrassle with a bull thet girted ’bout eight feet, but ’f I sh’d git holt er him I sh’d break ’im in two.”

“Yah, yah! Mars’ Hickok, an’ den dar’d be two niggahs in de rock pile.”

“Waal, I’ll be gumdastercated!”

This exclamation caused the others to look at Nomad, who was staring, half wildly and half happily, out across the plain. They followed his gaze and saw three Indians on ponies just emerging from the thick growth beyond the lift of a terrace, half a mile to the west.

Another and another followed, until fifteen were in view, riding eastward in a leisurely manner.

“Why’n ther blue kinks o’ my curly hair, couldn’t them thar pesky reds ha’ come this way an’ started sumthin’? Sufferin’ wild cats! How my muscles ache, an’ how my brain itches! Say, Hick, whar d’yu s’pose them pesky redskins air goin’?”

“I could tell better, Nomad, if I knew what brand of reds they are.”

“Waal, s’posin’ they’re Crows, whar they goin’?”

“Home.”

“S’posin’ they’re Sioux?”

“Then they have probably been into mischief or are looking for it.”

“Thet’s jest what I nachally concluded—them thar red hoss thiefs ain’t round hyar jest ’cause they’re prowlin’, but ’cause sumbuddy wants um hyar. Now, I figgers thet they’ve been sent for by some o’ them Bozeman scoundrels an’ thet they’re goin’ up ’mong them buttes jest below ther town ter wait fer dark.”

“Perhaps that’s it, Nomad,” answered the Laramie man wearily.

“I say, Hick; you’n Skibo ’r’ all right; I believe I’ll git Hide-rack an’ sashay over thet way, an’ see what I can diskiver.”

“Well, don’t get into trouble till Cody comes back.”

“No, no! I won’t. Hick,” promised Nomad, in childish glee at being able to get away so easily.

Nomad’s evident pleasure at the prospect of some sort of excitement was a relief to Hickok, who, as well as he liked the veteran trapper, tired of the latter’s fretting if in any way restrained.

Old Nomad put spurs to Hide-rack, and tore across the little plain as though his life depended upon overtaking the party of Indians, when, in fact, he did not intend to come in contact with them at all, or even to have them see him. In this he blundered.

Half an hour after leaving his companions among the hills, Nomad rounded a rift of rock and came into a little vale thickly grown with willows. He leaned over his horse’s neck to scrutinize the signs of the passing party of Indians as he entered the growth, and then felt himself suddenly jerked from the saddle to land sprawling on his back, and a couple of brawny Indians held him there and proceeded to bind him, as Nomad expressed it—“hoof an’ tail.”

“Howlin’ heifercats!” shouted Nomad, as he struggled with his captors. “What d’yu red mummies reckon you’d hitched onter, anyhow? Guess you don’t know ole Nomad, du ye?”

This was grunted out disjointedly as the trapper wrenched and fought with his captors.

“By ther great horn spoon an’ er dozen little ladles, I’ll wring ther dirty necks ov nine er ’leven o’ yer pesky heifercats!”

Old Nomad was wasting his breath and strength, for in spite of the terrific fight he put up the two braves gradually overpowered him, and he was finally helpless, with hands and feet in the firmly knotted loops of a lariat.

“Ugh!” grunted one of them. “Heap hard nut to crack.”

“Yer hain’t got ’im cracked yit, nuther, yer red loafer. I’ll be fishin’ in ther Yallerstun when yore great gran’-childern be er chasin’ ghosts er foxes in ther happy huntin’ groun’s.”

“Big tongue; many wiggle!” said the other Indian solemnly.

Nomad strained savagely at his bonds in anger.

“I won’t stand any more o’ yer sass, ye b’iled apology fer a decent heathen. Take off this rawhide, an’ gi’ me a chance at both o’ ye, an’ I’ll knock ye inter sixteen kinds o’ cocked hats in jest erbout ’leven shakes ov er little lamb’s last piece o’ mutton.”

Other Indians came, and the trapper at least realized that he was a prisoner, and that in spite of his taunting he could not draw from them why he had been thus treated or who had ordered these indignities.

The trapper was placed under guard, and passed a weary day, while all the Indians but the one who sat smoking with a rifle across his knees departed.

“Don’t that beat ole split-huff hisself?” mourned Nomad, as he saw the redskins depart. “Only that pesky cigar sign stuck up thar on er rock ter ’muse myself with. Hey, Indian! Why don’t yer say suthin’ er do suthin’ ter keep comp’ny from gittin’ homesick? Say, yer red-skinned mummy, I’ll give yer the fust shot if you’ll come inter a game ov take turns as er target.”

No answer.

“What yer say, red, do ut? Aw! Ye wooden head, why don’t ye grunt?”

Nomad subsided again. He was disgusted with himself and everybody else. He had started out to hunt excitement, and here he was with nothing to do and no prospect of anything happening right away. It was worse than watching over Hickok and the prisoner—then he could smoke.

But early in the evening the Indians returned and with them a white man. The latter kept beyond the range of Nomad’s vision in the bushes, except for occasional glimpses as the party moved about.

After a long confab with the Indians, the white man, with a handkerchief tied over the lower part of his face, came for a look at the prisoner.

“Uv all ther white-faced heifercats! I’d give er nine-dollar bill ter git er paw on ye, ye white-livered coyote. Yer too low ter ’sociate with ther meanest redskin this side ther river Styx. Say, if you’ll cut this hyar rope I’ll fix yer in er minyit so’s you wouldn’t know yerself—’thout any rag tied over yer face.”

The fellow made no reply, but said loud enough so that Nomad could hear:

“No, it isn’t Buffalo Bill, but he’s one of the gang; dispose of him.”

Nomad laughed uproariously.

“Haw! haw! haw! Ther reds took me fer Buffler! Waal, thet sets me up some ’f not more. Guess Buffler’d feel complermented. I suttinly hopes I live long ernough ter tell that to ’im.”

Ominously the words sounded in the hush that followed the pronunciation of the death sentence on Buffalo Bill—“One, two, three!”

The scout had been dazed by the long flight through the air and impact with the water. He scarcely realized the import of the words.

“Four, five, six!” the counting continued slowly, while the arms of four men settled into rigidity, holding four frowning rifle muzzles on the human target.

“Seven, eight, nine!” the counting went on relentlessly, while four checks settled more firmly on the rifle stocks and four eyes gleamed along the shining steel.

“Ten, eleven, twelve!” and the scout had begun to understand the situation.

“Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen!”

Standing waist-deep in the muddy water, the scout suddenly realized that four shining rifles were aimed at his heart, and a sonorous voice was saying:

“Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen!”

Two seconds more and those leaden messengers would pierce his body.

In his hazy struggle to reclaim his mind the scout had dropped his hands helplessly into the water at his sides. Now both came up suddenly, sending a shower, and at the same instant he threw himself sidewise with a great splash.

Four rifles cracked as one, and as many bullets cut the spray where the scout had stood.

The marksmen had been startled and confused by the manœuvre, and blazed away together at the spot they were holding on. But the scout was not there, and before they had recovered from their surprise he was bounding up the bank like a deer.

Two other shots went wild, and then Buffalo Bill’s revolvers got busy from somewhere in the underbrush along the bank, and the four riflemen and the one who had pronounced the death sentence ducked for cover.

In spite of their wetting the scout’s revolvers were in working condition.

“One! two! three!” he shouted, sending as many bullets into the bushes after the tumbling, panicky thugs, who had heard Buffalo Bill’s reputation as a shot.

“Here, Bear Paw, lively now!” called the scout to his horse, as he darted into a dense thicket. The intelligent animal hastened after his master.

As the scout was swinging into the saddle an Indian appeared before him and said:

“Come, Pa-e-has-ka.”

The scout recognized White-man-runs-him, the friendly trailer who was destined, within a few months, to play a prominent part in one of the most thrilling dramas in the history of conflicts with American Indians.

The Indian sprang across a little open space, with Bear Paw at his heels. After many devious turns and manœuvres among the rocks the Indian emerged upon the plain and pointed a little to the south of the setting sun.

“Bozeman is there; white bad men here; Pa-e-has-ka have care.”

The scout reached his hand, and for a moment solemnly clasped that of the red brother; then, pulling a beautiful pearl-handled hunting knife from his own belt, he passed it hilt foremost to the Indian.

“Never soil it with innocent blood, brother,” he said, and rode away.

The Indian stood with the handsome knife in his hand, looking first at it and then after the figure of a horseman that was rapidly disappearing in the swiftly falling night.

If the red lips formed a vow there was none to hear, but in swiftly following events that knife figured, and was in the famous battle in which General Custer and nearly three hundred brave men fell.

Little Cayuse had no difficulty in keeping the rascally Price in sight, and when the latter entered a lonely cabin on the outskirts of the town the Piute was not far away. He saw from safe concealment another man come out and peer intently about, as if fearing eavesdroppers, and then pass around the cabin to discover if any person might be hiding in the shadows near by.

Then, before the fellow had barely closed the door, the silent moccasins of Little Cayuse had covered the distance to the hut, and their owner was searching the walls for crack or crevice by which he could see and hear what was going on within. The search was unrewarded, and Cayuse sought other means.

Near the hut was an overgrown, much-tangled willow, which reached out as if to embrace this little habitation of man. Cayuse allowed an “Ugh!” of satisfaction to escape him as he swung into the tree with the agility of a monkey.

Out on the largest branch which overhung the roof of the shanty, the Indian youth crept, and was soon perched alongside a hole at the back of the wide stone chimney. From this position he could look into the single room below through the big fireplace in which no fire had been lighted. By leaning far forward with his head in the chimney, he could hear distinctly the words of the men.

There were four besides Price in the cabin, and at times each passed near enough to the chimney flue so that Cayuse obtained a good view of their features.

The five men finally sat around a rough table and got down to business. Price was the first to broach the all-important subject.

“Well, Sawyer; what’s the word from Washington? You say you were ordered here in haste.”

“I am going all along the line to Oregon to put the boys on their guard and to tell them what we have learned of conditions in the Indian reservations.”

“Don’t you suppose we know conditions on the reservations as well as you do in Washington?” asked Price.

“Not if you give your time to gambling and drinking poor rum,” Sawyer answered.

“Who’re you shooting at? I don’t do either one to any extent that hurts.”

“I didn’t say you did, but somebody is doing it, and is not contented with a fair thing, but is robbing the Indians so barefacedly that there is going to be an uprising. Then, too, things are being carried on so boldly and openly that the government is getting wise to the ‘ring,’ and there is no telling when the axe will fall in high places in Washington.”

“You’re always whining at Washington about its fellows out here. We do the dirty work and take all the kicks, and you fellows gobble all the proceeds.”

“You know better than that, Price. As near as I can find out you are salting away more plunder than any other along the line. We give you credit for organizing county officials and courts, but you ought to manage to let the reds have enough to keep them fairly contented or do something to pacify them. The devil is to pay now. Sitting Bull has declined to sign a treaty giving up any more lands, and he refuses to agree to remain upon a reservation.”

“Let the government teach him a lesson, then.”

“That is a good sight easier said than done, Price; and, then, again, what is to become of your occupation and mine if we have a war with the Sioux? The Bad Lands are swarming with Sioux warriors now. Sitting Bull is the most powerful Indian in America, and in case of a government movement against them there will be a good deal of blood shed, and the country will demand an investigation of the cause.”

“How do you know so much about Sitting Bull and his warriors in the Bad Lands? We haven’t heard anything about it here.”

“That is just the trouble, Price. You fellows out here don’t attempt to keep track of things. Small bands of reds are making their way down the Gallatin Valley every day, and because they don’t come yelling and shooting into town you think they are a thousand miles away.

“For months the department has been attempting to soothe the feelings of the Sioux, while Cody, Custer, Crook, Gibbon, and Terry have been making a study of the situation. Their reports are filed in Washington, and matters are looking serious. Cody is in this territory, somewhere, now.”

“He won’t be long.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I have my trap all set, and Mr. Buffalo Bill will soon come up among the missing.”

“Now, look here, Price. I believe you are determined to wreck the whole business. You speak of putting Buffalo Bill out of the way as if it were as easy as the killing of a yellow dog. Why don’t you let up and keep quiet while he is in this part of the country, instead of getting in deeper by trying to beat a better man than you at his own game?”

“Well, Sawyer, I like your nerve. You talk to me as if I was a boy of about fifteen. Do you suppose I am playing any ordinary hand of cards against Cody? If you do you are mistaken; but I said he is soon to drop out of the counting, and he is.”

“Very well, Price; when I get back at the capital, I’ll tell them where you went to.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that when you spring your trap you will find you are the one who is in it, and Buffalo Bill will be looking for other easy game.”

In his zeal to learn all with reference to Pa-e-has-ka, Little Cayuse had climbed up the tree and out upon another limb, intending to quietly reach the roof and hunt for some means of entering the cabin. As it happened, however, the branch slipped from under him, and he dropped upon the roof with a thud, crashing through the flimsy covering and landing on a few loose boards that separated the loft from the lower room in which the men were seated.

There was no escape. He was in plain view of the heavily armed men below, and surrender was the only course open. In five minutes Cayuse was a prisoner and under guard by the demand of Sawyer, who countermanded Price’s order that the Piute be shot at once. Price told Sawyer that Cayuse was a trailer for Buffalo Bill and already knew too much, but the man from Washington, in spite of his dishonest calling, realized that the very violence of the methods of the “ring” would prove to be its own executioner. There were far too many such men as Price and his followers.

Buffalo Bill reached the hotel at Bozeman late that night, and learned that Little Cayuse had not returned. He also, by careful inquiry, discovered that the doctor was in Virginia City.

After a brief halt for food and rest for himself and horse, the scout pushed on to the mountains southward, for he was anxious regarding Wild Bill’s condition, and he half hoped that Little Cayuse had returned there.

It was halfway from midnight to daylight when the scout was challenged by the stern:

“Halt, dar! Who be yeh?”

“It’s all right, Skibo.”

“Bless my soul; it’s Mars’ Billyum hisse’f! We’s pow’ful glad, too, Mars’ Billyum; dat’s what we is.”

“What is going wrong, Skibo?”

“Eberyting jes nachally gone to de debil, Mars’ Billyum.”

“What is it, Skibo; is Hickok worse?”

“No; but he’s so mad he jes’ can’t hol’ him skin ober ’is bones.”

“Well, well, what is it all about, Skibo?”

“In de fust place, Nomad he done git oneasy, an’ jes’ nachally couldn’t stan’ it. So he done mount Hide-rack an’ slide out, an’ we hain’t seen him no mo’. Den, jes’ ’fore midnight dat measly pris’ner wiggle outen his rope an’ skedaddle. Mars’ Hickok done discober ’im jes’ in time to wing ’im. But ’e got erway, swearin’ awful.”

“Cayuse hasn’t, returned?” asked the scout.

“No, sah; we hain’t seen ’im sence yo’ an’ he went away dat mawnin’, Mars’ Billyum.”

They were approaching the little shelter where the Laramie man had lain during his convalescence, and found the latter in no pleasant mood.

Hickok related the story of Bloody Ike’s escape, and told how old Nomad had gone away, promising to return in a short time.

Hickok’s condition was so much improved that he proposed to ride into town that morning, but the scout advised against it.

The scout himself was worn out from his wearying work of the last forty-eight hours and scanty opportunities for rest. He decided to sleep for a few hours, and then set out in search of Nomad and Cayuse.

Hickok remained on guard, and with the first streak of light was scanning the plains, hoping for a glimpse of the fleeing Bloody Ike; but if that worthy had left the hills he had reached town during the hours of darkness.

Before setting out in the morning Buffalo Bill got all the particulars of Nomad’s departure and where he was last seen to disappear behind the table-land near the town. The scout cautioned Hickok and Skibo to be constantly on guard against their late prisoner. He feared that Bloody Ike had not left the hills and would attempt some sort of vengeance. So Cody cautioned them to keep well behind the rocks where Ike could not pick them off from a distance with a rifle and to be ready for an attempted bomb throwing. The scout knew that the former boss of mine explosives would welcome the opportunity to blow them all into eternity.

The scout readily found the place where old Nomad had met the enemy and guessed that the trapper had been ambushed and overpowered there. But he saw no blood, and decided that Nick had been made a prisoner and was perhaps somewhere in the vicinity now, under guard.

As he studied his surroundings he heard the shrill neigh of a horse. Bear Paw threw up his head, and would have answered, but the scout clapped a hand over his horse’s nose. He then slipped on a muzzle he had used before, and, leading Bear Paw into a dense thicket, hitched him there, and began further investigation on foot.

Once more the whinny of a horse reached him, and the scout had no doubt it must be Hide-rack. He knew it was not the call of an Indian pony.

At last he gently pushed aside the thick foliage and peered into a little clearing where Hide-rack was alternately feeding and sniffing the air in the direction of the place where Bear Paw was tethered.

Carefully scanning the little opening, the scout saw that a few rods beyond was another, farther in among the rocks. Keeping to the thickest part of the growth, he skirted the first opening, and approached the other. And then Cody heard:

“Say, ye pizen red helgominian heifercat, why don’t ye do suthin’? Ye set thar an’ smok’ yerself black in ther face an’ never offer me er pipe.”

The scout peeped out and saw his pard trussed up like a pig for market, while near him sat a solitary guard, pulling at a red clay pipe.

The Indian was as motionless and silent as a statue as Nomad kept up his tirade of abuse. Buffalo Bill noiselessly left the cover and approached the Indian’s back.

Old Nomad saw and understood. He increased his torrent of invective to cover the noise of a possible slip of Pa-e-has-ka’s moccasin.

But there was no discovery until the scout’s sinewy hand slipped around the Indian’s throat, and the silent struggle was soon ended.

The redskin was unharmed, but bound firmly, then gagged, and left in the place lately occupied by the trapper.

Buffalo Bill asked the Indian if his companions would return at night, and received an affirmative nod, so he and Nomad rode away to the hills again.

That night the scout himself remained on guard and sent Nomad, Hickok, and Skibo to rest. Cody was somewhat anxious regarding Little Cayuse, and he felt confident that Bloody Ike was still in that region and would attempt some sort of an attack on the party.

The shelter of brush and blankets was in a thicket of stunted willow, which grew on a sort of stair of the mountain. Ten rods away was an entrance to the abandoned mine. Along one side and four or five rods away was a fall of sixty or seventy feet. On the other side and not more than three rods from camp was another “rise” of thirty to fifty feet.

The scout had cautioned his pards to stick close to the thicket, in which were great blocks of rocks in uneven, toppling piles. Here they were comparatively safe from the bullets of a lurking enemy on the heights above. The scout believed that Bloody Ike knew every turn of the old mine, and as a hiding place it could hardly have an equal. A man with guns and ammunition could defy an army. He could bob up in unexpected places and pick off a man and then disappear.

As soon as it was dark the scout stole out of camp and climbed to a good position upon the rocks above. There he lighted his pipe and settled down to a solitary vigil. In the shadow of a clump of bushes he could not be seen, while he commanded a view of the moonlit rocks all about him, and from where he sat he could see both entrances to the old mine.

The scout turned over in his mind the incidents of the last few days, and wondered at the rapidity of developments. He was opposing a well-organized gang, as every incident indicated. In the attempt to decoy him to his death the villains had made use of a small cannon as a signal. There were not only white rascals in the gang, but they had enlisted the services of various bands of Indians such as the one which had captured Nomad. The members of the gang, or at least some of them, placed no value on human existence. A man’s life would be taken with as little compunction as that caused by the killing of a snake or a rat.

“What in the name of common sense is that?”

The scout’s muttered exclamation had been called forth by something which came into view on the bare, flat top of the mountain beyond and above the upper entrance to the mine.

It was a gray object, the very color of the rock along which it moved noiselessly, and could not have been distinguished had it not been outlined against the sky beyond.

The thing was moving toward the edge of the descent very slowly, as though having no object in life whatever.

It was a shapeless mass, anyway, or seemed to be, perhaps distorted by the moonlight and its own shadow. From all the scout could make out it might be a small haystack or a cord of wood out for a ramble.

With rifle ready, for the scout was suspicious of this peculiarity, he watched the thing approach the very edge of the precipice and pause. There it rested, minute after minute, as motionless as the rock itself, until the scout began to wonder if it had not all been an optical illusion, and that he had been glaring at a great bowlder perched on the brink of the abyss.

The scout rubbed his eyes, glanced away for a moment, and then looked back.

Again he was surprised into a smothered exclamation.

The thing had grown a head. But its head was in proportion to its size as that of a turtle. And it had grown out of the flat top of the body—it was still growing.

The head was followed by a pair of human shoulders, and then an arm was raised aloft, and in the hand was an object plainly outlined against the sky.

It was the head, shoulders, and arms of a man, and the arm was about to hurl something into the bushes far below.

Like lightning the scout’s rifle went into position, and just as the arm launched its missile there was a sharp crack, followed instantly by a thunderous roar and blinding flash at the crest of the mountain.

When the smoke had cleared away and the scout’s eyes became accustomed to the moonlight again, he saw that the strange craft of the clifftop had been wrecked. And out of the wreck an animated object was moving along the bare rock. Then the moving thing sprang into a human form and ran along the rocks for a short distance to disappear where the strange object had first appeared to the scout.

Buffalo Bill had again raised his rifle, but lowered it with a chuckle.

“Guess Bloody Ike got a surprise party that time,” he said.

Down below old Nomad sang out:

“Are ye all right, Buffler?”

“Yes; go to sleep again. I don’t think you will be disturbed again to-night.”

The scout climbed to the top of the rock and examined the wreck. It had been a hogshead heavily padded with cotton waste and blankets in an attempt at bullet-proof construction. Holes in the ends had been sawn out below for the feet of the occupant and in the top for a peep hole, and from which to shoot or hurl missiles.

Bloody Ike had attempted to throw a bomb into the camp of his enemies, and Buffalo Bill’s bullet had caught it just as it left the rascal’s hand. The explosion had destroyed the bullet-proof craft.

When Price’s henchmen brought back word that Buffalo Bill had slipped out of their trap, and made good his escape, and they could not tell in what direction, that worthy was in a savage state of mind.

“Why didn’t you drop ’im from the saddle without any warning when he went by?”

“We tried it, but his horse jumped just as we pulled, and then ran.”

“Well, where was your trip rope that we planned?”

“That worked to perfection and threw the horse. Long Hair plunged into the water, but was out again before we got there.”

The men did not tell Price of the counting incident, and the sensational way in which Buffalo Bill had drawn their fire, and then scared them into the wood with a few shots of his own.

Price was in a rage and asked for Bloody Ike.

“He is the only one of you to be depended on, and he can’t seem to do the thing right,” he stormed.

Then the leader went on:

“The devil is to pay. The Washington end has sent a man on here to shut us off, and wants us to keep dark for a time until the excitement blows over. But we can’t shut down until we get rid of Cody and his band. They know altogether too much, and we’ve got to get rid of them before we can keep dark.

“We captured an Indian boy last night that was spying on us at the hide-out. He is here to trail the Indians for Buffalo Bill, he told us, and I scared him into telling us a lot of Cody’s plans. So now if we don’t settle Mr. Buffalo Bill’s hash we’re a poor lot of tools.

“This Indian boy says Buffalo Bill has a hiding place near the upper ford on the Gallatin River, and I made him describe the country around there to see if he was lying. He told us of seeing Fighting Dan capture Red Dick and how many men each side had. He says Buffalo Bill has ten men with him, and they are going to meet here next week, if they don’t change plans because he is missing. Now, my opinion is that Cody will be in Bozeman within a day or two hunting for the Indian kid, and then is the time we must fix him.”

“How do you propose to do it?” one of the men asked.

“I want you fellows to cut loose and find Ike for me. He can do the job if we can locate the place where Cody stops when he comes to town.”

“That ought to be easy.”

“Yes; that other job was easy, but why didn’t you fellows make good? Now, get busy, and keep your eyes peeled for Buffalo Bill or any of his men, and report to headquarters at once.”

“What did you do with the Indian?”

“He’s in the cellar out at the hide-out. We are going to turn him over to Ten Rattles and his red cutthroats. They’ll take him up the Yellowstone and ‘lose’ him.”

Little Cayuse was indeed in the cellar of the hut where he had played eavesdropper and had dropped through the roof. The shrewd Piute had pretended to be badly scared, and had told a rambling story of what Pa-e-has-ka had planned to do and where he was now and would be in the future, every word of it misleading.

Little Cayuse had taken this part upon himself, hoping Price might think he would be useful to them later and would leave an opportunity for the Piute to learn something more of their plans.

The Indian youth was willing to undergo any hardship if he believed he was serving Pa-e-has-ka. He had faith that he could escape when the proper time should arrive, and contented himself with putting Price on the wrong trail.

Buffalo Bill and Hickok reached the Willow Inn next day, and half an hour later Price was in possession of the news. For reasons of his own Buffalo Bill had divided his forces. Old Nomad and Skibo had moved to another part of the range, a less exposed position which commanded a view of the entire mountaintop, and yet unapproachable except from one direction. Here one man could remain on guard while the other slept and safely await the orders of the scout. At the same time they might learn more of Bloody Ike and his retreat.

When Price heard that Cody had arrived in town his first question was:

“Is there a man at the hotel we can trust?”

“Sure; Fatty Joe is meat cook, an’ Miles Doughty is clerk.”

“Send Doughty over here as soon as he can come, without arousing suspicion.”

Dave lounged into the hotel, bought a drink, loafed around for a time, spoke for a moment with the clerk, bought another drink, and went away. Shortly after the clerk went out and walked directly to Price’s office.

As history records what transpired, we are permitted to follow the plot. Price said:

“Hello, Doughty; I sent for you on important business, but first I must ask if you can be relied on for a little deal that will net you a hundred or so.”

“You bet.”

“Do you know that Buffalo Bill and one of his partners are at your house?”

“I mistrusted as much, for I had heard they were in this part of the country.”

“Well, they are the chaps, all right enough, and they are here for a purpose. They intend to spoil the business of this whole section, pretending they are friends of the Indians. You know in the East they are working up a lot of sympathy for the redskins, and this Cody is playing a high hand for politics. He thinks he is going to be President sometime. Now, we want to get him out of the way in the quietest manner possible. Understand?”

“That’s my name.”

“Are you locked up tight?”

“As mum as a clam in freezing weather.”

“Well, then, here it is: If you can manage to get those fellows drugged, we’ll take them away and keep them out of sight—and pay you well for your part.”

“How could I get them drugged?”

“Easy enough. Couldn’t Fatty Joe fix their food? You know Horsey Al can fix up dope to lay out anything.”

“I’d have to see Fatty. I think he’d go into it if there isn’t to be any real killing. You know he is hiding from a record in the East, and he doesn’t want to do anything shady for a while.”

“Tell him he needn’t worry any about the killing—we’ll take them away to a safe place and keep them a while, and then if the weather gets too thick we’ll cut them loose and skedaddle.”

“I see. Well, I’ll have to talk it over with Fatty, so I’ll be going, but I’ll let you know to-night.”

Price had adopted another scheme because Bloody Ike seemed to have vanished since the night the hotel was blown up. He would have their food drugged, and if the dose proved fatal so much the better. “Horsey Al,” a local horse doctor of shady reputation, had suggested the plot and guaranteed to “lay out” the man who swallowed his “medicine,” and he said he could prepare it so no one could distinguish any peculiarity in the taste of food with which it was mixed.

It seemed the best plot thus far, and Price became quite enthusiastic. The Willow Inn was a large, low, rambling structure that was almost surrounded by trees and shrubbery. In no place was the building more than two stories high, and from any of the windows a drugged man could be removed in the night without discovery or causing suspicion.

If the victims were “doped” at their evening meal, they could be taken away in the early part of the night, and securely hidden before daylight, and every man taking part in it back in town as usual next day.

To detail the carrying out of the plot would occupy space and time, so we will jump to the period where Fatty Joe had followed instructions in the use of a package from Horsey Al, and had served the orders of Buffalo Bill and Wild Bill that night, the food heavily laden with a powerful drug.

Both men were hungry, and ate heartily, then went to their room for a smoke, planning later in the night to slip out of their window and look about town a bit for the missing Cayuse.

But an overpowering drowsiness caught them and held them to their chairs, where Price and his knaves found them an hour later, when they were admitted by the clerk.

Both men were bound and rebound and heavy towels tied over their mouths to guard against any slip if the victims regained their senses.

In this condition Buffalo Bill and his famous pard were taken from a rear window in the darkness, lashed to horses, and carried away into the night.

Price and his gang were jubilant. They had the great scout in their power, and declared among themselves that his career was ended. Now their work could go on, they said, for his pards would soon forsake the trail without his leadership.

At the hut in the outskirts that day Price and his men celebrated the event of Buffalo Bill’s capture. They drank much liquor and renewed their fealty in multiple oaths and rejoicings. Then they brought out Little Cayuse, and taunted him with his master’s helplessness.

Cayuse was in a panic at first when he heard that Pa-e-has-ka had been captured and carried away to some hiding place in the hills. But he kept his ears wide, and after the liquor had flowed freely for a time valuable information also leaked. Cayuse learned that Pa-e-has-ka and Hickok were under guard in the old mine. He also learned that a large consignment of blankets for the Indians had found its way to the mine and was stored there, to be peddled out as opportunity offered to miners and ranchmen.

And among other things which Cayuse picked up that day was the knowledge that large bands of Sioux were marching southward, where they were massing in the Bad Lands. A messenger had come from the region of the Big Horn cañon and reported thousands of Sioux in that locality. All were in their war paint, and they were under the orders of Sitting Bull. Chiefs Gall and Rain-in-the-face were there.

Price and his followers decided to move their principal effects to the mountain stronghold, where they could defy white men or Indians if they were driven to the wall. They would commence at once to store food, liquor, and ammunition, and keep a strong guard posted. Horses, too, were necessary, with hay and grain for them. If the government had a war with the Indians, when it was over business of all kinds would be booming in that part of the country, and the thousands of blankets now on hand would be worth good money.

Late in the day several of the men were laid away to sleep off their celebration. Price went back to town, and those left in charge were none too sure of themselves.

Cayuse thought it was the proper occasion to part company with the crowd, and went about it methodically. He had discovered before this that he could readily release his hands, which were bound with a horsehide lariat. In one corner of the cellar was a place where water filtered through from a sink drain. In this Cayuse held his hands and wrists until the horsehide was thoroughly soaked. He then, by standing on the thongs, stretched the hide until he could pull out one of his hands.

It was a simple matter to remove the rest of his lashings, but not so easy to escape from the cellar and building. Above, in the only room, were eight men, five of them drunk, to be sure, but three with sufficient sense left to realize what the occasion called for if the prisoner attempted to walk away. There were no windows opening out of the cellar.

The stairway was narrow, and a ladder served as a means of entering and leaving the underground apartment. This ladderway was behind the cook stove and wood box.

As soon as dark Cayuse crept up and peeped under the stove into the room, which was dimly lighted by a lantern. Six men were snoring in various positions on floor and stools, and two were smoking and talking, their conversation dealing principally with their compadres, who, they said, “couldn’t stand any liquor.”

Cayuse studied the situation, fixing in his mind the exact positions of the men about the room. He was about to undertake a desperate chance. He went back to the cellar and secured several round, smooth stones. Then he crept back up the ladder again, and listened to the senseless mumbling of the two men who thought they were not drunk.

Poising himself carefully where he could see past the wood box, Cayuse hurled one of the stones with unerring aim at the lantern. With a crash the glass flew in a thousand pieces, and the cabin was instantly in utter darkness.

“Whash ’at?” demanded one of the half-sober men.

“Lan’n ’xploded,” explained the other, with remarkable sang-froid.

“’Xtror’nary!” said the first. “Musht been too full, shame’s shum theshe other fellers.”

“No; draught, cosh chimney too hot.”

“Yesh; ’twash sho many dra’f’s made theshe fellersh hot, too.”

Cayuse crept across the floor, while the guards discussed the cause and effect of the explosion and fumbled for matches.

The door was not fastened, and he let himself outside noiselessly. Then he changed his mind and returned.

The guards were still talking to each other and hunting for matches. Cayuse believed they, too, would soon be in drunken slumber. He had determined to arm himself. They had taken his rifle, also the belt with his revolver and knife, but his precious medicine bag was safe inside his shirt.

Cayuse had noted in the dim light that several rifles and belts were hanging on the wall, but he had not been able to distinguish his own. Now, climbing over the unconscious forms of the outlaws and expecting every moment to see the glare of a match that would reveal him to the enemy, he felt deftly and rapidly along the wall.

“I have ’m now,” chortled one, as he banged against the stove.

“Mashes al’sh over here by shtove.”

“Lookoush not drop ’m in wood box, shet housh ’fire,” cautioned the other, blundering along until he, too, collided with the stove.

“Heresh be!”

The exultant exclamation was immediately followed by a crash, bumpety-bump-bump, then groans and swearing from the lower regions.

One of the men had fallen down into the cellar.

If Cayuse had been of any other race he would most probably have laughed at the comical side of the situation. But Cayuse was busy carrying out rifles, belts, revolvers, knives, and ammunition.

He had found his own outfit, and now he proposed to disarm those who would be most likely to follow him. He carried the arms into a thicket near by, and buried them in brush and leaves, keeping out several of the best revolvers. He thought these might be needed by Buffalo Bill and his pards. Cayuse also carried away all the cartridges.

“Ugh! Heap fool palefaces; drink rum and steal!” The Piute thus summed up his opinion of the gang that had accidentally captured him.

Little Cayuse had determined that his first work should be the release of Pa-e-has-ka and Wild Bill. He had understood that they were under guard in an abandoned mine, and he had no doubt that it was the mine where Bloody Ike had taken refuge. He knew, too, that Skibo and old Nomad were in the mountains, and he hoped to find them before morning.

Cayuse thought of his loved Navi, but the little pinto had been left at the hotel stables, and the Piute did not believe any one would dare remove him. The penalty for horse stealing in that part of the country was greater than for killing a man, red or white.

The Piute pard of Pa-e-has-ka decided to make the trip on foot, and set off at the easy lope of the Indian, and with the instinct of a homing pigeon.

“Hol’ on dar, ye red-an’-yeller debil, er Ah’ll be ’bliged ter send some sinkers ober ’mong yer ribs,” explained a voice, after he had been one hour on the way.

“Ugh! Heap fool, Skibo; don’t know Cayuse.”

“Bress mah soul, if it ain’ de little red pard hisse’f!” and Skibo grasped Cayuse’s hand in a grip that threatened to crush it. The darky insisted on waking up old Nomad to tell him the news, and the veteran trapper was as warm in his greeting as Skibo had been.

“Waal, by ther ’leven-foot horns ov ther old Obadiah! Look et thet thar walkin’ arsenal! Whar ye been, Cayuse, ter pick up thet conglomeration o’ pepper boxes?”

Cayuse briefly related his story and what he had learned of Pa-e-has-ka and Hickok.

Old Nomad was in a frenzy of rage and determination to buckle on his guns and dash into the mine shooting right and left.

Skibo was helpless in his lack of grasp of such a situation. He had no idea of the best method of procedure.

Little Cayuse argued long and earnestly with Nomad.

The Indian boy wished to undertake the investigation of the mine alone. He felt sure that he could discover more in his own way, by stealthily entering and exploring the mine, than the three could do with the unavoidable noise which they would make.

At last old Nomad consented to remain behind, with the understanding that if Cayuse got into trouble or needed help he should give the signal known only among the pards and never described aloud. Then Nomad and Skibo would dash to the rescue and bombard the place.

At last the details were settled, and shortly after midnight the Indian youth crept into the upper mouth of the abandoned mine with the tread of a cougar, and the investigation of the retreat of Price and his gang had begun.

At the place where the inclines from the upper and lower levels of the old mine met, was massed along the timbered walls a strange assortment of plunder gathered by Price and his gang during many months. Here it was that Buffalo Bill and the Laramie man, still unconscious, were taken. And there it was that Price’s men found Bloody Ike. The latter was badly injured. He gloated in the capture of the scout and his pard, and promised, with extravagant delight, to be the death of them.

Ike believed his own injuries due to Buffalo Bill, but he could not understand how it had all come about. The bomb he had prepared to destroy the camp of the scout had exploded just after leaving his hand, and he had narrowly escaped death. He had not distinguished the scout’s rifle shot from the explosion which followed, but he felt that in some way Buffalo Bill had once more defeated him.

Bloody Ike declared that the pair should never leave the shaft alive, whether Price so ordered or not. Two men besides Ike were left to guard the prisoners. The others went back to partake of the celebration on the following day, and we have seen that they carried out their plans.

Price was not told that Little Cayuse had escaped. Two men remained at the hut, ostensibly to guard the prisoner, but in reality to blind the leader to the loss of the prisoner and firearms, while some of them attempted to recover the rifles and revolvers.

Price had immediately set about carrying out his plan to stock the abandoned mine with provision for a long siege. He was shrewd enough to see he was between two fires, and that when the pinch came he would receive no assistance from the Washington side of the ring. Neither could he take refuge among the Indians, for several of the tribes had learned to hate him, and he was safe only with some bands of renegades whom he had employed. A few tough characters, white and red, were still loyal to him, and with these well armed and gathered about him in the mountain stronghold he could defy the government and its officers.

The second night following the carousal at the hut Price had sent a dozen pack mules to the hills laden with supplies of various kinds. Six mounted men went with them, and were to return the following night for another load.

Price was carrying on his preparations with secrecy, in spite of the fact that he believed he had downed Buffalo Bill and his band. He wished to keep the fact that he was furnishing a rendezvous from as many of the people of the town as possible and its location from all except his own men.

But it so happened that Red Dick and half a dozen cowpunchers were coming to town that night for a round of sport. They met the small caravan and wondered what it could mean. They asked the men who were with the pack mules, but received such evasive replies that they determined to learn for themselves where this consignment was going.

Quietly following the trail by the occasional wheezy call of one of the mules, Red Dick and his men were not far behind when the caravan entered the trail that led to the old mine. There they dismounted, and tethered their horses, and followed on foot to the end of the trail.

Red Dick and his men were near enough to hear the challenge of the guard at the lower entrance to the mine, and watched the lanterns disappear down the incline.

Dick had recognized some of the men with the mules, and knew that they were in some way mixed up with Price, and it had been currently reported for a long time that Price was stealing the best of the Indian supplies. Red Dick figured it out that here was another batch of goods that belonged to the government. His narrow but active mind was in a whirl over the discovery. Here were goods that belonged to him as much as to Price. Price was stealing from both government and the Indians. He was hiding his plunder here, and “finding is keeping.”

Red Dick laid the case before his followers. They agreed with him in every particular, and would stand by him to a man.

Then Dick built a plot of his own to obtain possession of the loot. With his men he would hide in the hills and watch, and if all six of Price’s men came out again, after they had gone he would enter and take possession, without any difficulty, and what he and his men could carry away in one day would be worth many hundred dollars. If they did not all come out—well, he would go in, anyway, and once inside, if he had to fight to hold it, he would, for Price wouldn’t dare call on State or Federal officials for aid.

Red Dick and his men decided to remain very near the trail and mount guard all night. They were quite carried away with the prospect.

Very early the following morning Fighting Dan Grey and several gamblers and sporting men, led by an old plainsman, were coming to town. They had heard rumors of an impending Indian uprising, and had seen several bands crossing to the Yellowstone from Flathead Pass. They wanted to know what Bozeman folk had heard.

A short distance outside the town the plainsman noted that a trail of horsemen which he had been following ran into one coming out of Bozeman, and both turned south. He called Fighting Dan’s attention to it, and the latter jumped to the conclusion that one party was made up of Indians, and they were on the trail of some mining party for purposes of robbery.

“S’pose we saunter down thet way an’ see ’f we can’t surprise Mr. Redskin in his funny bus’ness,” suggested Dan.

The entire party veered sharply and cantered toward the hills. As they neared the first ravine where the trail became faint they were surprised to see six men on horseback, leading twice as many mules, coming out. Fighting Dan halted and awaited the approach of Price’s party.

“Seen any Injuns?” asked Dan.

The spokesman of Price’s men feared the presence of this party so near the storehouse, and he hit upon a plan to get rid of them. He answered:

“No; we hain’t seen any sence yistidy. The pesky hoss thieves run off with our mules, an’ we chased ’em so hard they skedaddled into the hills an’ left the mules.”

“Which way’d they go?” asked Dan, feeling this excuse to punish a band of red men was too good to be lost.

“They kep’ south, round the mounting.”

“Guess we better skate down that way a bit; eh, boys?”

“We’re yer highbucks,” came the answer, and away Fighting Dan’s party dashed.

When well beyond the view of the mule men, Fighting Dan pulled up and said:

“Rest yer plugs while Lex and me scouts er bit. Them fellers hain’t seen any Injuns, and their mules hadn’t been stampeded. Some o’ them chaps belong to Price’s gang, and I’ll bet my hoss they had been down here ter hide some guv’ment supplies till they get a chance to ship ’em. Ye see the officers are gittin’ pretty clost hauls on Price, and he’s takin’ care of his stuff. What d’ ye say, boys? Haven’t we a right to a share in ther loot?”

“It’s a safe bet we have, and we are the boys that can take the goods if your human bloodhound can lead us to ’em,” came the reply.

“That’s ther talk! Now, Lex an’ me’ll go on a still hunt fer ther trail, an’ you fellers stay here ready for a charge to the rescue if you hear fireworks. If Price has got any valerbles here he ain’t ther fool ter leave ’em uncovered, an’ it may mean er scrap.”

Fighting Dan and his plainsman set out on foot, and first climbed well into the mountains, where they could command a view of the plain to the northward, to see if the men with the mules kept on. They had held straight toward town, so Dan and his trailer chose the best footing possible back around the mountain to the trail they had left.

At last they saw where the mules had just passed out, and took the back trail into the mountains. A little farther on they discovered that another party on horseback had struck the trail ahead of them and were following in the way the mules had come out.

“Well, I’ll be riddled with forty-fours!” exclaimed Dan. “This gets me all right. Who be these other chaps thet hev jumped ther claim ahead of us?”

“They are white men,” answered Lex, “for their horses are shod.”

“That’s so. Now, let’s go cautious, an’ not run inter any shootin’ bees ’thout havin’ our own powder dry. This is gittin’ as interestin’ as er game o’ odd an’ even, with beans for stake money.”

Half an hour later Fighting Dan and Lex passed around a jutting ledge and beheld six horsemen pulled up in front of the black mouth of the old mine. They seemed to be holding parley with invisible parties in the darkness beyond.

“That’s Red Dick, or I’m ther living image of a liar!” gasped Dan.

He watched for a moment, and then said:

“See here, Lex; you let me hev yore guns ter go with mine, an’ I’ll keep ’em in there if they try to get out, while you go back arter ther boys. If there’s any honey to be passed round, Red Dick ain’t goin ’ter sweeten his lips. What!”

Lex stole away, and Fighting Dan looked to his guns, while from an angle in the rocks above and behind the gambler two more heads appeared.

They belonged to old Nomad and Skibo.

When Little Cayuse crept down to the mouth of the mine, in the inky blackness of the very early morning, after the moon had gone down, it was the native instinct that led him in the narrow trail along the brink of the abyss. His tread was noiseless, in spite of the uneven footing and unseen obstacles. Looking up toward the sky, he could follow the dim outline of the mountaintop and knew he was near the entrance to the mine. Then the strong odor of tobacco smoke came to his nostrils. For an instant the Indian youth felt that the smoker must be within reach of his arm. In breathless silence he listened:

“P’ff, p’ff, p’ff,” came the soft forcing of the smoke through enjoying lips. Then a moist piece of tobacco in the pipe sizzled spitefully, and minute sparks shot up from the bowl for an instant, disclosing the half-closed eyes of the guard.

Cayuse crouched low and awaited some movement of the man that would drown the slight rustle of his own advance.

Deliberately and comfortably the guard puffed away until his pipe had gone out. Then he yawned and dropped his pipe, during which performance Cayuse had passed him and felt the more even footing of the interior under his moccasins.

But he had barely passed into the mouth of the mine, and while not ten feet from the guard, when the latter suddenly became stiff and silent, as if listening intently. Then Cayuse heard the faint swish of clothing for a moment, and then the sudden scrape of a match along a trouser leg, followed by the splutter and bright glare of a match.

The boy’s hand was on his revolver, and his muscles were tense as whipcords, as the guard held the match aloft and peered out into the night, trying to pierce the darkness beyond the narrow circle of light.

It was a critical moment for the Piute. If the guard turned his head ever so slightly before the match went out, he could catch a glimpse of the intruder, and neither would know what action the other might take.

Cayuse’s black eyes watched the man’s head as the match flickered and went out. He was not discovered.

For a moment there was silence, and then Cayuse heard the guard fumbling on the floor for his pipe, swearing softly the while.

Once more Cayuse advanced, while the other was occupied.

The guard was filling his smoker again, and Cayuse gained many feet.

Now another match flared up, and in the intermittent flashes, as the guard sucked the blaze into his bowl, Cayuse plainly saw the features of the man.

It was Bloody Ike.

With catlike movements the Indian boy felt his way down the slope. Here and there the rotting brattice crumbled at his touch, and pieces fell with a soft thud, but he was now far from the guard at the mouth.

He was tempted to strike a match, but denied himself the comfort of a glance at his surroundings, fearing another guard might be posted where there was a divergence of slopes or at the spot where Pa-e-has-ka and Hickok were held.

After a time a faint light glimmered ahead, and loomed larger as he advanced. It was a lantern hung overhead, which shed feeble rays on its surroundings.

Along the walls were tiered many bales in various forms and sizes. It was the storehouse of the gang. Leaning against the bales in the full glare of the lantern sat a man on a box. His cooling pipe had fallen on his breast, the under jaw had dropped, and the inner guard of the mine stronghold was breathing stertorously.

Cayuse looked for other men of Price’s gang, but none were within reach of the lantern’s rays.

But the keen eyes of the Piute fell on something that interested him far more. His heart jumped with joy, for there, only a few feet from the sleeping guard, lay two men, both seemingly asleep.

They were Pa-e-has-ka and the Laramie man.

Both were bound, hand and foot, and were lying on a little pile of hay, over which a blanket had been thrown.

To advance boldly into the light might precipitate a shot from some unseen guard. But every moment was precious. What should he do first? The sleeping sentry, heavily armed, was a dark-visaged, vicious-looking fellow. If Cayuse first attempted to release Pa-e-has-ka and Hickok and he was fired upon, he would be imperiling lives more valuable than his own.

But Little Cayuse’s head was clear, his determination strong, and his heart brave.

Advancing softly, Cayuse, expecting every instant to hear the crack of a revolver and feel the lead burning through his vitals, reached the lantern, and turned the blaze low.

The heavy breathing of the guard and the prisoners continued.

Very gently the keen knife of the Indian boy slipped through the bonds of Pa-e-has-ka. Then the ropes fell from the wrists and ankles of Wild Bill.

The three men slept on.

Cayuse hesitated for a moment, then slightly shook Pa-e-has-ka. The scout awoke to find Cayuse’s finger pressed to his lips.

Cayuse shook Hickok, and the latter would have started up and spoken but for the restraining hand of the Piute.

Into the hand of each Little Cayuse pushed a revolver, and then they understood. Pressing his mouth to the scout’s ear, Cayuse whispered:

“Guard asleep; Pa-e-has-ka shut off wind.”

The scout arose noiselessly. Cayuse turned on the light a little. Buffalo Bill crept up to the sleeping man, Cayuse slipping close to one side. Then, as the scout suddenly seized the man’s wrists in a grip of iron, Cayuse clapped both hands over his mouth.

The struggle was short and almost noiseless. Hickok brought a rope and prepared a gag. Then the lantern was turned low, and behind an angle in the wall the three men whispered council. Two more men were to be disposed of—Ike and another, one at each opening into the mine.

The scout had heard the guards say they would await relief from town till two hours after sunup; then they would come in for breakfast. But they expected two more of Price’s gang before that time.

When Price’s men reached town and told him of meeting Fighting Dan in the foothills, the agent became alarmed. He feared the proximity of such men who might take a notion to investigate the trail that led to the mine. If they should discover that the place was guarded their curiosity would be correspondingly heightened, and who could tell what they might do?

Price hurriedly called the sheriff and all the men he could muster on whom he could depend, and had them sworn as deputies. He would go prepared to have his own way. If Fighting Dan had captured his plunder he would have Dan and his men arrested, charged with robbing a mine in operation.

Price would swear that he and his men were getting ready to work the old claim. The sheriff and his deputies would take oath to the same. The municipal judge would know what to do. He had fixed many cases for Price and the cattlemen, who were his friends.

With the sheriff and posse of twenty men the Indian agent hurried away.

The townspeople were full of wonder, and not a few rode out toward the foothills, hoping to have their curiosity relieved. Many rumors were started, among them that a pocket had been opened in the mountains, and insiders were staking claims.

Finally so much excitement had been aroused that later in the day fully one hundred men were hastening toward the hills, a few with picks and spades, some with rifles and guns, some mounted, and others on foot.

The trail was plain and easily followed, and as those in the lead entered the mountains they heard the sound of battle. There was a rattle of shots, followed by silence for a moment, and another volley; then a continuous popping of revolvers and rifles.

The cavalcade paused and sent on scouts to investigate. It was evident that the sheriff and his posse had found plenty of business.

After a time the scouts reported that a general engagement was going on, in which it seemed that several small parties were taking part, each for itself. From the top of a bluff just beyond the battlefield could be safely viewed. Hither the crowd rushed, those with mounts going as far as possible on horseback, and then, hitching their animals, clambering up the rocks on foot.

A strange picture was presented. At the furthermost point of the engagement, several men were huddled in the mouth of the lower entrance to the mine slopes. They were shooting from behind rocks and timbers outward at another party among the bowlders, ten rods away.

A third party, which could now be made out as the sheriff and his posse, had taken a hand from a position higher up and commanding an equal rake of both the others.

All were well among the broken granite and in little danger except of getting pinked when poking out a head or hand to get a shot at the other fellows. If any damage had been done the victims had been concealed in the rocks by their friends.

The country was too rough to attempt a charge, and the sheriff’s party, which numbered as many men as the others combined, could not dislodge either of them.

Suddenly the men at the mouth of the slope arose and darted back into the murky interior out of view. The second party seemed to be greatly surprised and disconcerted for a moment, and then turned their whole attention to the sheriff’s posse, popping away as often as a bit of flesh or apparel appeared.

It was amusing to the onlookers to see a man bob up like a Jack-in-a-box in one place and then another, to bang away at the enemy, and then drop out of sight.

Presently the second party made a sudden dash for the cover of the mine, where their erstwhile enemies had disappeared.

After a few minutes the sheriff and his men arose, one after another, and stared helplessly at the place where the enemy had disappeared. They could not understand this manœuvre. They had come upon two bands of fighting men, and had taken a hand at settling the dispute by attempting to wipe out both parties. Now the former enemies had nested together—either had come to an understanding or had gone beyond reach of the third party to fight it out alone.

Agent Price rubbed his eyes and stared at the hole in the mountain, then held conversation with the sheriff. It seemed to the onlookers that they must have agreed upon some plan, for they at once began a movement which eventually placed them in the position just vacated by the last party to take refuge in the mine.

Here the sheriff halted, not daring to enter the frowning interior, where a dozen or so well-armed men might pour a disastrous volley into them from the darkness beyond.

The sheriff and Price held council behind the shelter of the bowlders.

Then the watchers saw another sight that puzzled them still further. Out from the upper entrance to the mine filed a column of men. They ranged themselves along the upper shelf without a sound, each man with ready rifle or revolver, and then crept slowly up to the brink, where they could look down upon the unprotected sheriff and his men. They had nearly reached the objective point when in the lower entrance appeared a figure with wildly waving arms, who shouted:

“In here, quick! It’s a trap! They’re over your heads!”

Before Price and the sheriff could understand, the men above had risen with leveled guns, and a big voice shouted:

“Hands up, or we’ll blow you into the rocks!”

And their hands went up as their weapons dropped, for resistance was useless. The rocks which sheltered them from an enemy on a level with their footing protected them no longer.

While all but two of the men above kept them covered those two descended and disarmed the entire party. The sheriff protested, and threatened, and proclaimed his authority, but he was made a prisoner, together with the man who represented the United States Government in its Indian service.

The surrender had barely been affected when the entire mountaintop seemed to shiver for a moment and then settle, together with terrific rumble and roar that threw men to the ground.

From the mouths of the mine blew volumes of rock, timbers, and débris. Then columns of black smoke and gaseous vapors poured out until the sky overhead was darkened.

The mine had been wrecked and rendered impenetrable by some gigantic upheaval.

For a few minutes all were overwhelmed with surprise and awe, then Price, who was the first to recover, said:

“It’s the work of Bloody Ike, and he’s in there, buried under a million tons of rock!”

After the scout and Hickok had been released by Little Cayuse and had bound the interior guard, they had set about the capture of the men posted at the entrances to the slope. They first crept out to the upper level, and surprised Bloody Ike. He was treated as the first had been, and carried back into the mine to rest on the hay where the scout and Hickok had lain.

The next work was to go down to the lower entrance to take in the other guard. As they approached the light they heard the voice of the guard in conversation with some one on the outside.

Creeping nearer until they could command a view of the rocks beyond, the scout was surprised to see Red Dick and his men lined up and held at bay by the sentry, who was warning them not to come any nearer. He told them that he had ten well-armed men behind him, and if they attempted to enter he would blow them into mince meat.

After long parley Red Dick attempted to retreat, but found himself confronted by Fighting Dan and his crowd.

Red Dick was between two fires, but preferred to take the chances that the guard had lied about having men behind him. Dick in an undertone directed his men, and all suddenly dashed into the slope. There they were met by the leveled rifles, not only of Buffalo Bill, the Laramie man, and Little Cayuse, but of the surprised guard himself.

“Fight it out where you are,” commanded the scout, “or we’ll take a hand from this side.”

Red Dick and his men made the best of a bad situation, and dropped among the rocks to send a volley at Fighting Dan’s crowd, now beginning to advance.

It was at this time that the sheriff and his posse appeared. Then the battle had become triangular.

The scout first relieved the mine guard of his weapons, and secured his hands and feet to guard against treachery, and then hit upon a scheme to catch a thief with a thief.

Most of all, Buffalo Bill wanted Price, and the sheriff, and Dave Green. He had Bloody Ike and two minor villains, but the ringleaders still stood a good chance of escape if they once understood that the round-up had begun.

The scout called to Red Dick:

“Davids, I’ve a proposition to make.”

“Name it.”

“You are no particular friend of Price and the sheriff?”

“I’d like to see ’em hung.”

“Well, I want to catch them both, and if you and Dan Grey will join me we can do it without bloodshed.”

“Who are you?”

“I am William F. Cody, sent here by the government to put the kibosh on some of your rascals.”

“Boiling rattlesnakes!”

“What do you say?”

“I’m with you, head and heels.”

“Very well; make a rush in here, and then I’ll talk to Grey.”

As we have seen, Red Dick and his men disappeared, much to the surprise of the others.

Then Buffalo Bill opened negotiations with Fighting Dan.

“Dan Grey!” he shouted.

“Say it,” came the answer.

“Do you know me?”

“No, ’n’ I dunno’s I want to.”

“Well, I’m Cody.”

“The devil!”

“No, Buffalo Bill.”

“What ye want?”

“I want you and your men to come in here out of the sun; you might tan.”

“What’s ther game?”

The scout briefly outlined the situation as he had to Red Dick.

“Come out fur ’nough so’s I can see ye, an’ if it’s you I’ll jine in.”

Buffalo Bill advanced until he was in full view of Fighting Dan and his men, yet beyond sight of the sheriff’s party.

“I guess it’s Buffler all right,” said Dan. “Waal, clear ther track, an’ we’ll come in under full steam.”

They came and the rest we know—how the entire party, under Buffalo Bill’s direction, went around to the upper entrance and sprung the trap that nabbed the sheriff, Price, and their band.

But how Bloody Ike attempted to defeat the plans has not been explained.

Back in the mine the scout had offered those who had guarded the place the choice of joining his party in the capture of Price. Two had accepted, but Bloody Ike refused, so he was left securely bound, it was supposed. But in some manner he had escaped and tried to warn Price of the trap.

Failing in that and apparently thinking that the game was played out, it was believed that he had set off a storehouse of explosives and had died where his bones would never be disturbed.

The procession back to town was quite a remarkable one. Buffalo Bill had made sure that the principal prisoners were safely guarded, and among his most zealous supporters were Dan, the fighting man, and Red Dick, the wild and woolly knight of the bad men’s resorts.

Skibo was given charge of the sheriff, and Wild Bill had Price under his watchful eye. Old Nomad, the scout, and Cayuse herded the rest of the prisoners, while the former enemies, Dick, and Dan, and their followers, acted as outriders.

The crowd of curious trooped along in the rear.

But the incident was not to close without one more adventure for the scout and his pards.

The day had passed rapidly with the exciting incidents, and darkness overtook the small army before it had covered half the distance to town.

Buffalo Bill had foreseen this and also the possibilities of escape that might come to some of his prisoners. He had instructed Skibo and Hickok, whatever happened, to give their whole attention to the sheriff and Price. Those two must be safely landed to answer for their betrayal of public trust.

Suddenly from all quarters at once—in front, rear, and along both sides of them, came wild yells and a rain of bullets.

Instantly there was panic, and had the Indians followed up the first volley with a charge a slaughter must have followed.

But like a whirlwind Buffalo Bill dashed along the outside, giving orders in a stern, business-like way, until he had completely encircled his party.

A circle was formed with the horses on the outside, and then wherever the flash of a gun was seen a bullet was immediately sent.

Several men had been wounded at the first onset, and one horse was killed. Other horses were suffering from wounds.

It looked as if the entire party would have to remain as they were until morning unless some one could pass the Indian line and bring aid from the town.

The scout felt sure it was some war party bound south who had discovered this strange caravan of palefaces, and hoped to reap a fine collection of scalps, and then go on before the soldiers could strike back.

The Indians had completely surrounded their intended victims before their presence was known.

Little Cayuse volunteered to attempt to crawl through the Indian lines. If any living being could do it Cayuse was the one, but Buffalo Bill consented reluctantly. There might be a chance, but a hundred to one it meant sure death for him who attempted it.

The war party was evidently a strong one, as the long line indicated. That they were Sioux and thirsting for blood there could be no doubt.

Little Cayuse shook hands with the scout and all his pards, then threw his arms for a moment around Navi’s neck, and slipped away under the bellies of the horses and out into the grass toward the zone of spitting fire and lead.

The scout had almost decided to call to Cayuse to come back when another surprising thing distracted the attention of all for the moment.

To the northward was heard the well-known yell of the Crow warriors and the roar of many fiercely galloping hoofs.

The moon just appearing over distant hills sent its rays over a wildly troubled half mile square.

The second band of Indians came sweeping down upon the Sioux, who swung to their saddles to meet the foe. But when they did so they became the targets of Buffalo Bill’s party, who did not hesitate to turn in a withering fire.

Attacked from two sides at once and scattered as they were, the Sioux wheeled their ponies and dashed away to the southward.

Buffalo Bill’s party made all possible speed toward town with their injured, but before a half hour had passed the Crow warriors rode up and one chief came near.

“Pa-e-has-ka!” he called.

“Ai,” answered the scout.

“White-man-runs-him remember the knife. It is well.”

The Crows rode away, and the party of whites entered the town.

The people of Bozeman gave a banquet in honor of Buffalo Bill and his pards, and rejoiced that the influence of Price and those who followed his lead would be no longer felt.

In answer to Buffalo Bill’s report of the iniquity he had unearthed in the Gallatin Valley, and the discovery that various tribes of Sioux were massing in the Bad Lands and raiding ranches and herders far and near, came an order to him from the authorities in Washington to get in touch with Sitting Bull himself, if possible. To the scout’s knowledge of Indian characteristics and customs and his well-known sympathies for the red man were intrusted a difficult mission of peace. He was to undertake to persuade the tribes to voluntarily abandon the Black Hills, and take up their abode on lands selected for them by the government in Indian Territory. It was the plan of the government to gather the various tribes in peaceful community there and provide for their sustenance by annual appropriation.

The powerful Sioux chief had refused to comply, and every resource of the government was being exhausted to bring about the desired end without resorting to arms.

Buffalo Bill went to what is now the respectable city of Livingston, on the Yellowstone River, and there awaited orders. Skibo, however, went south to the valley of the Little Popo-agie to take part in the house warming of his friends, the Staffords, and Nick Nomad had returned to Virginia City on business of his own.

On receiving his orders, Buffalo Bill at once sent word to Bozeman, where Nomad and Skibo would next report, for them to follow the Yellowstone, stopping at the military posts for instructions. Then, with Wild Bill and Little Cayuse, he himself began the journey down the Yellowstone.

At that critical period of the country’s Indian history it was destined to be one of the most dangerous and thrilling of the scout’s career. Everywhere the Sioux were retaliating for their wrongs, fancied or real, upon the white settlers. The young warriors, aroused by the call of the great chief, had accepted it as a general license for plunder. They had spread over a territory with a radius of hundreds of miles, and struck swiftly and relentlessly, ever replenishing their mounts from the best of the herds they raided.

To Buffalo Bill had been awarded a herculean task. With the daring Wild Bill Hickok and the faithful Cayuse, he set forth to meet a foe which one thousand mounted soldiers could not have hoped to subdue. But with peace in his mission, the brave plainsman hoped to accomplish that which rifle ball and sword could not do—the pacification of the tribes without bloodshed.

Scarce a day’s ride to the east the scout came upon the smouldering dugout of a settler and the mutilated bodies of the settler, his wife, and children, and on the grazing lands near by the carcasses of the slaughtered stock.

The bodies of the human victims of the red man’s fury were buried by the scout and his pards, who went on into a little ravine, where they camped for the night. They did not build a fire because of the evident proximity of blood-mad foes and the danger of a surprise.

The scout himself took the first watch, while his companions rolled in their blankets for a snatch of rest after a long day in the saddle.

It was a moonless, starless night, and the light wind seethed through the dead grass drearily, portending a storm, before which the night prowlers were silenced. On a little hillock near where the horses were picking out the green things from the sear, the scout stood silently, smoking his pipe and studying his surroundings. He fully realized the difficulties of his undertaking, and was at the same time aware that none of his superiors at Washington could in any measure grasp its possibilities. It was easy enough to tick off a message to a man two thousand miles away to hunt out the reputed head of a hostile people scattered over a territory as large as France and Germany combined, and convince this leader of the error of his ways, but its accomplishment was a far different matter.

But Buffalo Bill never offered excuses or demurred. Knowledge that his superiors were ignorant of the magnitude of their demands did not deter him from an attempt to obey. What he had accomplished only went to headquarters.

The scout suddenly jerked the pipe from his teeth, and bent forward, fixing his gaze on a point to northward, where the sky line was lighting up with lurid flashes.

For a moment the scout stood thus, and then bounded back to his companions, and shook them roughly.

“Out of it, pards!” he said; “there’s work for us to the northward.”

He was away again, jerking the lariat pins from the ground and cinching the saddles upon the horses.

Tn two minutes the three had gathered their possessions and were galloping toward the red glare which seemed several miles across the uneven country.

Twenty minutes’ sharp riding showed the scout that they were much nearer the fire than they had supposed. As they rode out on the rim of a basin they saw below them the full tragedy they had feared. Pulling in their horses, they could now hear the yells of red murderers at their work and see them darting about in the light of burning buildings, haystacks, and farming implements.

From a little hillside beyond now came a spit of flame, followed by the report of a gun.

“Some of the ranch folk are still alive and making a stand-off from a dugout, I should say,” observed the Laramie man.

“Yes, so I see, but the Indians are going to drive them out—see those fellows coming over the hill. They will scrape the gravel off the top of the dugout and set fire to it,” said the scout.

“There are only about twenty of the reds,” observed Hickok.

“And there are only about three of us,” answered Buffalo Bill. “But something must be done or the settler and his family will be murdered,” he went on. “Let us drop back behind this swell and ride farther north, then swing in behind those fellows who are preparing to fire the dugout, and charge. If we can’t stampede them we can at least give them a touch of heart failure.”

“My fingers are itching on the trigger, pard,” said Hickok.

In the rear of the little hill on which three Indians could be seen digging away the gravel and thatch, while other warriors were yelling, shooting, and dancing about the burning buildings to distract the attention of those imprisoned in the dugout, the scout and his pards approached more cautiously. They climbed to within a few rods of the three reds before the scout, drawing two revolvers, drove the spurs to Bear Paw’s flanks, and dashed forward.

The red men, taken wholly by surprise, were run down by the flying horses without a shot, and the animals, leaping the sharp embankment, like a cyclone swept across the intervening space, and, before the red warriors in the firelight could see what was approaching from the darkness beyond, they were greeted by a deadly volley as the three daring horsemen swept through and over them and disappeared in the darkness beyond.

The scout had so planned the charge as to strike the group of Indian ponies, and among them the pards madly galloped, yelling like demons and shooting right and left.

In a moment the little animals were scurrying away across the prairie, and the scout and his pards saw to it that they were hustled far, and widely scattered, before they began a wide detour that took them back toward the scene.

The Indians had been so completely demoralized by the sudden onslaught that they did not recover from their surprise until the ponies were far away in the darkness and the sound of their hoofbeats was rapidly lessening in the distance. Then the warriors scarcely knew which way to turn. Their first move was flight beyond the firelight, where they momentarily expected another mysterious and avenging force to spring.

The sounds of yelling and shooting had ceased; the fire had burned itself down to glowing brands, and the lowing of frightened cattle echoed here and there when Buffalo Bill, Hickok, and Cayuse for the second time approached the back side of the mound in which the dugout had been made.

Leaving Hickok and the Piute with the horses in a dip of the hill where they were safe from surprise, the scout made his way noiselessly over the hilltop, approached the door of the dugout, and spoke:

“Hello, there, within!”

A boy’s voice answered:

“Who is it?”

“A white friend; the Indians are gone.”

“’Tain’t no Injun trick to git us out?”

“No,” answered the scout in his kindliest voice; “a party of us have come to save you from the Indians, but if you are all right and comfortable perhaps you had better stay there till morning. Was anybody hurt?”

“No, not that we knows of—ye see, there’s only Nellie, an’ Kittie, an’ me; dad an’ mom has gone to a weddin’ up to Jenkinses’ ranch, an’ we’s afeared that mebbe the Injuns got ’em.”

“How did you happen to be in the dugout?”

“Oh, I seen the Injuns comin’ jes’ before dark, an’ I rushed the girls in here, an’ got all the guns an’ things I could before the reds got near enough to shoot.”

“Do you mean that a boy and two girls are all there are here?”

“That’s all—me an’ Nellie an’ Kittie—I’m fourteen, Nellie is twelve, an’ Kittie is ten,” answered the boy proudly.

“Well, you’re a plucky lad, and you made a good stand-off, but you needn’t worry any more to-night. Which way did your parents go?”

“Nor’east.”

“Which way did the Indians come?”

“Nor’west.”

“That is all right; I guess they didn’t get your father and mother, my boy, and as soon as daylight we’ll see if we can look them up.”

The scout and his pards spent the rest of the night near the dugout, determined, if need be, to defend the three little children with their last drop of blood.

But their services were not needed, for the Indians had slunk away to find their ponies, and if they succeeded in securing their mounts before light they gave the place where they had met such mysterious disaster a wide berth.

In the morning a bright, manly lad and his two handsome but shy little sisters came forth from the dugout.

“Too bad to bring up such children here!” exclaimed Hickok to the scout, but the boy overheard.

“It was dad’s cough,” said he apologetically. “Uncle John gave us the ranch, an’ dad an’ mom thought we could live here a few years till he gets stronger, an’ then go East, where the girls an’ me c’n go to school.

“But I guess dad an’ mom’ll be ’bout discouraged now, with no house to live in an’ some of our cows an’ sheep killed,” he went on chokingly.

The great-hearted Buffalo Bill cleared his throat before he spoke, and then he said:

“Well, my boy, you must cheer up your dad and mom. They have what is worth far more than home and live stock—three noble children. If your father is ill you must come to the front. You have shown that it is in you—I mean pluck and resourcefulness. Don’t ever forget to be honest and always guard your father and mother and sisters—not only their lives, but their happiness. Sometimes kind words are life savers. Don’t forget to always have words and looks of cheer for your father and mother, and to jealously watch over the purity of the names of your sisters.”

The lad’s eyes shone with the light of a new determination.

“Say, mister,” he began, “I was such a sissy last night that I cried when the girls did, because we thought how bad dad an’ mom’d feel ’thout any home, but I ain’t goin’ to cry no more as long’s we’re all alive—an’ if dad c’n get better we’ll be all right.”

The scout did not wish to dampen the lad’s courage, but he determined to tell the father to take his family to some of the larger settlements until the Sioux had been quieted.

“Were your father and mother to return this morning?” he asked.

“Yes, sir. Say, mister, do you care if I ask what your name is?”

“No, my boy; my name is Cody; sometimes called ‘Buffalo Bill.’”

The lad started back and gasped:

“Why, you’re a scout! I’ve read lots about you in the papers that Uncle John sends us. Mr. Cody, would you shake hands with me?”

The scout laughed heartily as he grasped the boy’s hand.

“He’s the right sort, Cody,” observed Hickok.

“What is your name?” asked the scout.

“William Fisher Corey.”

The scout and Hickok laughed.

“His initials are the same as yours, Cody,” the Laramie man said.

“Yes, I guess we’ll have to call him ‘Little Buffalo Bill.’”

The boy was delighted, and his sisters shouted:

“Hello, Little Buffalo Bill.”

The boy stood back, and admired the scout for a moment, and then said:

“I wish my dad was as big an’ strong an’—an’ handsome as you be.”

The scout blushed at the frank admiration of the boy, but laughingly turned it off and suggested that they round up the scattered cattle of the settler.

A lonely shack left by Northern Pacific surveyors, on the rolling prairie perhaps one hundred and fifty miles east of Gallatin, showed evidence of habitation in the early morning of a balmy summer day. Ten rods away, in a sag almost hidden by sage brush, a pair of Indian ponies grazed peacefully.

Two men came out of the hut, climbed the highest ridge at hand, and scanned the horizon carefully, then went back to start a little fire and prepare breakfast.

“I can’t understand how you got away from the fort, Price,” said one.

“Easy enough, Ike,” returned the other. “Remember the crook-fingered ’breed, Pete, who got nabbed for the stage raid down toward Virginia City two years ago?”

“Sure.”

“Perhaps you may remember that I fixed it with the judge, and he got off light?”

“Um-h’m.”

“Well, Pete was at the fort caring for the horses of the officers. He knew me first glimpse, but he didn’t let on, and when he got a chance he slipped me out with a good mount, a sack of grub, and a belt full of guns.”

“Pete sort o’ squared his bill, eh?”

“He did, and if you ever see a chance to slip Pete a favor, Ike, on my account, I hope you’ll do it.”

“Bet yer life, I will, Price, but I never did like that Canadian polecat, though.”

“We’re all in the same box, Ike—any of us would knife the guard for a run and take the chances of decorating a rope. But most anything goes in this wild country—it’s every man for himself and the devil take the hindmost.”

“An’ the man that’s slow with his gun is the rear man every time, I notice. Eh, Price?”

“You hit the bull’s-eye, Ike, but you haven’t said it all. I reckon I’ve got to keep my gun ready, and be quicker than greased lightning till I get out of this territory. Every man-jack, red and white, seems looking for my scalp, except a few like you and Pete.”

“Keep a stiff upper lip, old man. I’m with you, and the liveliest ghost Buffalo Bill and his pards ever run up against. I want just one more whack at that crowd.”

“I hope you get it, Ike, and redeem your reputation. Your giant powder seemed hoodooed over Bozeman way.”

“I’ve got a new lot in my bag, and it’s good for a free ticket for the whole bunch of trail hunters, if I can get a chance to put it under ’em.”

“I hope you get the chance, but I want first and most to get as far from these Yankton Sioux and Crows as possible. I want to hit south and make Laramie City before I stop. Then I propose to prance in a different harness for a while.”

“Do you know which way Buffalo Bill went after the round-up?”

“Yes, I was particular to keep my ears open till I was sure of the course he was steering. He went to Helena to rustle the boys up there.”

“What do the soldiers think of Cody?”

“Oh, they think he’s a wonder, and they swear by him in seven languages.”

“Between you and me, Price, he is the only man this side the hot place that could have done you and your gang up in such short order.”

“And the only man who was too sharp to be caught by your quick-trip tickets,” retorted Price.

“I’ll get him yet,” said Ike.

“I hope you will, as I said before, but when you do will you please send me word, for I want a chance to help pick up the pieces.”

“If either of his ears is left whole I’ll send it to you—— Roaring rattlesnakes! see there!”

The cause of the exclamation of “Bloody Ike,” for it was none other than the ex-miner, was the sight of two red men leaned well forward on flying ponies. The Indians were drumming incessantly the sides of the animals in attempt to get more speed out of them, while three hundred yards in the rear came a tall, gaunt horse, with long, regular bounds that were gradually lessening the distance between him and the ponies. On the back of the horse sat a broad-shouldered, bewhiskered man with eyes fixed on the red men and ready rifle across his knees.

Now both Indians turned in the saddle and blazed away at their pursuer, who neither hesitated, changed his course, nor lifted his rifle.

The Indians began hurriedly to reload, working their heels at the flanks of their ponies the while, with the motions of a wooden monkey on a stick.

The trio were only half a mile away to the northward and rapidly going east. The watchers at the shack amused themselves by comments on the race, but admired the cool determination of the white pursuer, who glanced neither to right nor left, as the Indians again turned and emptied their rifles at him.

Presently the red men tried different tactics—they swerved, one to the right and the other to the left, and each belabored his pony with renewed vigor, each possibly hoping to gain fast enough so that the grim rider behind would take up the pursuit of the other.

This was apparently what the pursuer had been looking for, for his heels now went up, and the length and rapidity of the stride of the powerful horse increased.

Rapidly now the distance was annihilated. But the Indians were pulling apart, and he must soon select between them.

Then the rifle which had laid idly across the white man’s knees jumped to his shoulder. For an instant it was held there, a part of the bobbing pantomime, and then a yellow spurt left the muzzle, and instantly one of the Indians threw up his arms, and with a wild yell pitched from the back of his mustang.

The white man’s rifle dropped across his knees again, and the great horse swept harder and closer on the trail of the other red man.

Pursued and pursuer now tore away into the southeast, the relentless white man sitting unmoved as the Indian frantically loaded and fired at his pursuer.

And at last, with pursued and pursuer like ants on the sky line, Price, the former Indian agent in the Gallatin Valley, and his guilty companion, Bloody Ike, saw the close of the tragedy.

There was a sudden halt of the pursuer, a rigid erectness for an instant, a white puff, and the second Indian plunged from the back of his staggering pony, but no sound of shot or death yell came back over the intervening distance.

They had witnessed one of the many tragedies of those wild days in the great West—the days of an eye for an eve and a tooth for a tooth; the days when revenge was as sweet as ever and recognized in this ungoverned region as the right of man.

Slowly the bewhiskered white rider came back over the trail, and noting the presence of human beings at the old shanty rode down to greet them with:

“Well, what ye doin’ here?”

Price’s first thought was of an insolent retort, but, remembering the other’s decisive way of settling disputes, softened his manner, and said:

“Resting after a hard day-and-night ride.”

“Where be ye goin’?”

“Working south, now, across the Yellowstone. Came up to hunt down a horse thief Sioux, but lost him.”

“How many horses did he get?”

“Two, but we want to settle with him more than to get the ponies.”

“Well, thar’s a couple o’ ponies I reckon you c’n have, an’ welcome; their owners won’t need ’em any more.”

“What’s the cause of the falling out you had with the reds?”

“Devils raided my corral last night and shot my father—they won’t shoot any more fathers.”

“You better take the ponies.”

“I don’t want anything that ever belonged to one of the red skunks.”

The stern ranchman rode away, and Price somehow felt relief as those keen, dark eyes turned toward the settler’s home and stopped boring under the skin of these fugitives from the law.

Bloody Ike rode out and captured the ponies, and then the two men set off southward, leading two animals not their own. They hoped with these extra mounts to make better time in their flight from the territory where they were too well known for their own comfort. Even the Indians who were friendly with the whites had no use for Price or his gang unless it were to provide amusement at some torture party.

That was what Price feared, but he preferred to take his chances of escape through a country swarming with hostile red men to standing trial for his misdeeds with the array of evidence against him provided by Buffalo Bill.

Price was doubly glad that the grim ranchman was a stranger to him. There were some of these plainsmen who did not seem to understand a joke, and if they knew the joke was on Uncle Sam they might insist on his—Price’s—company back to the military camp.

But Price’s relief at getting off so easily was not long-lived, as we soon shall see.

Grizzled old Nick Nomad, solitary representative of law and order on an expanse broader than the eye could span, was making his lonely way eastward in what he understood to be the wake of his pards. He was talking to himself, possibly, but his conversation was directly addressed to Hide-rack, the horse that the famous old trapper and trailer loved better than any he ever bestrode.

“Now, look hyar, Hide-rack, yew cantankerous ole heifercat, don’t ye reckon it’s ’bout time ter pitch our tent an’ eat our doughnuts? We’ve plodded on middlin’ plenty sence sunup, an’ sez I, Nick, ole boy, yer tummy is makin’ love ter yer backbone. What yer say, Hide-rack, ye ole rye-an’-Injun mix-up?”

Nomad’s pet names might not have appealed to ears more refined than Hide-rack’s, but the sound of his master’s voice and the kindly pats on his neck that accompanied them lifted the tired ears of the courageous animal, and he briskly increased his pace.

“Waugh! Hide-rack, thet’s jest like ye—better arter a sixty-mile run than ye wor at ther start-off. Yer ther clear——

“By ther great horn spoon an’ granny’s ole tin ladle! Ef thar hain’t er c’ral-a-loomin’ up ez big as life right off here whar ther moon is goin’ ter come up sometime, mebbe. D’ye hyar thet, Hide-rack? The’s fodderin’s an’ comp’ny ahead. Boom ’er up, ole hoss pard; we wants ter make er showin’ when we lite.”

Probably Hide-rack did not catch the full meaning of his man pard’s words, but at about that time his animal instinct served notice that creatures of his kind were nigh, and, raising his head, the horse, too, saw the human habitation with all its suggestions of feed and rest.

The tired animal lifted head and tail, and, as Nomad expressed it, “set sail fer ther c’ral lickerty split.”

Old Nomad dashed up to the ranch, or, rather, the home of a stockman who had brought his family to the plains, and shouted:

“Whooee! in thar—ye all dead, er on’y jes’ nachally givin’ ther reds er chanst ter jump in an’ gobble ther hull kerboodle ov ye?”

A tall, dark, broad-shouldered man with piercing eyes and heavy beard stepped to the door.

“Well,” he said, “I don’t know who ye be, but yer welcome as long as ye behave yerself.”

“Waugh! Who ever hearn tell o’ ole Nick Nomad doin’ anything else but behavin’? Stranger, yer better look ergin. Mebbeso ye can see a ombray what is some tired an’ more er less hungry—mostly more.”

“Climb down, old Nick Nomad, or the Old Nick hisself—neither of ye’ll ever be turned away from Jasp Avery’s door hungry. Git down, old man, an’ come right in; I’ll tend to yer hoss, same as if he be my own.”

“Jasp Avery, I likes ther way ye holds yer mouth an’ swings yer under jaw. So off I comes, an’ hyar’s my hand.”

Nomad went with the cowman, and saw that the “faithful” Hide-rack didn’t accept an opportunity to plant a pair of steel-shod heels in the anatomy of the stranger who was offering hospitality.

Inside the home of the herdsman Nomad was introduced to “Father Avery,” who was lying on a rudely constructed lounge and emitting occasional groans.

The story of an attack by Indians the previous night soon came out, and Nomad heard of the climax with satisfaction.

The younger Avery explained that he had foreseen trouble with the Indians and had sent his wife and children to Fort Sarpy a month previous. His cowpunchers, four of them, were all far back where they had gone with the stock to find better grazing. He and his father were alone, but they were well fortified and had plenty of rifles and ammunition.

The house had been constructed with an eye to possible hostilities, and resembled a miniature fort, out of which led an underground passage to a dugout that was concealed underground and ventilated by an opening into an almost impenetrable thicket of willow and sage brush.

The arrangement was well calculated to give a strong band of attacking Indians a warm reception and a mystery to wind it up, if they overpowered the settler and set fire to the ranch house.

In his story of riding down and disposing of the Indians, the younger Avery mentioned the two white men he had passed on the plain. He said he didn’t like the looks of them.

Old Nomad was instantly interested, and demanded a description. Within five minutes he was convinced that Avery had held conversation with the escaped Price and the supposed-to-be-dead Bloody Ike.

“I’d bet Hide-rack ergin er grasshopper them’s ther fellers!” he declared. “An’ by ther harnsome whiskers o’ my Aunt Hannah’s billy goat I wish Buffler was here.”

“Who’s ‘Buffler’?” demanded Avery.

“Why, Buffler Bill, ther king o’ ther plainsmen’ an’ ther whitest man thet ever threw er leg over a saddle. He’s my pard, Buffler is, an’ he’s actin’ fer ther gov’ment out here ermong ther redskins. I’m on ’is trail sence day ’fore yistidy f’m Bozeman. ’Twas thar they tol’ me Price hed ’scaped. I c’n see er hole in er ladder, an’ thet same is as how Bloody Ike warn’t blowed up, nohow, an’ he worked some scheme ter git Price out o’ ther hole.”

“Who is ‘Bloody Ike’?” asked Avery.

“He’s ther onerariest polecat south o’ Canady, an’ he travels with er bag o’ blarstin’ powder, an’ is allers ready ter touch et off when ennybuddy runs up ergin ’im permiscous.”

“What’s his last name?”

“I hain’t never hearn tell—et’s jes’ ‘Bloody Ike’ over in ther Gallatin country, an’ et fits.”

“I’d like to know if it’s Ike Peltier, who used to do ther blastin’ in the Ten-nugget Mine. If ’tis I’d give ten o’ my best hosses to be alone with ’im about a minute.”

“Waugh! I’d like jes’ erbout ther same time with thet pardner o’ his. But, say, Neighbor Avery, yore eyes aire some better’n gimlet holes, I take et—what du ye call thet thar percession ’bout five p’ints ter ther north o’ yer upper haystack?”

“It’s a party on hossback—one, two—eight, little an’ big, makin’ this way.”

“What d’ye reckon, neighbor?”

“I ain’t no guesser huntin’ for a record, but I’m willin’ to predict it’s some rancher over east that’s been raided by Injuns an’ makin’ for some other ranch or the nearest settlement with what’s left.”

Half an hour later old Nomad was dancing merrily and waving his old slouch hat as Buffalo Bill, Hickok, Little Cayuse, a sickly-looking man, a woman, a boy, and two girls rode up.

It was the Corey family, whom Buffalo Bill had offered to accompany to some spot more secure against the attacks of roving bands of Indians, or, rather, bands making for the Bad Lands to join Sitting Bull’s war party. They were warmly greeted by young Avery and his father, and invited to take up their home there for the present.

Avery assured his visitors that two or three men could defend the place against ten times their number of hostile red men, and that he would call in his cowboys and herds to closer quarters.

Corey’s herd with two cowboys were working that way and would reach the section sometime the next day. Avery promptly suggested that the herds be consolidated and at least one of the cowboys left always at the ranch for the protection of the non-combatants.

This arrangement gave vast relief to the Coreys, who had been thoroughly scared by the attack upon their home, and it also relieved the minds of Buffalo Bill and his pards, who disliked to leave the woman and children exposed to the venom of the first outfit of red marauders who happened to cross that way.

The scout accepted the hospitality of the rancher for the night, and with his pards set off early next morning on the trail of Price and Bloody Ike.

“Little Buffalo Bill” pleaded hard to be allowed to accompany the scout, but was denied by his parents and advised by the scout himself to remain to guard his mother and sisters.

Suddenly awakened to a new responsibility in life, the boy became the superior of his father in manly qualities. Of perfect physical condition and good mental balance, William F. Corey had been awakened by a crisis from the slumber of youth to the cares of young manhood. He realized the inefficiency of his father, who was weakened by long illness and worry for the future of his loved ones.

And the father, too, suddenly became aware that he had a stout staff to lean upon.

Before the scout and his pards shook hands all around and set off toward the Yellowstone, they were urged by all to return, and the younger Avery declared that as soon as he could arrange his affairs, so that he could feel everything at home was snug and tight, he would gladly give his services to the scout until the uprising should be ended.

This offer Buffalo Bill said he might be glad to accept later, and thanked his hosts for their kindness and hospitality.

“Waugh! What is this hyar percession, anyhow—er march ter ther grave o’ ther red man’s granddad, or er Quaker meetin’?”

Old Nomad had broken the stillness after a long silence as the scout and his pards made their way south after crossing the Yellowstone.

“I say, Buffler, hain’t sumpin ’bout due ter drap? Ef this hyar Hide-rack ’u’d tumble down an’ sling me erbout four rod I’d git up feelin’ better. I tells ye, this hyar lack ov ’citement’s gittin’ on my nerves purty nigh orful.”

The scout had been riding silently, making a careful study of his surroundings, and with the instinct of his calling calculating on the possibilities of this wild country as the site of a great battle.

Little Cayuse was in the lead, following readily the trail left by Price and Ike in their flight.

“I’ve been thinking,” began the scout quietly, pulling Bear Paw down to a walk and giving all the animals an opportunity to puff, “that perhaps within the next few hours we will find excitement enough to satisfy even your cravings, Nick.”

“Thet’s ther tork, Buffler! Hyar’s yer mutton when yer needs timber fer sumpin ter——”

Nomad stopped suddenly, having been interrupted by a strange happening. They were now in a vast tract of broken, well-nigh verdureless ridges, with here and there stretches of sage brush and occasionally clumps of stunted cottonwood or willow in the low places between.

Cayuse’s pinto had gained some distance on the other horses, and, as the trim little Piute’s feather was disappearing beyond a ridgetop, his companions saw his arms suddenly thrown above his head, and instantly there came a heavy report, accompanied by shaking of the ground, and a cloud of smoke arose above the crest of the hill.

“Thunder, Buffler! Ther papoose is done for!” yelled Nomad, driving the spurs to Hide-rack’s flanks, and dashing ahead.

“Look out, Nick!” cried Hickok, sending his own steed to the left sharply to reconnoitre the position, as Buffalo Bill had instantly galloped away to the right.

If Nomad heard he did not heed, but, drawing his revolver, he dashed up the ridge and over the crest at whirlwind speed. But the trapper had barely reached the highest point of the hill than there came the report of two rifles, almost together, and the scout and Hickok saw the brave old Nomad reel in the saddle for a moment, then throw up his revolver, and bang! bang! bang! as he plunged from sight down the other side.

Swinging into the gully between the ridges from different directions, Buffalo Bill and the Laramie man were puzzled by the fact that neither a man nor a horse were in sight.

They rode toward each other, half expecting momentarily to discover fragments of the bodies of Little Cayuse and Navi. Where old Nomad had faded to was a problem beyond solution at present, for he had disappeared as if he had dropped from the face of the earth. The sounds of firing had ceased, and not even distant hoofbeats could be heard.

They rode toward each other rapidly, determined to reach some solution of the mystery, even at the expense of disappearing as suddenly as their pards had done.

When barely ten rods separated them, both Buffalo Bill and the Laramie man discovered that the character of the geological structure had changed suddenly. Where the ridges they had crossed in the last half day’s travel had run in a general east-and-west direction, here they were confronted by a series running the other way and, as it were, becoming a part of the first formation, with outcroppings of granite in the higher land to the south of them.

Two of these north-and-south ridges approached and butted into the long, high mound they had crossed, and between them was a narrow and rapidly falling cañon running away to the south, its walls ever growing higher and more rugged and broken by sharp angles of solid rock. The bottom seemed to be a bed of sand that had washed in from the slopes above.

The first drop to the bed of the cañon was ten or twelve feet, and there the sand plainly showed where horses and men had plunged into it and then floundered out and gone on.

Wild Bill was about to plunge his horse over the brink in pursuit of his missing pards, when Buffalo Bill held up a warning hand.

“One moment, Hickok,” he said. “Do you see where the trail was mined at the head of the little cañon?”

“Sure, and both Cayuse and Nomad went over the brink here.”

“Yes, but they were not killed, or, at least, if they were, they and their horses were dragged away in short order. Now, figuring that they are both alive and in their right minds, they are all the force necessary to follow directly after these villains. There must be an outlet to this cañon somewhere, and when these fellows flow out on the plains or into the bottom lands of some river they are likely to turn to right or left in their flight.”

“I think I see your plan, pard,” said Hickok. “You think it best for us to scout along the rim on either side?”

“Precisely.”

“All right; here goes,” and the Laramie man dashed away along what was then sometimes called a “hog-back,” or long, low ridge of land.

The scout galloped down on his side, and the novel chase was on.

Occasionally the scout or Hickok rode up to the edge of the cañon and peered into it, hoping to catch a glimpse of their pards or the fugitives.

For miles a stern test of the speed of their weary horses was made, but they had not discovered hair or hoof of the four men and four horses they believed were galloping down the course of the dry gorge.

The only time lost was the occasional trip of one or the other to the rim of the gorge to glance along its bed.

At sunset they seemed to have come out on a height of land which fell off rapidly into a beautiful valley.

Tired horses plunged down the receding slopes of the cañon’s sides, and soon Buffalo Bill and his pard sat with the noses of their mounts together.

They had bounded the pathway down which the fugitives and their own pards had fled. And over the green and smiling grazing lands to the southeast of them for miles there was not a moving thing the size of a coyote.

The scout slipped from his saddle and walked up the gorge for a few rods.

Then he returned and said:

“They have not passed out of here.”

Hickok whistled. “What do you make of that?” he asked.

“Well, they had not more than five or eight minutes’ start of us, and we have ridden hard; we may have gained something on them in two hours’ riding.”

“Correct. Suppose we ride up the cañon a piece, and then dismount, and give the horses a chance to blow?”

“It’s a good notion, Hickok. I think we have those fellows jugged. I am confident if Nick and Cayuse are not too badly wounded that Price and his man will never get by them. I should sooner think they would find some favorable angle in the gorge where they are screened by the rocks and make a stand, believing we are all behind them in the cañon.”

“As we would have been if it hadn’t been for the shrewd head of one W. F. Cody, in the service of Uncle Sam.”

The scout gave no heed to the praise of his pard, but rode up the cañon, studying carefully the odd formation and the opportunities for scaling the sides.

“Do you remember our little climb in the cañon behind Fremont’s Peak?” he asked of the Laramie man.

“Do I remember it? Why don’t you ask me if I remember those lizards and the hair-raising yell of the crazy man in the cave? I wonder if you remember the greaser who knocked you over with a bullet and then jumped into a hole a thousand feet deep? I think I do remember some things about that trip, pard, and they make me shudder every time they come to mind—especially those crawly things and about ten million bats.”

“Here’s a good place to halt,” said the scout. “We are hidden here from a straight half mile beyond, and can rest, and eat a bite, and perhaps smoke a whiff, while the game possibly walks into our trap.”

Darkness dropped like a vast filmy blanket, and the silent watchers heard only the impatient movements of the horses, anxious to get back to the slope below the cañon’s outlet, where the grass looked green and inviting. At last the scout said:

“I fear, Hickok, that our plans have slipped up somewhere. I think it would be well for one of us to take the horses back to the grazing lands and the other stroll up the cañon to see what has become of our pards. Perhaps they were hurt worse than it seemed.”

“That is the way I look at it, pard, and the one who goes with the horses ought to remain near enough to the cañon to keep informed as to who goes and comes.”

“Very well, you look out for the horses, and I’ll see if I can discover what has become of our pards.”

Wild Bill Hickok soon had the horses hitched out where they could graze upon the green, moist grass, and then moved back where he could both hear the feeding animals and any man or horse that should pass out of the mouth of the cañon.

The scout had moved away in the darkness up the soft bed of sand and gravel, on the alert every instant for any sound of those whom he had expected to come that way. But he was destined to be deeply disappointed and mystified, for the light of another day revealed a state of affairs wholly surprising.

When Little Cayuse rode from view of his companions he had suddenly come in full view of a pair of horsemen, leading two ponies, galloping down the gully which opened at Navi’s feet. As the Indian youth looked for the most favorable spot from which to make the leap to the sand below, he discovered a fuse spluttering in the dead grass and almost under Navi’s feet. Cayuse jerked his heels to the pinto’s sides, and the little fellow bounded ahead and over the brink just as the explosion came. At the bottom both boy and pony were buried in the shower of sand and gravel which followed the explosion, but neither was injured.

As Cayuse and Navi scrambled out of the sand into a settling cloud of dust which hid them from view and probably saved both from becoming the target of the fugitives, old Nomad burst into view over the crest of the hill and through the smoke and dust.

Both the outlaws fired at the trapper, one pinking the flesh at the point of his shoulder. But old Nomad had been waiting too long for excitement to hesitate at the first smell of powder. Driving the spurs to Hide-rack’s sides without a glance at the trail he was taking, the trapper found himself flying through the air, or, rather, a veil of dust, to land in a heap with the surprised Hide-rack. Over they went, the rider luckily escaping injury from the flying feet of the excited and struggling horse.

By the time Nomad had regained his feet he could see Cayuse just rounding an angle in the wall fifty rods away.

“Waugh! Hide-rack! Yip-yip-yar-r-r! Git out ov it, ye heifercat! What ye rollin’ round hyar in ther sand fer? Ye hain’t goin’ ter let thet aire red-blooded, no-’count Navi beat ye, be ye?”

Hide-rack shook his head, and little sprays of sand flew out from each ear.

“That’s ther stuff! Git ther sand outer yore ears, an’ mebbe ye c’n hyar me murmur. Mebbeso I mought shake my head ef ther aujience don’t object, an’ then I could make out if theys any more explosions.

“Waugh! Ther next time I goes in swimmin’ I hopes ther water won’t be so r’ily. Ugh! Gut sand enough in my crop ter make er estridge boozy. Shirt feels ’zef ’twas made er sandpaper. By ther tarnation ten spots! I b’lieves ther pesky lead peddler teched me—ther’ seems ter be mud on thet thar left shoulder er mine. Howsomever, I cyant bother ’th thet when the’s more due me an’ er plumb good chanst ter c’lect up.

“Waugh! Hide-rack! Don’t ye think ye better shake yer heels er bit! Mebbe the’s sand in yer butes, ’cause why ye don’t ketch up ter thet redskin varmint down front.”

By the time Buffalo Bill and Hickok had discovered the cañon, old Nomad had rounded the bend in hot pursuit of the flying Navi.

Price and his partner were making the best time possible, and apparently hoped to outstrip their pursuers. If they knew the locality they could hardly have selected a better place in which to traverse a long stretch of country without the possibility of being observed from any direction.

Little Cayuse was determined to keep the fellows in view at any cost, and took long chances of an ambush as he darted around sharp angles at the top of Navi’s speed. Cayuse trusted to Pa-e-has-ka to do the rest if he—Cayuse—could only perform the task he had been given.

The Indian boy did not turn his head, but he knew that Nomad was closely following, for he heard the trapper’s cries of encouragement to his steed.

Cayuse’s black eyes shone as he patted Navi’s neck and said:

“Hide-rack all same heap clumsy pile bones. No ketchum Navi.”

After an hour’s hard riding in a straight-away stretch, Cayuse saw the fugitives for a little while, and just as they were approaching an angle one of the ridden ponies fell. Both horse and rider rolled over and got up injured, for both limped. They passed the corner out of view slowly, and a moment later Cayuse saw a man with a rifle come into sight again for a moment and then jump back.

Little Cayuse halted and waited for Nomad.

“Hain’t gittin’ bashful, be ye, Cayuse?” greeted the trapper.

Cayuse told what he had seen.

“Waugh! Le’s try ’em out, boy. Ef they’s thar an’ see us make er dash ’zif we’s goin’ ter ride ’em down, they’ll like ernough try us er shot ’fore we gits too nigh.

“One, two, go-o-o!” yelled Nomad, as they dashed away at full speed.

“Yip-yip-yar-r-r!” he yelled, as they tore along.

The men in ambush heard the oncoming charge and peered out. Then, as Nomad had predicted, they each tried a shot.

“Thet tells ther story, papoose—they’re thar an’ waitin’ fer us,” said Nomad, pulling up and turning in close to the wall where both he and the horse were screened from reach of probable sniping. Little Cayuse also pulled in out of range, and the two conferred.

“They’ve stacked ther cyards ergin us, pard,” said Nomad. “’Tain’t no use ter play when t’other feller hol’s all ther trumps.”

It was decided to await darkness, now scarcely more than an hour distant, and then attempt to steal up to the enemy’s position.

Nomad had a plan for surprising the rascals, and he proceeded to put it into execution, setting forth his intentions to Cayuse as he worked. He began by taking off his shirt and tearing a sleeve out of it.

“Ugh!” grunted Cayuse. “Nomad plenty crazy prairie dog. Him cut off Hide-rack’s tail, mebbe.”

“Looky hyar, yer Piute papoose, ole Nick hain’t shot so fur f’m ther mark uv common sense ez some little Injuns I’ve seen, ner I hain’t goin’ ter whittle off Hide-rack’s tail, nary one. Ye see thet hoss needs ’is rudder ter steer with, but ole Nick don’t need this aire shirt sleeve fer much er northin’, fur’s I know—’n it’s gittin’ whar et needs er soak in ther river, anyhow.”

“Plenty dirty,” observed Cayuse, whose disgust at Nomad’s slovenly ways was proverbial among the pards.

Nomad tied up one end of the sleeve, and then began filling it with sand.

“Heap fool war club—kill ’im easy?” asked Cayuse.

“Naw, I hain’t goin’ ter kill ’im easy; I’m goin’ ter fool ’im ’th this an’ then kill ’im good an’ hard ’th this ole Nancy rifle er mine.”

“Mebbeso him think rattlesnake,” suggested Cayuse.

“Mebbeso him think ’tis er fool Injun,” retorted Nomad, imitating Cayuse’s voice, manner, and words as he kept on with his work.

Little Cayuse improved the time in brushing the sand out of his raven-black hair and reëstablishing his shining braids and feather.

“Thar, Cayuse, thar’s ther dyed-in-ther-wool ketchumnappin’,” announced Nomad.

“Wuh? All same tie um round mouth make um stop holler.”

“You mean, is it a gag?”

“Wuh.”

“See hyar, Cayuse; I don’t want no more o’ yer insinooations ’bout my shirt bein’ dirty. Mebbe thet thar dummy’ll save yer er shot in ther ’natomy.”

“Ugh! Bullet heap better.”

If Cayuse suspected the purpose of old Nomad he kept it to himself, and pretended to think the trapper pard’s mind was wandering.

As darkness settled fast they completed preparations by tying the horses to a jutting rock, then Nomad shouldered his mysterious weapon and crept along close to the inner wall. Cayuse followed near.

Nomad and Cayuse knew that if the men in ambush suspected they were creeping along the wall a shot might pot both of them, but they were taking the chances because they were aware it was Buffalo Bill’s wish to recapture Price and his partner in crime.

At any instant they might expect a flash ahead and feel the sting of a bullet.

For three hours Buffalo Bill plodded through the loose footing in the dismal gully. The rim along both sides was outlined against the heavens, but in the shadowless realms between the high walls the darkness could be felt, almost. The scout feared he might pass the men he was seeking. On the other hand, if they attempted to escape under cover of darkness he would stand two chances to their one of hearing them first. He might pass them, and he might walk into the very muzzle of their rifles.

Suddenly the scout paused and listened. He could hear something moving a couple of rods ahead, so he crouched low and waited. He hoped if it were men approaching on horseback that he would be able, by looking up toward the light of the sky, when they were near, to discover who they were.

He heard the movements continued, but they came no nearer.

At last the scout could curb his impatience no longer, and began to make his way stealthily toward the sound. Inch by inch he approached, lifting his feet noiselessly and softly setting them down in the yielding mass. Then he felt that he could almost reach the thing that was causing the slight rustling; he discovered that it was a pony.

Carefully reconnoitring the situation, the scout found the animal was anchored to a point of rock and was hungrily attempting to find a nip of green along the wall.

Passing this one, the scout came upon a group of three others, their heads tied together in such manner that they could proceed in no direction.

The scout believed that he had come upon the four ponies of Price and Ike, and felt sure the human portion of the sextette must be near. He determined to ascertain, even at the risk of making of himself a target for their bullets.

Pressing between the ponies, the scout struck a match, and, so holding it behind the neck of one of the ponies that it would not throw its light in his own face, he scrutinized the place thoroughly for a rod or two.

He was behind an angle in the wall, and beyond that perhaps the outlaws were hidden.

As the light flickered and went out, he caught a glimpse of something that caused a chill to run down his spine, and genuine grief touched his heart.

There beyond the angle, on the sand almost against the opposite wall, lay the arm of a man—and Buffalo Bill recognized the familiar stripes and colors of old Nomad’s shirt.

Even Buffalo Bill for the moment was overwhelmed by the catastrophe. His brave old trapper pard had gone across the divide, as he had often wished to do, in active pursuance of his duty. The scout feared, too, that Little Cayuse had met disaster, as appearances would indicate that Price was having matters all his own way, and from some crevice in the rocks was awaiting opportunity to wipe out others of the party in search of him.

Well, there was more than one could play at the waiting game. The scout slipped behind the ponies, and seated himself in the sand, his back against the wall. He proceeded to make himself as comfortable as possible.

The ponies were tired, hungry, and uneasy. They pulled each other about after a time, and attempted to nose along the walls in search of water or herbage. The scout remained quiet, with his ears strained for every sound of interference by their owners, but no such sound came to him.

The dreary hours passed, and the gray light of morning at last began to reveal the nooks and corners of the gully, yet the scout stirred not.

Presently he could see his surroundings distinctly, but nothing indicated the presence of any human being other than himself. The ponies were still pushing and pulling each other in futile attempts at progress toward food and water.

For half an hour the scout awaited the movement of those whom he suspected were watching for him. With ready revolver, he kept an eye constantly on the jutting rock which marked the turn in the wall.

At last the critical moment arrived. He saw a slight shadow which indicated the movement of some one beyond the angle moving slowly up to it, and then just a curve of a human face as it pushed slowly by the corner, taking in every inch of the way as the eye swept around the corner where the scout awaited with eye glinting along his shining barrel.

“Pa-e-has-ka!”

The exclamation was one of surprise mingled with relief.

Little Cayuse stepped into view and hurried toward the scout, who arose quickly and extended his hand.

“I feared you had made your last trip with me, little pard,” he said.

“Ugh! Me ’fraid bad men get away. Keep eye on rock all night, make um listen.”

“What happened to Nomad?”

“Sleep ketch um.”

“Poor old Nick!” murmured the scout.

“Ugh! Make um snore, scare pony.”

“How did it happen?”

“All same lie down, no put um head in bag.”

“What do you mean, Cayuse?” demanded the scout somewhat sternly. He had begun to note the twinkle in Cayuse’s eye, and failed to reconcile the Piute’s quiet levity with the seriousness of the occasion.

“Mean Nomad heap tired; stick head in sand; mebbeso crazy.”

The scout began to have hopes that somehow his fears had been groundless.

“See here, Cayuse,” he began, with a little laugh, “what are you driving at? Hasn’t Nick met with an accident?” And the scout advanced around the corner far enough to view the grewsome relic lying against the opposite wall.

“Wuh; him fall down hole, git ears full sand; sand in hair; sand in eyes; sand in nose—mebbeso eat um bushel sand.”

“What is that?” asked Buffalo Bill, pointing at what he had taken to be an arm of the trapper.

“Nomad call it ‘ketchumnappin’,’ me call um ‘fool war club.’”

The scout’s spirits rose.

“Where is Nick?” he asked.

“Over by Hide-rack. Him snore keep Navi ’wake.”

“Well, now where are the bad men?”

Cayuse shook his head dubiously.

“Me go ketch um, find Pa-e-has-ka.”

“I guess they have slipped us somehow, unless Hickok has done better than we have. But let us arouse Nomad and see what he has to say about his ‘ketchumnappin’.’”

The scout and Cayuse approached the sleeping trapper, who had rolled up against the wall near Hide-rack. The horse was in no pleasant temper. He wanted grass and water, and he had been hitched to a bare rock all night. His head hung low, but he turned to look menacingly with ears laid close, as his friends came near.

Buffalo Bill began throwing sand at the ill-tempered horse’s heels, and the latter responded with vicious kicks and squeals as he danced about, aiming his steel-shod battery at the scout and Cayuse.

Old Nomad reared up wildly from sound slumber, waving his arms and shouting:

“Whoa, thar! Consarn ye! Whut ye doin’ ov, ye old gander? Tryin’ ter kick up er rumpus an’ make me think I’m bein’ ’tacked by thirty-leven Comanches an’ fourteen greasers all in er bunch? Quit it, ye ole heifercat, ’fore I fall on ye, tooth an’ nail, an’ smite ye, hip an’ thigh.”

The scout laughed, and the trapper crawled out, cautiously watching the light heels of Hide-rack the while, and muttering:

“’Pears ter me thet hee-haw soun’s nachal. Hah! Buffler! I might a-knowed ’twas yore work, a-stirrin’ up ther varmint.”

“The first thing I want to know,” began the scout, “is what that stuffed sleeve is for.”

The trapper blushed behind his whiskers and the grime of perspiration and alkali dust. But he recovered quickly.

“Thet thar is er surpriser. I planned ter creep up on this side ther rock an’ throw ther ketchumnappin’ ercross on t’other side, so’s ther vilyuns c’d hyar et. I reckoned they’d fire at ther fust thing they heard move in the dark, an’ then, ’fore they had er chanst ter think er git their ears open, I jes’ cal’lated ter jump round ther corner an’ nab um.”

“How did it work?”

“Didn’t work,” grunted the trapper disgustedly.

“Did you throw it?”

“Uh-huh.”

“What did they do?”

“They throwed some consarned ball o’ powder, an’ ha’r, an’ stuff thet flared up an’ showed my ketchumnappin’ sound ersleep. An’ me’n Cayuse hed ter hedgehog back inter ther darkness right lively, whilst they wuz poppin’ erway at us some cautious.”

“You didn’t try it again?”

“None whatever wuth mentionin’.”

“Well, they’ve slipped our net, and they did it so neatly that we don’t know how they carried it out.”

The pards returned to the angle in the wall, and at last discovered that Price and Ike had scaled the wall, probably early in the night, and had made away on foot toward the southwest. By leaving their stamping ponies to deceive the watchers they had made a clean and safe getaway.

The pards now hastened out to the mouth of the cañon with all the horses to join the Laramie man.

But once more they were disappointed. Wild Bill had disappeared with both his own and Buffalo Bill’s horse. They found where the animals had cropped the grass for a time during the early part of the previous night. Now, out on the broad plain as far as the strong eyes of the scout or of Cayuse could reach, there was no sign of man or beast in any direction.

The scout was puzzled. Something had happened of importance to draw Wild Bill from his post of duty.

The scout’s first business, however, was to allow the horses to graze, then he would move on toward a river which showed like a silver thread in the greenish-brown plain in the distance.

Buffalo Bill believed it must be the Big Horn River, but he had never been in this part of the country before. He was impressed by the magnificence of his surroundings. He had visions of broad, cultivated fields, peaceful herds, and busy villages in this beautiful expanse where now roamed the Indian, the buffalo, and the coyote. The very immensity of it all impressed him. And yet he knew that beyond the threadlike river the grazing lands rapidly degenerated into the barren shale and useless acres of the Bad Lands, where only sage brush and cactus grow, and these of a sickly sort.

The wonders of irrigation were then unborn for the West.

Sitting silent as a spectre, listening to the grubbing teeth of the horses a few rods distant and for the sound of any approach down the gully on the other side, Wild Bill Hickok observed a ball of fire shoot up into the southern sky in the distance. It burned brightly for a moment and then disappeared. Immediately far in the east another sprang up, and then the west responded, but to the north Hickok could not observe over the higher land.

The Laramie man knew this to be some sort of Indian signals, but of course could not pretend to understand their meaning.

Shortly the signals were repeated, this time much nearer on all sides. The significance was that the country swarmed with redskins, and that he was in the centre of a vast tract on which there were an outer and an inner circle of hostile outposts.

Hickok became absorbed in his surroundings, and wondered why he and Buffalo Bill had not discovered some evidence of these war parties when they had studied the plain before night. He decided that the surface must be more uneven than it looked from this commanding position. He heard only the occasional snarl of a prowling coyote and the whispering breeze in the dead husks of the weeds.

And then he suddenly realized that he no longer heard the grubbing of the horses. He listened intently for some moments, but if the horses were still there they had satisfied their hunger, and were quietly enjoying the rest after a hard day’s work.

From the gulch came no sound, and at last the Laramie man stole cautiously down toward the spot where he had left the horses. He found the place easily enough, but both animals were gone.

“That is odd, not to say mysterious,” muttered Hickok. “I never had a horse slip his lariat before.”

He searched for the pins, and at last found one—with a short piece of the riata still attached. He felt of the end—it had been cut.

The Laramie man clinched his fists in silent fury.

“A sneaking red thief has crawled right up under my nose and stolen my horse and Buffalo Bill’s,” he ground between his teeth.

To think of retaking the horses was next to a hopeless task. Perhaps they had been gone half an hour—long enough for an Indian to have led them beyond hearing and then galloped several miles.

“What will Cody think?” was the thought uppermost in Hickok’s mind. “He’ll think I went to sleep and let the redskins get away with the horses without so much as ‘by your leave.’”

And then the plainsman’s mind was settled.

“I’ll bring those horses or I’ll never come back,” he said in a low tone, for all the Laramie man’s determination was aroused.

He tore the lariat pin from the ground, pulled the piece of rope from the pin, and stuffed it into his pocket. He then searched for the other, found it, and served it in the same way.

“I won’t leave those telltale things behind,” he said.

At first Hickok attempted to pick up and follow the trail, but in the heavy pall of darkness he found that impossible, as he knew beforehand it would be. Then he started toward the nearest point where a signal light had flared. He proceeded carefully, aware that at any moment he might blunder upon a group of silent savages in the grass. Once a whirr at his side caused him to bound away from a cactus, where he had disturbed a rattler.

Frequently he stumbled in the open doorways of prairie-dog villages, and at another time a wriggling thing under his foot felt as large as a cat. It was probably a bull snake, which, cloyed with its early evening meal, had been taking a nap in the pathway of the lone plainsman.

After probably two hours of this, Hickok seemed to have reached the rim of a little valley, for there, seemingly far below him, were the twinkling fires of an Indian encampment.

“So here is where they were beginning a Fourth-of-July celebration,” thought Hickok. “Very good; we’ll slip down that way and see what they’ve got besides fireworks. Mayhap they’d enjoy some firecrackers and a little parade.”

Hickok approached the encampment with exceeding caution. He wished to locate the ponies of the warriors, for he had no doubt it was a war party, to see if his horse and that of Buffalo Bill had arrived.

He made an entire circuit of the camp, so near that he could hear the sentries greet each other in low, guttural phrases.

Again he began the circuit, this time within the circle of the guard. On his previous trip around the camp he had crossed a small stream. When he came to it again he turned down its bank and approached within three rods of the nearest fire. There he saw a dozen warriors sleeping in their blankets and one sitting with crossed legs, smoking and staring into the embers.

Hickok crept noiselessly past the fire, and followed the stream. It was as he had hoped—below the camp on the little stream were the horses. They had grazed along the bank, and now were huddled together in groups of three or four with crossed necks and heels outward, a trait which seems to have been handed down from the days when the wild mustangs thus grouped themselves for defense against the snapping wolves that came to pull them down.

Hickok carefully worked among the ponies, but found no trace of the animals belonging to himself and Cody. He successfully passed the sentry, and once more found himself on the open prairie.

He decided, as it must be well along past midnight, to seek some good hiding place before dawn, and there remain during the coming day. He had food, and water was at hand. He thought the stream might furnish dense thickets farther down, and so followed it, coming to a sharp turn where the brook tumbled over the rocks to become part of a river twenty feet below.

Hickok thought he had come to the Big Horn, but later learned it to be only a good-sized tributary of that wildly picturesque river.

On the bank near the junction the plainsman entered a dense motte of small timber. He knew he was well beyond sound of the Indian camp, and was screened from view by the sharp hill he had descended. So he started a little fire, and made a dipper of strong tea. By the light of the fire he prepared a hiding place by weaving the willow sprouts and sage brush into the thick growth about a spot he had selected for the purpose. He looked carefully about for signs of snakes among the rocks, but found none.

His nest ready for the coming day, the Laramie man ate heartily, smoked a pipeful of tobacco, and lay down to rest just as the first streaks of dawn began to show in the east.

It was late in the afternoon when Hickok awoke, refreshed and ready for action. He had slept the sleep of the weary man who is in perfect physical condition. The proximity of his warlike neighbors had not troubled his dreams. He was sorry to have caused his pards anxiety, but this could not be helped, and there was no use crying over spilled milk.

He arose and carefully reconnoitred his position before leaving the thicket. Then he moved to the edge of the timber, and looked across the plain in all directions, except to the northwest, which was hidden by the higher land.

Selecting the largest cottonwood which grew in the loving embrace of a willow, he clambered up where he could look over the brow of the ridge.

A surprise awaited him. The Indian encampment had quadrupled in size. The little valley looked like a village of a large tribe.

But a sight that stirred him more was far out on the plain to the westward. There he first saw a madly galloping cluster of horsemen. There were half a hundred Sioux making all haste to the westward, as if life depended on covering the ground at breakneck speed.

Hickok instantly picked out two of the larger animals in the lead, and knew them to be the gallant Bear Paw and his own brave horse. He looked for the object of this wild flight, and saw, far away, a herd of buffalo crossing a ridge toward the sinking sun.

“Good enough!” he exclaimed aloud. “To-night they’ll gorge themselves with buffalo meat and celebrate the event. Now, I can see where Hickok gets in his fine work and lights out with a couple of good horses—or gets a tickle of bullets in his ribs in the attempt.”

The Laramie man remained in the tree for an hour, watching the chase, and, when the surprised buffalo finally found themselves surrounded by yelling redskins, their pitiful attempts at escape and their maddened charges on the enemy were almost useless.

Hickok clambered down, and once more inspected his grub bag. Another little fire provided tea, and as the sun was going down behind the distant hills he again climbed the tree and watched the procession of returning hunters.

The night settled overcast and as dark as Erebus. The Indian fires burned up in red glare, and many signals were sent up, evidently telling other encampments of the rich haul of the party that day.

It was an ideal night for the work Hickok had in hand; the darker the better, and he felt in prime condition for the undertaking. He saw that his revolvers were loaded and in the best condition, and then filled his water pouch, for he knew not when he would again find the thirst-relieving liquid. His knife was keen.

Two hours after dark the feasting and dancing were under way. The red warriors provided meat for some time to come, indulged in much speechmaking, and one chief aroused great enthusiasm. Hickok did not know this man, and could not well get near enough to hear what he said—too many fires were burning, and the odor of cooking meat was wafted out to him, telling that the feasting and revelry would last throughout the night.

Hickok knew where to find the horses this time, and had no trouble in passing the guard, who was all eyes and ears for the camp.

But the first difficulty to overcome was an extra guard that had been posted over the stolen horses. These were apart from the ponies, probably because Bear Paw absolutely refused to associate with the Indian mustangs, and he usually emphasized his dislike in a way that made it unsafe for the smaller animals.

The two horses were lariated on the bank of the little stream opposite the others and farther from the camp fires. This was fortunate in itself for the Laramie man, but the Indians had taken the precaution to post a separate sentry by them.

The buck sat with his face to the firelight a few feet from the horses. He was smoking and now and then mumbling to himself, probably disgruntled comments on his ill luck at being unable to partake of the night’s festivities.

In their anxiety to begin the sport the Indians had given their ponies scant time to graze, and the latter were out of temper and quarrelsome. They bit, kicked, and squealed in a continuous hubbub. This noise assisted the Laramie man to carry out his plan.

He crossed the brook, and crept silently toward the unsuspecting guard. From behind clumps of sage he picked out his way, and crawled nearer and nearer.

The buck was viciously sweeping the weeds about him with the muzzle of his rifle.

“I’ll vent your temper a bit presently,” thought the Laramie man, creeping nearer and ready for a spring at the slightest turn of the Indian’s head, which was outlined against the firelight beyond.

A silent bound, a dull thud, and the buck rolled over without a moan. The Laramie man’s revolver butt had descended true and hard.

Hickok acted quickly. He cut the lariats of the horses, hitched Bear Paw’s line to his own saddle, and was just swinging into the saddle when there was a surprised “Ugh!” behind him, a shot, and Buffalo Bill’s right bower darted out upon the plain like a whirlwind, with the whole Indian encampment behind him in wild turmoil.

Buffalo Bill examined the ground closely where he and Hickok had tethered the horses the previous evening. He went over the ground inch by inch in search of a clue to the cause of the Laramie man’s disappearance. He knew that only some extraordinary occurrence would have called Hickok from the place before his—Cody’s—return.

At last he found one of the hitch pins where Hickok had thrown it, several rods from the space the horses had grubbed.

“That is rather peculiar,” he said. “I don’t understand why Hickok should have thrown the pin away, and if it was the work of Indians I don’t see how it came here unless the horses were scared, and jerked the pins from the ground, and dragged them till they fell from the lariats. And again there are no tracks of horses in this direction, nor did the horses kick up any soil, as they would have done at the start-off, if frightened.”

He continued his search patiently, and was rewarded at last.

“Ah!” he exclaimed, “I have the key. Here is a moccasin track in a sandy spot, and close beside it the imprint of Bear Paw’s barred shoe. I think some thieving red saw us put out the horses, and after dark sneaked up and quietly led them away. It is evident that Hickok discovered they were gone and has attempted to follow them in the night, although what he expected to accomplish in the darkness is more than I can tell.”

“Trust Hickok ter know what he’s erbout, Buffler. I’m er-gamblin’ ther’ll be things er-happenin’ ’mong ther redskins ef Hickok don’t git er whack et them thar hosses.”

Cayuse had been following the trail left by the horses as they were led away, and from fifty rods away he shouted:

“Bear Paw go all same rabbit.”

“Which way?” called the scout.

Cayuse pointed to the west.

“That pesky Price an’ ’is pard went that way, too,” suggested Nomad. “Mebbe Hick’ll meet up with ther varmints an’ square ’counts with ’em.”

“I think,” said the scout, “that we had better let the ponies graze for an hour or so and then make back into the cañon and wait for darkness and Hickok.”

“Ye’ve hit ther nail fust time, Buffler. One er two o’ us mought be takin’ er nap right now ergin er time o’ need. I feels et in my bones thet thar’s doin’s er-comin’ our way good an’ plenty.”

“That is good logic, old pard. You and Cayuse go up the gully a short distance and catch a wink while I watch the ponies. I want to study the country for a while this morning, and I’ll take first watch. After the animals are satisfied I’ll lead them in out of the way of prying eyes and take a snooze myself.”

Cayuse objected to Cody’s taking first watch.

“Me no squaw,” he said.

“Not by a jugful,” assented the scout, “but we want you to be at your best to-night. I think there is an Indian encampment near, and after dark I want you to wiggle into it and find out all there is to know.”

The Indian boy was pleased at the scout’s evidence of confidence in him, and submitted with a grunt of satisfaction.

The scout had hoped by a careful study of the plain to discover some evidence of the location of the encampment which he believed must be near, and he was not disappointed.

Scarcely an hour had passed before he saw a large party of horsemen far to the south moving westward. They came into view now and then as they passed over the higher points of the rolling plain. He saw them quite distinctly as they forded the river, and then for a time they disappeared, to come into view again after half an hour, showing that they had crossed quite a respectable valley.

Again they went over a ridge, and were seen no more. The scout decided that the party had either stopped in this valley or that it was so broad that the horsemen were beyond reach of the human eye when they reached the far side.

“To-night,” he said aloud, as he arose to collect the lariats of the ponies, “we’ll move down into that country and see what we may discover.”

It was dark when the scout awoke, and for a time he could not think where he was. Then he remembered finding Nomad and Cayuse sleeping in the gully, and that he had tied the ponies together, and sat down in the shadow of the precipitous wall to wait a while before awakening either of his pards.

He now recalled guiltily that he had slept at his post. He moved over to where Nomad and the Piute had lain. Both were gone. He groped his way to where he had left the ponies, and they, too, were gone.

“It’s one on me,” chuckled the scout. “The pards are giving the ponies a chance to graze, and are letting me have my nap out.”

“Pa-e-has-ka sleep plenty sound,” said Cayuse at his elbow.

The faithful Piute had remained by the scout.

“Where’s Nomad?” asked Cody.

“Him go fill um up ponies,” answered Cayuse.

They found Nomad readily enough where he had been since sunset. He had found a buffalo wallow and had given the horses all the water they wished. They had grazed their fill and were now enjoying a rest.

“Thar’s strange doin’s off west’ard, Buffler,” said the trapper, who sat on the ground smoking and observing the changes in his surroundings as night advanced.

“What’s up, Nick?” asked the scout.

“See!” exclaimed the trapper. “Thet’s what’s up. They’ve been er-shootin’ up them air rockets ever sence ’twas dark ernuff ter see um, an’ ’way off in ther south ernother passle o’ ther varmints hev been answerin’ ov ’em.”

The signals were coming up in the direction Buffalo Bill had seen the party disappear in the morning.

“Just what I thought,” said the scout. “There is a large war party over yonder; I saw them go there this morning.”

“Waugh! Buffler, this ’mences ter look like life was wuth livin’ er dyin’, ary one. Snarlin’ catermounts! I feels et in my ole bones thet ther fur’s goin’ ter fly ’fore these sage brushes git ter be plum trees.”

“Let’s be off,” said the scout quietly, selecting the best pony by going among them and feeling of their heads and ears for intelligence and their bodies and legs for endurance.

“Better turn the other two loose, hadn’t we, Nomad?” he asked.

“Shore we don’t want no extra hosses ter bother with—them’s my notions,” answered the trapper.

Buffalo Bill removed the lariats from two of the ponies, and giving each a sharp slap sent them scurrying out on the plain.

“I hope they’ll get a good rest and take on fat before the Indians pick them up,” he said.

The scout and his party struck the valley to the northward of the encampment, and came to the little stream which Hickok had found the previous night. In a thicket they left the horses and moved down toward the twinkling fires.

When near enough they saw that it was a special occasion in the camp, and they kept close to the stream because of the growth along its banks. They saw the dancing, and heard the shouting of the warriors, and then they drew near enough to discover that it was the celebration of a successful buffalo hunt.

For some time they watched the animated night scene, and Cayuse was just stealing away intending to enter the heart of the camp to hear what was the gist of the harangues, when there was a commotion only a few rods from them down the stream, followed by the report of a rifle.

Instantly the scene in the camp changed from riotous hilarity to one of consternation and excited inquiries. Everywhere there were shouts and running about.

The scout heard the pounding of horses’ hoofs, and then out on the plain came a taunting laugh, followed by a shout in a well-known voice:

“Come on, you yowling devils, if you wish, but I bid you a cheerful good night!”

“Wild Bill!” ejaculated the scout and Nomad in a breath.

There was scurrying to the ponies, and a yelling mob rode off in pursuit, but soon gave it up and returned.

By the time the excitement was over and explanations made, Little Cayuse had wormed into the heart of the camp, had donned a Sioux headgear and blanket, and stolidly sat with some of the elder warriors as they smoked and awaited the speeches of the chiefs.

Cayuse understood enough of the Yankton Sioux tongue to follow the trend of comment, and his presence seemed to arouse no suspicion.

Buffalo Bill remained concealed in the thicket by the stream, and awaited events, and events came all too rapidly for comfort.

Suddenly the pards heard a dull thud and a grunt behind them, and realized that an Indian had jumped the stream, and was coming through the thicket directly upon them.

The scout touched Nomad as a signal to remain quiet, while he half arose.

As the Sioux’s next step would have brought him in contact with the scout, the latter straightened to his full height and grasped the red’s throat.

The Indian was large and powerful, and though taken wholly by surprise put up a tremendous fight. He could not let out the warning yell that gurgled in his throat, but the sound of the struggle in the small growth attracted the attention of a group of bucks at the nearest fire. Snatching up brands, these fellows ran to investigate.

“Snarlin’ catermounts an’ ther ring-tail heifercats, Buffler, ther hull kerboodle’s bruk loose kerwallop! Knock ther red on ther head an’ git yer guns!”

The scout bent his antagonist backward, and with a blow of his fist put the savage temporarily out of commission.

“Back across the brook, Nick, and then leg it up river to the horses!” he said, crashing through the brush and leaping across to the thick growth on the opposite bank.

For Nomad it was hard to resist a volley at the oncoming reds, but orders were orders when they came from Buffalo Bill, and he bounded after his leader.

The Indians plunged into the thicket and found the buck just regaining his senses and yet unable to comprehend his condition. A few paused to question him, while others scurried about in the willows, looking for some sort of enemy.

The scout and trapper made good time up river, but suddenly saw outlined against the sky, on the bank above them, several horsemen. Instantly they crouched low and waited. To continue up river they must pass almost at the feet of these horsemen who seemed to be waiting for them or else watching events below.

“They are all about us, Nick,” whispered the scout.

“Waugh!” returned the trapper. “One on ’em got his goozelet squoze till I’m gamblin’ he cyant chew buffler gravy ter-night, nohow.”

The torch bearers were coming nearer along the stream, apparently having discovered the tracks the pards had made in jumping across.

Then from above them came a guttural query in a shout to those beating the bush.

“He asked what the fuss was about,” whispered the scout.

The pards could make out seven men on horseback, for the other five were grouped about two of them, and it could be seen that both the latter wore hats instead of feathers.

Then one of the men spoke to the other in good English:

“It looks like our finish, Ike, down in that gang of red cutthroats.”

“It is Price!” whispered the scout.

“An’ Bloody Ike,” added the trapper.

Straight out upon the plain, Hickok, astride his own horse and leading Bear Paw, fled. He had little fear of being overtaken, and soon discovered that the Indians had missed his course entirely and were passing south of him. He decided to circle northward and go back to the mouth of the long gully, in the hope of learning something of his companions.

Nearing- the stream again, some distance above the Indian camp, the Laramie man was suddenly startled by a shrill whinny, and he instantly knew it to be the call of Navi to his friend Bear Paw.

Wild Bill jerked up the heads of his horses so suddenly that both desisted from the response which they were ready to give.

The Laramie man made haste to investigate, and so confident was he that no other pony could imitate the neigh of Navi that he took long chances of running into an ambuscade. Wild Bill was a man who was ever ready to take chances if anything was to be gained thereby. If there was but one in a thousand he would take that one—and Wild Bill’s “luck” was phenomenal.

The horses made straight for the copse where the scout and pards had hidden their animals. Hickok dismounted, and looked over the horses to discover who was paving the Indian camp a visit. Then he laughed to himself:

“So Cody came on an Indian pony, and without a saddle. Must be Price’s animal. Wonder what they have done with Price and Ike while the entire family of pards is away.”

Hickok now heard greater commotion toward the Sioux camp and saw bucks running with firebrands toward the fringe of cottonwood along the stream.

“Aha! I guess some of the pards have missed a step somewhere,” mused the scout. “Perhaps I had better drop down that way.”

To think was to act with Hickok. He left the horses with the others and hurried away, hoping to connect with his pards. He felt sure that if Buffalo Bill or any of his comrades had been discovered and were making a getaway that they would naturally follow the timber to the spot where they left their horses.

Hickok came to a little bluff that ran down sharply to the brook and was about to clamber along its base to the thicket beyond when he discovered that its summit was occupied by several mounted men.

The Laramie man paused. To pass over the open space might expose him to the full view of those above at any moment, should a torch suddenly flare above the thicket. Yet he had no doubt some of his pards were hiding in the brush and perhaps confronted by the same dilemma.

Hickok chuckled as a scheme presented itself.

“Perhaps those fellows think they are going to sit there, like a turtle on a log, till the harvest moon, but I doubt it,” he muttered.

He hurried back until he was on the other side of the bluff, and had the horsemen outlined against the light of the fires beyond; then he quickly but quietly climbed up behind the group, one of whom was shouting to those with the torches.

Hickok heard a white man speak and recognized the voice of Price. He had crept to within a scant rod of the heels of the ponies, whose heads were drooping after a long run.

Suddenly Hickok launched himself on hands and feet at the very heels of the ponies, emitting at the same time an uncanny cross between a bark and a growl and switching vigorously at the animals’ heels with a long withe he had brought for the purpose.

The effect was surprising to the riders, to say the least. They had no sooner heard the slight rustle behind them than they were startled by the mad snarling that might have been made by a half dozen catamounts and a grizzly or two thrown in. Then their ponies nearly leaped out from under them in a mad dash to get away.

The frightened mustangs dashed down the hill, plunged across the stream, and, before the surprised torch bearers could guess at what was happening, some of them were bowled over by the stampeded ponies.

In the midst of the hubbub, Wild Bill gave the signal of the pards from the top of the mound. Instantly he was answered by the scout from the ravine, and a minute later the pards had clasped hands and with Nomad were hurrying toward the hiding place of the horses.

When well beyond earshot of the redskins, Nomad turned on Wild Bill.

“See hyar, Hick, I don’t want you never ter dew northin’ like thet ergin. Ov all the caterwaulin’ lunkumsluices, an’ snarlin’ molwallopuses thet ever scared a Injun’s hair white, yer ther plumb wust. Why, when thet thar tarnal kihootin’ begun I thort er sidehill lounger, w’th feet ez big ez bundles o’ hay, hed bruk loose an’ wuz go’n ter gobble ther hull pot an’ kittle ov us. What d’ye mean by such kerryins on, anyhow, Hick?”

The scout and Hickok were laughing quietly at old Nomad’s badinage, and the trapper wound up with:

“I was so mightily scart thet I plumb fergut ter leave my address with ther feather pates. Cyant seem ter git over thet yowlin’ nohow.”

“Where is Cayuse?” asked Hickok, when they had come up to the horses.

“He’s er-callin’ on ther big Injuns,” answered Nomad.

“I think we had better wait here a while for Cayuse, and then if he doesn’t come we’ll take his pinto with us and leave the odd pony for him if he shows up here after we are gone.”

“Which way do you intend to move?” asked Hickok.

“I guess the long gully is about as satisfactory as any,” answered the scout.

“I think I can beat it, and right under the Indians’ noses,” said the Laramie man. He then described the place where he had passed the night before.

“Good grazing and convenient to water?” asked the scout.

“Never better.”

“I have another plan, then,” said the scout.

“Name it.”

“You and Nick take all the horses and repair to your castle and I will await Cayuse. I am anxious to know what is the object of all this chin music.”

At midnight Cayuse had not returned, and the scout once more approached the encampment, having some misgivings regarding Cayuse’s escape. He feared the daring boy had been overzealous in his work and had fallen into the hands of the red warriors. Cody realized that on such occasions as this a prisoner would receive short shrift at the hands of these red men on the way to war.

The scout wished to learn where Sitting Bull himself could be found. He did not expect to find the famous chief with this war party, but farther south; but hoped Cayuse would learn much from the conversation of the chiefs and the harangues of the silver tongues.

Were Sitting Bull present Buffalo Bill would not hesitate to walk boldly into camp. But the scout did not care to take a long journey to the presence of the chief in the company of the red men. He did not like their food or their manner of serving it.

Slowly and cautiously the scout worked nearer the fires, where the festivities were going on as if there had been no break. Confident in their numbers and knowing that no strong government force would be in that part of the country, they cared little for the annoyances of prying settlers who might come to seek revenge for the loss of stolen stock or the murder of a family.

Suddenly before the scout the tall form of an Indian appeared as if by magic.

The scout would have sprung upon the red man to check any outcry, but was halted by a whispered word:

“Long Hair?”

“Yes,” answered the scout.

“It is good—how?”

The Indian extended his hand and the plainsman grasped it.

“How!” he said, “White-man-runs-him?”

“Why does Pa-e-has-ka walk into the arms of the red foe?”

“To learn why the red man is a foe.” Buffalo Bill answered quickly.

“The red warriors gather because they have been robbed,” said the Crow trailer.

“But they are murdering and plundering innocent people who know nothing of treaty rights, as they go to join their chief.”

“Pa-e-has-ka knows that there are no dead Indians on the white man’s ground, but there are many dead white men on the Indian’s land.”

“Very true, because even when the red brother comes on the white man’s land to steal he is forgiven, but when the weak white man goes to the red man’s hills to dig gold or to the red man’s valleys to raise corn, he is slain.”

“Pa-e-has-ka knows the Indian agents keep good blankets and give us bad; they feed good meat to the white children and rotting bones to the red papoose.”

“And because a white rascal steals from the red men, the dusky warriors turn and slay innocent white squaws and little babes. White-man-runs-him, if the red warriors do not turn back and await a peaceful settlement of the dispute, it will mean the death of hundreds of both red and white men, and nothing will be gained. Who is in command of this party?”

“Rain-in-the-face.”

“Where is Sitting Bull?”

“Big Horn Cañon.”

“Is this force going south now to join Sitting Bull?”

“Not till the snows run into the rivers again.”

“What are the red warriors going to do till then?”

“Make the white man sorry he came to the red man’s country.”

“Can you lead me to the camp of Sitting Bull?”

“Not yet, Pa-e-has-ka—there are many white brothers to warn. Does Pa-e-has-ka remember the beautiful knife?”

The Indian pulled the shining pearl-handled blade from its sheath, and said:

“Since Pa-e-has-ka gave knife to his red brother, me swear to be friend to palefaces, always.”

“When will White-man-runs-him lead me to the tent of Sitting Bull?”

“When the moon hides its face again——”

The Indian was interrupted by a commotion among those about the fires. There was a scurry and much running about, followed by shouts and then hideous yells.

The Crow warrior listened and then said:

“Catch spy—mebby torture.”

The scout grasped the Indian.

“Find out for me,” he said earnestly and sternly, “if it is a Piute boy. If it is, it is Pa-e-has-ka’s loved pard, and he must be saved if Pa-e-has-ka has to give his own life.”

“Me come back,” said the Crow, and moved away swiftly.

Buffalo Bill awaited impatiently as the minutes lengthened into hours.

At last there was a slight rustle and White-man-runs-him appeared.

“All same so many prisoners,” he began, holding up three fingers. “So many palefaces”—holding up two fingers—“and so many Piute boy”—one finger.

“Palefaces have paper talk from Sitting Bull, no die yet. Piute die at stake when sun looks over hills.”

In four hours it would be daylight, and, as the sun appeared above the eastern hills, the Indian celebration was to have its climax in firing the pile of dry wood that was to torture Little Cayuse.

The scout had heard the words of White-man-runs-him, and his jaws snapped together with a grim determination to save his little pard—but how?

In the war party were several hundred well-armed and well-mounted warriors. In many cases their rifles were superior to those of the white soldiery, for agents were in Canada and the East, buying the latest long-range arms.

To endeavor to take the prisoner forcibly would be suicidal, foolhardy. But the scout would make some attempt—that was a foregone conclusion.

Buffalo Bill left the trailer and moved about the camp. He studied it from every point of the compass, learned the exact lay of the land in all directions, and then went down to the junction of the stream and river where Hickok and Nomad were snugly hidden. He told them of the prospective fate of their little Indian pard, and a plan he had partly perfected.

The scout hoped that within the next hour or two the enthusiasm of the red men would wane and that many of them would go to sleep. Then it was that he proposed to mount Bear Paw, move as far into the camp as possible, and then charge through among the fires like a whirlwind, snatching the tied-up Little Cayuse as he went. Once on the plain, with Bear Paw uninjured, he would laugh at pursuit.

It was a desperate undertaking, with small chance of success, but if any one could do it, that man was the daring Cody, the peerless rider, and he was aware of his chances.

Hickok and Nomad were to be ready, out on the plain, leading Navi, to check the first mad rush of pursuit, and then wheel in behind the scout for a long run.

Every man talked as if the attempt were to be a complete success, but in his own mind each foresaw the grim possibilities of failure.

Nomad thought a better chance of winning lay in a triple charge, two of the riders shooting right and left among the Indians, while the third snatched the prisoner, and made off.

Hickok had a still different plan and one that appealed strongly to the scout. It was for a stampede of the Sioux ponies just as Buffalo Bill was making his daring dash, and confuse the red men by an attack in two quarters at once. This plan had the advantage, also, if successful, of delaying pursuit.

The scout decided that all had best ride out on the plain to the eastward and get ready for the attempt, which should be made an hour before daylight.

Buffalo Bill made one more reconnaisance of the camp and managed to learn the exact location of Little Cayuse, lying like a bundle of wool in the firelight, near the tepee of Rain-in-the-face; then he went back to his companions and everything was made ready.

This was the plan: Hickok was to remain near the pony corral, which was on the stream below the encampment. At the signal, he would attempt to stampede the herd across the stream and out on the plain to the southwest. The scout and trapper were to ride out to the east of the camp, where Cody would begin his cautious approach. At the moment he put the spurs to Bear Paw, he would emit a wild yell, and plunge among the fires and sleep-dazed Indians. At the same instant old Nomad would begin a mad dash along the outside, shooting and yelling like a fiend, also heading for the west side of the stream, where both would fall in with Hickok. If the latter succeeded in stampeding the ponies, all the pards would devote themselves to scattering the animals.

Well out on the plain, the three pards were quietly discussing the situation and prospects. In two hours the darkness would begin to lift. In one hour the attack must be made.

While they talked in low tones the quick ears of the scout detected a sound farther out on the plain.

“Sh!” he cautioned, “some one is approaching on horseback. I heard a horse snort.”

Passing Bear Paw’s rein to Nomad, the scout made his way quickly and noiselessly in the direction of the supposed intruder.

Three horsemen were approaching cautiously, apparently studying the twinkling camp fires, which could be seen in the lower valley. They were coming directly toward him, and Buffalo Bill crouched low and awaited. He knew that when near enough he could distinguish white from red riders against the light of the sky.

Then “sh! sh! sh!” he hissed, and the three horses were pulled up sharply and a voice said, in a low tone:

“Hello, there!”

“Easy, Avery,” said the scout, moving up to the side of the latter’s horse. “It’s a big war party of Indians and they are all alive. Who have you here?”

“‘Little Buffalo Bill’ and a big coon, who calls himself Skibo, and says he is your pard.”

“Good!” exclaimed the scout. “I am glad to see you all. He shook hands with the delighted colored man, and the no less pleased boy, William F. Corey.

“I am heartily glad to see all of you, but you have arrived at a time when you ought to be miles away, especially if your horses are tired.”

“They are fresh,” declared Avery, “for we rested five hours since dark and came to investigate this firelight. I expected ’twas Indians, but I hoped it might be you.”

“How did you happen to come?” asked the scout.

“Why, the negro came along, desperately anxious to connect with you, and wouldn’t give me no peace till I agreed to try to follow your trail. Then the lad wouldn’t give me no peace till I agreed to let him come along—so here we are, an’ I’ve done my part in findin’ ye.”

“It’s one chance in ten thousand that you ever found us. But time flies, and our plans are to be carried out, anyway.”

He briefly explained the situation and the plan of rescue.

“Can’t I help?” asked the boy eagerly, “I brought my bugle.”

“Can you blow the call?” asked the scout, seized with a new idea.

“Yes, sir; uncle says I can do it as well as an army bugler.”

“Good! my boy, you shall perform the lion’s share. I will revise my plan. Hickok shall proceed as arranged before. I will creep down the brook to the edge of the encampment. The bugler shall be posted out from the northeast side, Avery to remain with the bugler and give off commands in a loud voice. Nomad and Skibo are to go to the southeast side near the river, and when the bugle sounds they must shout loud commands to imaginary soldiers and gallop along the front with all the clatter possible. While this is going on Hickok will start the horses, and I will rush into camp and release Cayuse. In the excitement of expectant attack the ruse will work without a shot.”

The scout now felt so certain of victory that he was almost jubilant. Over it all was the glamour of the gamble with death, which the war horse feels in battle. Every man of the party was on the raw edge of foolhardy daring. They would rescue the faithful little Indian pard if they had to fight Sitting Bull’s entire force of braves.

The critical moment came at last, and to the boy from Avery’s ranch had been allotted the honor of opening the ball.

“Could this youngster perform his part?” that was the question the scout asked himself.

Most lads would have been unable to blow out a candle at such a tense moment, and Buffalo Bill realized the tremendous nervous strain upon one so young, but he knew the metal of this lad was of far different quality from that of the average boy.

The scout had crept down until barely thirty feet separated him from the dying embers of the nearest fire. About it were grouped a score of braves, some smoking and wearing out the hours of darkness, others asleep with heads curled on crooked arm.

Near the tepee of the chief the fire also had sunk to a few glowing coals, but the scout could make out the form of Little Cayuse, and a couple of guards near him.

On the lower side of the field, braves were setting a post and bringing fuel for the torture pyre.

The scout tightened his belt, and looked to his revolvers. He was ready.

Then the still air of the early morning quavered in the clear, far-sounding notes of the bugle, and across the plain rang the “Forwar-r-d! March!” in stentorian tones. Again, far to the southward of the bugle call came other hoarse commands and the sound of galloping horses.

The Indians sprang up and darted hither and thither in consternation. Everything was in confusion.

Some of the braves kicked out every ember of fire, for that would make targets of the red men to the white soldiers beyond.

At the same moment pandemonium broke loose among the ponies. There were yelps, barks and screams, and the jumping, snorting and squealing of frightened mustangs. Away they scurried, and the dazed braves offered little resistance.

Buffalo Bill bounded in among the Indians, and, in the darkness and their demoralized state, they knew not but that he was one of them. He found Cayuse, cut the Piute’s bonds, and lifted the boy to his feet, when he heard a startled grunt at his elbow.

Like a flash the scout wheeled and sprang sidewise, in time to avoid a vicious drive from a knife. He whipped out his own blade, and steel met steel. The Indian was Buffalo Bill’s own height and a powerful fellow, agile as a cat, and skilled in the use of the weapon in hand.

The tumult about them and the gloom prevented instant discovery by the braves at hand. One buck came near enough to see the struggle and sprang at the scout with a tomahawk, but he met a club from Little Cayuse, who was now on his feet, that stretched him out.

Like tigers the scout and his antagonist lunged and parried, the steely muscles of the scout pressing the other back, yet neither sure of himself, because of the darkness.

In avoiding a terrific thrust, the scout stepped back, caught the red man’s blade on his own, and as the brave came on of his own momentum, almost into Buffalo Bill’s arms, the latter shot a quick blow with his left fist that caught the red on the point of the chin, and the battle was over.

“This way, Cayuse,” said the scout, as he bounded over the fallen Indian. But before he had covered ten feet he sprang almost into the arms of three or four warriors coming that way. It was too late to turn back, and like a battering-ram the scout shot ahead. His arms worked like piston rods, and the surprised Indians fell before the onslaught.

“Come on, Cayuse,” he called, and darted out the way he had come. Cayuse was at his heels as they came to the brook.

A little farther up they found Bear Paw and Navi tethered, and a moment later Avery and the boy, followed by Hickok and old Nomad, galloped up.

The scout remembered the lone pony hitched in the bushes near by, and released the animal, which followed them as they raced away after Hickok.

Wild Bill was having the time of his life, out on the plains, with the herd of Indian ponies darting like mad things before him.

“When ther redskins wake up they’ll wonder whar we come from an’ whar we went,” chortled old Nomad. “On’y one trouble w’th that, Buffler, ’twarn’t long ernuff. Ef we c’d er hed ’bout twenty-four hours jes’ ez excitin’ mebbe the’d been some sassifaction in et.”

“Golly! Mars’ Billyum, Ah reckon dey t’ought de reg’lars am right at de back doh, w’en dey hear dis gemman swell out ’is chist an’ sing out: ‘Git inter line, dar, yer goor fer nuffin’ brack possum eaters!’ Dat’s what Ah said.”

“Now, boys,” said Buffalo Bill, after they had come up with Hickok, “don’t fool yourselves with the notion that it is all over but the shouting, for it isn’t. It is almost daylight, and we are on the open plain with three hundred throughly aroused red men on our trail as soon as it is light enough to see. It is up to us to put as much distance between ourselves and the Indians as possible before light. To the west lies a heavy range of hills, which we ought to make in three hours’ hard riding. Are you all good for it?”

“Ay,” came the chorus.

When the sun arose the scout’s party had passed quite a range of hills, and if the Indians were in pursuit they were nowhere visible.

“Ef the’s ary game I like ter play at, et’s er hide-an’-whoop scramble with ther reds,” piped up Nomad.

“Plenty whoop,” suggested Cayuse; “some hide, more fight. Pa-e-has-ka all same catamount—everywhere and nowhere, hit like grizzly, kick all same Hide-rack, Injun think um heap bad medicine.”

“Did yer hev er beauty fight er gittin’ ther papoose, Buffler?” asked Nomad.

“Oh, there were one or two got in the way, but they were so scared they couldn’t fight,” answered the scout modestly.

“Shore; ther pesky varmints wor so scairt they prob’ly laid down an’ stuck up their feet ter be tied—thet’s jes’ like them air Sioux,” sarcastically snapped the trapper, because the scout made so little of his exploit.

To turn the conversation, Cody said:

“Here’s a good place to make an attack and I move we make it—on our haversacks.”

“Hooray!” sang Hickok, “I second the motion.”

During the darkness and excitement of the expected attack, while the Sioux were pulling themselves together, the prisoners were forgotten. Price managed to slip his bonds, and released Bloody Ike; not that he had any particular love for the ex-miner, but because misery loves company, and rogues cling together in adversity.

The pair found some blankets and arms, and mingling with the braves worked down the stream until they came to the motte of timber at the river bank. They preferred to remain prisoners among the Indians to being captured by the soldiers, which they momentarily expected to charge on the Indian encampment.

The Indians, too, believed that U. S. Cavalry only awaited daylight to charge. That explained why the red men had failed to follow Cody and his party.

Scouts were hurriedly sent out to investigate the position and number of the enemy, and reported that they could not find any troops. Daylight revealed the great plain, instead of bristling with U. S. soldiery, as barren as the evening before.

The Indians were mystified. They had heard the bugle call, the giving of orders, and the galloping of officers’ horses. Spies, too, had been in the camp by the dozen, according to the reports of those who had come in contact with Cody, and the ponies had been stampeded and scattered over the plain.

The Indians felt great relief that the army had vanished, but they held a superstitious presentiment that the paleface riders and walkaheaps might drop from the clear sky, or arise out of the ground at any moment.

Braves were sent out to round up the ponies, and a council of the chiefs decided that it would be better to move to the hills and find some spot where such a surprise would be impossible.

Price and Bloody Ike hid in the timber until they heard the Sioux move away; then they came out and searched the camp ground for food. Some pieces of buffalo meat were found and broiled over the coals, and eaten without salt.

“Pretty tough lug for you and me, Ike.”

Ike growled his discontent. He felt that if he had refused to mix up with Price he would not be in such desperate circumstances. To be landed in the middle of a hostile country, with nothing but enemies on all sides, was no joke. To be there without a mount was doubly serious.

Although the distance to the hills looked short, these men knew that it was a long and tiresome journey to those unfamiliar with pedestrianism.

Price noted that the Sioux traveled in a southeasterly direction; he decided to proceed west, hoping to be able to find a remote ranch, from which they could steal food and horses. Almost any horse would be a relief from this leg-wearying march.

And thus it came about that late that night two tired and hungry men, searching for a hiding and resting place among the bluffs and gashes of the ever-changing hills, came over the rim of a basin, to see a cheerful fire at its bottom and a group of men sitting around it.

“Good!” almost shouted Price. “A party of gold seekers, who have crossed from the Black Hills. They are prospecting these hills and are no doubt well supplied with provisions and horses. Perhaps we can annex—with your knowledge of mining and my knack of tickling human nature.”

“Safer to steal it and keep away from these fellows. If they lose a couple of horses and some duffle, they’ll lay it to the Indians.”

“But this doesn’t look like an easy place to sneak out of, with a horse attached.”

“That’s so, but in that case we’d better annex the grub, an’ wait for a better show. If ye mingle with these fellows it is just so many more who know where we are, and if any soldiers meet up with them and ask for you, they’ll connect.”

“You’re right, Ike, but I’m so hungry I don’t believe I can wait to make a good steal.”

“Leave that to me. You stay up here in the rocks an’ chew your boot leg, while I go down to look things over. I hope I get a grab at the powder supply.”

Bloody Ike crept over the rocks and around the pitfalls of the broken buttes, and slowly made the descent toward the flickering camp fire. He wondered how horses ever had been landed where he could see them beyond the fire. In his opinion such horses must have wings. Ike, himself, had no flying machine, and he was minus much cuticle from his head to his heels.

The ex-miner was weary and half famished, and with the slipping and sliding among the jagged corners he would have looked, in daylight, like a candidate for a hospital. He was “Bloody” Ike, indeed.

But he was bent on mischief, and determined to accomplish it. He cared naught who these men were, or what they represented—it was their food he was after, their horses, if possible, and last, but not least, their powder, if they had any.

He crept close to the peaceful camp where ten men sat around a cheerful blaze, smoking their pipes and relating stories of the trail and the mines. The party was made up of Buffalo Bill and his pards, Avery and the boy, and three miners with whom the scout had connected in the foothills. The miners were glad to meet English-speaking men, after several months in the wilds, where the only human beings they had seen were Indians.

Buffalo Bill was glad to avail himself of the knowledge these men had of this part of the country.

The rock-bound fastness of the camping place recommended itself to him as a headquarters while in that part of the world, and combined good water supply and grazing for the horses, where they could not be stampeded. The miners had six mounts, and had improvised a trap at the only entrance to the high-walled “dip,” where a horse could enter or depart.

A man could scale the cliffs, if he had his nerve with him, but no animal with hoofs, unless it be a mountain goat, could expect to enter or leave by any other source.

In other ages great clefts of rock had dropped from the cliffs above and formed dark caverns and numerous hiding places, where one familiar with them might defy an army to dislodge him. Here the miners had arranged their lodges and had little fear of attack by Indians.

As Bloody Ike stole nearer and nearer, he gasped with surprise. He recognized Buffalo Bill and some of his pards. Several times in the past he had made use of the most devilish means he could devise to put them out of the way, and he had yearned for one more opportunity.

“Oh! for his powder and fuse!”

But there might be a chance—he could see shovels and picks leaning against a rock near the fire. Some of these men must be miners and if so they would be apt to make use of powder or explosive in some form.

Ike was near enough to catch some words of the conversation when the men arose, knocked the ash from their pipes, and going back under the side of a great leaning rock, rolled in their blankets and said good night.

For a time—a long time, it seemed to him—Ike waited until he felt sure the men were all asleep, and then he began a quiet investigation of the place on his own hook.

The fire had sunk away to a few embers, the flickering blaze from which cast fantastic and dancing shadows on the rocks and walls. Indeed, the stealthy figure might have been mistaken for a part of the fitting picture painted by the fire gods.

Ike found food and regaled himself and stuffed his pockets for his guilty partner on the rim above—and then, “Eureka!” Here were two cans of blasting powder—and a fuse! a big coil of it!

A devilish plot began to form in the abnormal gray matter of the bad man’s brain.

Here were some of the men he hated most; here were stores of provision and good horses. In this stronghold he and Price could hide until search for them should be exhausted—if there were none having a prior claim—and here, at his hand, were the means of jumping the claims of those who came before and taking possession of all.

How easy it would be—all that seemed necessary was to attach the fuse—so; and place the keg under the side of this pile of rocks—so; and softly pull some of them into a position around and on top of it—so.

The mass of loose stones and blocks of granite, that had been cleared from the almost level floor of the camping place, lay in just the right position to be hurled in their deadly mission, full upon the sleeping men.

“Yes, how easy it would be!”

All he would have to do would be to find a match in his ragged pocket—scrape it lightly over his trousers leg—so; and apply it to the end of the fuse.

Oh, yes, his nerve had always stood him in good stead—when he lighted a fuse he always stood over it after other men had fled, to see that the fuse was well fired and not going out.

How easy! It lighted the first time! It was running splendidly! He had cut a generous length of fuse to give him ample time to get well beyond the terrific concussion, which would follow in a few seconds.

He must go.

With the agility of the experienced mountaineer he darted over the rocks, caught up the other can of powder and some of the provision bags, and sprang away into the shadows and disappeared among the rocks.

Buffalo Bill was restless. He was not given to visions or presentiments, and did not believe in forerunners; but when a decaying molar got its tantrums and began to put in the kicks of a wild horse, it disturbed his slumbers. He bore the pain as long as possible and then crawled out softly, that he might not disturb his companions.

The scout had determined to try the solace of his pipe.

As he approached the almost lifeless coals of the evening’s fire he was surprised to see a man arise from the dense shadow of a pile of rock and dart away.

He at first thought it was one of the miners, but the apparent haste and stealthy step aroused the scout’s suspicion.

He stepped along and peered behind the rock pile to see if there might be others.

He saw only a little sparkling point of light that would hardly have burned a baby’s finger.

But the scout stared in horror for an instant, then bounded over the rocks like a madman.

He tore at the spluttering spark with his bare hands, but it was already beyond the grasp of his fingers under the rock pile.

It was crawling away rapidly, its single baleful eye snapping defiantly at its pursuer.

Buffalo Bill plunged his hands among the rocks and tore them away with insane fury.

He hurled them right and left, at the same time shouting:

“Turn out, boys! Get behind the rocks! A blast!”

Then he came to the powder can. He felt its rim, and he saw the fatal spark, but where the fuse was attached he could not see.

He grasped the can with both hands and ripped it from its surroundings.

The sputtering light clung to it.

Like lightning he raised the can above his head and threw it far out over a chasm that yawned a rod away.

A roar and blinding flash in mid-air told how near the scout had been to being too late.

The concussion threw him and others who had jumped up at his shouts, from their feet. But no one was injured.

Torches and lanterns were lighted and a search of the camp begun.

“It’s the work of Bloody Ike, the powder fiend,” declared Hickok, and the others agreed with him.

“He has got away with your other can of powder and the coil of fuse,” said the scout to the miners.

“And every can of that powder is worth a small fortune, ’way out here,” mourned one of the men.

“I didn’t suppose there was a devil bad enough, in existence, to attempt to kill ten men in cold blood,” said Hickok.

“If it’s Ike Pelletier, who once handled the explosives in the Bridger range mines, he’d murder a regiment for a hundred dollars. And I’d give twice that to get next to him for a few minutes,” said Avery.

“Well,” said the scout, “I am convinced that he is in this basin now—he can’t be far off, for I saw the man who lighted the fuse running away—and we must hunt the villain down and see that he pays the penalty for his crimes.”

“That is all right from your standpoint,” said Avery. “You represent the law. But I represent justice swift and sure, with no chance for a slip-up. If I see Ike first, you will never take him back for trial.”

“Didn’t you see him that day at the surveyors’ shanty?” asked the scout.

“Yes, I saw both men, but I didn’t recognize either of them, yet I thought the one with whiskers resembled some one I had known.”

“If you have a bullet for him, there must be a story behind it?” suggested one of the miners.

“There is, but it is too long to tell to-night, besides, we’ve got to capture the scoundrel.”

When Bloody Ike reached the top of the basin, where Price was waiting impatiently, and consumed with curiosity, he was out of breath and unable to express his feelings, but he shook his fists, waved his arms, gasped and choked in impotent rage.

“Did you get any grub?” asked Price.

Ike pulled bread and meat from his pockets.

Price fell to and kept his mouth so full that he could not ask questions until Ike had had opportunity to regain his wind.

Ike’s first words indicating a state of reason, after a broadside of oaths and imprecations hurled in the direction of the lights which could be seen moving about down below, were:

“We’ve got to get out of here.”

“Can’t we hide among the rocks somewhere until they give up the chase?”

“They’ll never give up the chase—who do you suppose is there?”

“No; who?”

“Buffalo Bill and his pards.”

“The devil!”

“Worse than that; Buffalo Bill is ten devils and a million imps when he is on a man’s trail, curse him. I’ve tried over and over again to blow him to kingdom come, and he defeats me every time. He bears some sort of a charmed life and it’s no use for me to buck up against ’im.”

“What was the blow-up?”

“A can of blasting powder that ought to have lifted the whole bunch of them into next week, but that long-haired representative of Uncle Sam and the hot place jumped out just in time to see the fuse, dig the can out of the rocks and throw it into a chasm before it exploded. Oh! if it only had gone off in his hands, instead of three seconds later!”

“Pretty bold thing to do!”

“Curse him, yes. He isn’t afraid of man or devil, and it is his everlasting readiness to act and take the chances that wins. If I’d been ten seconds later he’d probably pumped me full of lead, into the bargain!”

“He’s a bad man to buck up against; I’ve found that out, Ike.”

“Well, I said we’ve got to get out of this place, and the sooner we go the better—are you ready?”

“Which way shall we go—out across the plain again?”

“Great Scott! no. They’ve got horses and would pick us up as soon as light. We’ve got to stick to the mountains, where a horse can’t go, and keep out of sight—and keep going. I’d rather have old Split-hoof, himself, on my trail than Buffalo Bill.”

“We can’t live in these mountains long—there isn’t so much as a catamount to eat.”

“We’ll have to go hungry, then, for I’m going to keep as far from Cody as possible.”

“You seem to have got a new appreciation of the scout.”

“Well, you’d have, if you had seen him lift that can of blasting powder above his head when he was expecting it to go off every second, and throw it farther than I could throw a ten-pound weight. I tell you a man that’s got nerve and strength like that is too many for Ike.”

“All right, lead the way; I feel better after eating, but I’m so tired and sore I can’t go fast or far. I wish you’d got hold of more grub.”

“I did, and a can of powder, and started with them, but when I saw Cody dig out my blast and throw it away I lost my nerve and dropped everything. I knew then it was no use for me to try to do him, and all I thought of was getting as much space between me and him as possible.”

“You are gone bad, aren’t you?” said Price.

The pair clambered away over the rocks, slipping and sliding in the darkness and muttering bitter anathemas because of their misfortunes.

In their case, as in all others, the way of the transgressor is hard. If the hardships are not physical and apparent to the world, they are mental, and the one who defies the laws of God and man is undergoing torture which he is too great a moral coward to admit. The right way is not only the best way, but the easiest way, and if reward does not come in dollars and cents, it comes in the satisfaction of knowing that one has done his best.

Price still held to his nerve, while Ike’s had been shattered by one incident—the demonstration of a brave man that he has no fear to do right, whatever the consequences.

Price was suffering physical torture and readily admitted it to his partner in crime, but he had not weakened to a degree that would cause him to admit, even to Bloody Ike, that he feared for the future, other than for its physical discomforts.

“Look out!” cried Ike, who was in the lead, suddenly. He clung to a stunted evergreen and saved himself from plunging down a dark chasm, which yawned at his feet.

But his warning came too late for Price, whose tottering condition sent him headlong.

As he felt himself going into the black depths below, the former Indian agent and gambler, who had bled more tenderfeet than any other bad man of Bozeman, uttered a wild cry of despair.

But Price’s last hour had not come. After a fall of not more than ten feet he landed in a deep pool of ice-cold water, and went down, down, till his head seemed bursting before he reached the top again.

Gasping and thrashing about, calling wildly for help, and begging Ike to save him, Price raised a pitiful howl that irritated Ike.

“You make more noise than a gang of scared young ones,” said Ike. “If you don’t shut up I won’t bother to pull you out. Buffalo Bill’s gang can hear you all over the mountain.”

Price continued to plead, and, striking a match, Ike was able to see his way down the rocks to where he could reach his struggling companion.

That ended their journey that night, for Price absolutely refused to proceed in the darkness. He was shivering and exhausted, his teeth chattering and his courage ebbing out with his strength.

Ike groped about until he found a gash in the gully they had been pursuing, where a thick growth of stunted spruce and fir had found footing. In a pocket in the rocks he started a fire and Price hovered over it in an attempt to warm his body and dry his clothing.

Ike lay down to sleep, and declared with half-suppressed anger that he didn’t care what happened.

Standing over the fire, until he choked from the smoke of it, and slapping himself to increase the blood flow, Price almost fell over and his knees knocked together from some cause other than cold, when a voice beside him said:

“Indian agent cold now; be hot enough in next world.”

“Wh—who’re you?”

“Me White-man-runs-him, friend of honest palefaces; hate thieves and liars.”

“Do you know Buffalo Bill?”

“Him greatest man in world; him white friend of red men.”

“Do you know where he is?”

“Wuh; him in mountains; mebby find white cutthroats, take um back to be hung.”

“For how much money will you take us out of here and show us the way to Laramie?”

“Me not trade with white thief. Buffalo Bill take you Laramie.”

“If I would give you one hundred ponies, wouldn’t you get us out of this place?”

“Much as the red man loves these hills and plains, he would not sell his services for it all, to the white thief who stole the lives of squaws and papooses,” and the stern red man waved his arms to signify all around him.

“Won’t you procure us food for money?”

“If the red chief had the rotten meat you have given his red brother, he would sell it to you.”

“See!” cried Price, attempting to awaken pity in the heart of the Indian, “I shiver and die.”

“If the red chief had the rags you have given his braves for blankets, he would burn them that the sight might rekindle the fires in the paleface robber’s blood.”

Price said no more, but held his trembling hands in the feeble blaze and waited. All his offers were spurned, and he knew that any further appeal would be useless.

“I go, paleface dog,” said the Crow trailer, “but I shall come again, and your paper lies shall hang over the same fire and shrivel, and squirm, and burn with you.”

“Don’t tell Buffalo Bill where I am!” gasped Price feebly.

“Buffalo Bill’s heart too big and soft. Sioux warriors hate the agent with the forked tongue.”

The Indian vanished and Price sank down by his little fire, broken and disheartened. In a short month he had come to this from a position of importance in a respectable community. Then he spent money right and left and lived in luxury, with henchmen to do his bidding; now he was freezing, starving, and men of all races turned their hands against him.

When Bloody Ike awoke at daylight, Price told him of the visit of the Indian.

“Yes, the red sneak has gone after a posse of grunters to capture us. I hope we are taken by a different party than the one which nabbed us before; perhaps then your pretended letter from Sitting Bull would go again,” said Ike.

“No, this White-man-runs-him seems to be awake to the trick, for he said ‘paper lie’ would burn with us.”

“Excuse me! if they are going to talk fire before they take us, I, for one, am not going to be taken easily. The sooner we get out of this part of the country the better. We had better keep to the rocks as much as possible, so the trailers can’t follow us. And another thing we must remember, is to keep well down in the gullies and dark places, where Buffalo Bill’s party can’t see us, if they are on the watch from the heights.”

At mid-forenoon Price was exhausted and unable to stagger any farther. So they descended into a deep cañon where the gloom at that time of day was like evening, and there found a brook and in it sizable grayling.

They had neither hook nor line, but by damming the brook, at a narrow place above, Price and Ike allowed the water to run from a pool below and then picked up a bounteous roast of the little fishes.

The prospects of relief from hunger somewhat cheered these fellows, who were getting a foretaste of torment, even before they had departed the terrestrial sphere.

Both men became quite cheerful as they hastened up the gully in search of material that would acknowledge the influence of fire.

They found some dry-kye and pitchy knots, which promised a fire that would seem friendly and at the same time cook the precious little pile of fishes.

As they made their way back to the spot chosen for a camp ground, and from whence their smoke could not be seen in any direction, they were quite cheerful, and chatted together in low tones, for they had not yet overcome the fear that enemies were lurking near.

But when they came to the opening in the rocks what a surprise and disappointment awaited them.

A large grizzly bear sat munching their fish with apparent approval and satisfaction.

It was agreed to leave two of the miners to guard the camp and horses, and that the other eight should set out in search of Price and Bloody Ike. Little Buffalo Bill was to go with the scout; Avery and Hickok went in another direction; Nomad and Cayuse took up the search together, and Skibo and the third miner made up the fourth party.

It had been decided to thoroughly scout that portion of the mountains and if possible “put the kibosh” on the pair of rascals who were not only a menace to any community, but a pest when turned loose in the wilds, preying on man and beast, without mercy and in most dastardly manner.

The miners were delighted at discovering their other keg of powder and the bags of food stuff where Ike had dropped them. The cost of packing, food, tools, and powder into this wild territory was disheartening.

“What shall Ah do wiv dem human alligators, if Ah comes up to um in de mountings an’ dey ’fuses ter be brung in, Mars’ Billyum?”

“Use them as you did the bull at Cooley’s ranch—take them by the horns and twist their heads off,” interrupted Hickok.

“Bring them in, Skibo, if not alive some other way,” answered the scout quietly.

“Yah, yah! dat’s what Ah will, Mars’ Billyum; if Ah gets one o’ dem lily-white han’s ob mine onto um. Dat’s what Ah will, Mars’ Billyum.”

“Never mind the color of the hands, so long as they are honest,” said the scout.

“Them’s my sentiments,” piped Nomad.

As soon as it was light enough to see, the four parties were searching every nook, and in accordance with Buffalo Bill’s orders, were making as little noise and disturbance as possible. This was observed for the double purpose of hiding their movements from the men they were after, and to avoid attracting the attention of stray bands of Sioux, who might be in that territory.

The scout and young Corey made directly west into the heart of the hills. The boy was in the seventh heaven of the real thing in happiness. To have been selected as the companion in this man hunt, by the famous scout himself, was honor enough for one boy. That Buffalo Bill chose the lad because he wished to see that no harm came to him, did not occur to the boy.

The scout found the wiry legs and toil-hardened body of the boy could stand the hardships of mountain climbing as well as any man. Indeed, young Corey bounded from rock to rock with the agility of a monkey and was as sure of his footing and as fearless.

Unlike most boys, whose faces are shining with happiness and whose minds are overflowing with enthusiasm for the work in hand, young Corey was quiet and almost wordless except when a question was addressed to him by the scout.

Cody liked this trait—it was the inherent strong point in the character of a good scout.

It was a delightful day in the cool, breezy hills. The air was laden with life-building ozone, and fairly pungent in its light and bracing purity.

The scout, himself, felt the joyous effect of the day and companion. What whole-souled man can say that he does not enjoy the presence of a clean, pure-minded youth? And Buffalo Bill always loved strong, wholesome, brave, and honest boys. He thoroughly liked this manly chap and determined to see that he was returned safely to his parents and sisters.

They paused for lunch, where a little mountain stream eddied listlessly in a sandy-shored basin, in a rock-bound gulch. It was cool and shadowy there, with the odor of the pines and other evergreens which eked out a stunted existence on the almost bare rock.

The boy had produced a fishhook and line and caught a fine string of trout and grayling, and these were broiled over glowing coals, to be seasoned with salt and pepper from the scout’s pocket case.

Can a boy imagine anything more delightful than camping in the open with a man whose daring exploits are being read by the whole world?

Any boy might expect an adventure at any moment from the very love of adventure to get in Buffalo Bill’s way. And to young Corey it came with such suddenness as to almost take his breath away.

After eating, the scout stretched out in the sun to seek council with his pipe, and the boy could not resist the temptation to once more try the trout. “Perhaps I’ll get a few for supper,” he told the scout.

He had caught several trout and was trying to lure a big fellow from a gloomy retreat under the side of a rock, when the boy felt instinctively the presence of danger. He glanced up and his eyes were fascinated by what he saw.

Not fifteen feet away was a mountain lion, with eyes fixed upon him, and his whole sinuous body in motion, with the appearance of a cat about to spring upon a bird.

The boy’s rifle lay by the camp fire, but his revolver was in his belt, and his hand moved swiftly toward it. Then he remembered that Buffalo Bill had said they must make as little noise as possible.

He would not fire a shot, even to save his life, for had not Buffalo Bill, in substance, ordered otherwise?

He drew his sheath knife, gripped it firmly, strained every muscle to resist the shock that he knew was soon to come, and awaited the spring of the panther.

The animal rocked its body from side to side, worked its claws in and out as its feet caressed the rock, and its whiskers twitched in anticipation of the feast in prospect.

The boy saw the beast creep nearer and nearer, then move more rapidly and poise itself for a spring.

And then there was a sharp, whiplike report, and the animal leaped straight up into the air, to fall back writhing in death agony.

“Why didn’t you pull your gun, as you started to do?” asked the scout.

“I remembered that you didn’t want us to make a noise,” answered the boy.

Buffalo Bill extended his hand and said:

“You are a brave lad, and I admire your courage and nerve, but I want you to remember that all rules must give way before a menace to human life—either your own or that of another. Use your best judgment, always.”

Late in the afternoon the scout and boy had passed to the western slope of the range of hills and saw before them a valley, green and luxuriant, perhaps ten or twelve miles broad, and banked on the west by another range of mountains that looked high and forbidding.

They stood out upon the high, bare rock and admired the beautiful land before them, as yet almost unknown to civilization. Only the trapper and miner and a few venturesome herdsmen had sought this wild country.

About a mile out upon the plain was a small herd of cattle, and a solitary horseman watching them. Perhaps half a mile up the valley could be seen a rude hut, and about the door a woman and several small children.

Even as they looked, a party of horsemen appeared on the plain to the southward, coming out from a gash in the foothills. It took Buffalo Bill less than half a minute to decide that they were Indians and that they had seen the herd of the lone rancher and were bent on mischief.

The scout wondered if the herdsman would see them in time to take measures for the defense of himself and his family. The herd was probably as good as lost.

There were about ten of the red riders, and they rode straight for the cattle, boldly and without attempt to conceal their presence. They were scarcely three miles away.

Yes, the herder saw his prospective visitors and began hustling his stock toward the cabin, which sat at the base of a little round-topped hill where the creek made a sharp turn around it.

At first the scout was puzzled. He could not imagine what safety there would be to the herd in closer proximity to the building unless the settler hoped to shoot from behind his cabin walls and keep the reds away from the herd. But presently he made out a narrow passage between the hut and the creek which seemed to be an entrance to a natural amphitheatre on the river side of the hill.

It was an anxious time for the watching scout, for the Indians were gaining rapidly and the cattle would run here and there and pause to grasp a mouthful or two of grass.

Then, when they were nearer, the brave wife, in spite of the oncoming terror, whose yells could now be heard, ran out and assisted in rounding the stock into the little inclosure.

Before it was done the Indians were firing rapidly and bullets must have sprinkled closely about the plucky herdsman and his helpmeet.

The settler slipped from the saddle, sending his mount in with the stock, and while the woman darted into the cabin, he dropped upon one knee and took deliberate aim at the oncoming, yelling, shooting horsemen.

“Crack!” went the rifle, and one savage pitched from the saddle. The settler did not move and the riders came on, broken up somewhat by the dodging, riderless horse.

“Crack!” a horse and rider plunged into the grass.

“Crack!” another riderless horse, and then the red men wheeled and galloped the other way, to get beyond the range of that unwavering repeater.

But a fourth was lifted from the saddle before they were beyond range.

There the Indians paused to hold council. It had been a costly exploit for them. One brave was undoubtedly dead and so was a pony. Two red men who had been wounded were crawling away in the grass, and the one who rode the dead pony was evidently seriously hurt, for he lay quite still.

The settler stalked calmly back and forth in front of his little castle, and the wife now made her appearance in the doorway with children clinging to her. She passed her husband another rifle, and took the one he had to replenish the magazine.

Buffalo Bill admired the fortitude of these hardy frontier folk, but he told the boy that in the darkness when the settler could not see to make shots count, the Indians would charge on the little cabin, murder all the inmates, and drive off the stock. That was all the red men were waiting for now, the cover of darkness.

That the settler and his wife realized it was seen by the actions of the woman, who began carrying water into the cabin from the river and apparently storing it in barrels and tubs. She also labored unceasingly with heavy blocks of wood, which probably were to be used as a barricade. And lastly, she carried pailful after pailful of water to the thatched roof and soaked it down thoroughly.

The Indians watched the labors of the “white squaw,” and now and then sent forth derisive yells, but they kept well beyond reach of the rifle in the hands of the man who so calmly faced them. They knew, also, that the settler was well armed, for the woman now brought out several rifles and leaned them against the cabin in silent proclamation of their readiness for battle.

As the shadows lengthened in the little valley the woman once more gave the roof of the shanty a generous wetting down, removed everything movable to the interior, and the settler retired to the doorstep with a barricade of logs in front of him.

“I hope he will not attempt to remain there after dark,” said the scout to his boy companion.

“Why not?”

“Because the Indians can approach to within a few rods before he can see them and then one mad charge and all is over, before he can shoot twice.”

“He ought to go inside and barricade the door and shoot from where they can’t get at him, hadn’t he?” asked the boy.

“Yes.”

“Can’t we help them?”

“We’ll certainly try, as soon as it is dark enough so they cannot see our approach.”

“Good! I hoped we could, for I am afraid morning would find the cabin burned and the settlers all murdered.”

When it was quite dark the two “Bills” moved quietly nearer the little cabin by the mound, expecting every moment to hear the thunder of pounding hoofs and the yells of the savages as they bore down to overwhelm the little stronghold.

The scout obtained a position to suit his taste and then lay upon the ground to await the opening of hostilities. At the proper moment he and the boy would surprise the redskins by taking part in the circus.

Suddenly the expected signal yell came and the charge was on. Nearer and nearer the ponies thundered and then out from the stone chimney of the cabin shot a rocket that lighted up the scenery for rods around.

The Indians struggled with their ponies in amazement, but before they could pull up:

“Crack! bang!” came two shots almost as one, and two saddles were empty. The settler and his wife had both scored.

“Give ’em a parting shot, boy, to let ’em know the settler has friends,” said Buffalo Bill, as he sent a pony tumbling by the light of another rocket that soared upward from the chimney. The boy also dumped a horse and rider.

This must have surprised the settlers almost, if not fully as much, as it did the Indians, but a surprise was also coming for the scout and the boy themselves.

As the Indians fled in dismay little spurts of flame appeared in the grass as they darted by, and “bang! bang! bang! poppity bang!” rang shot after shot.

And then above the other tumult arose the voice of old Nomad:

“Thar! ye tarnation helgomonian heifercats! take thet atween yer teeth an’ take ther kinks out ov et! What yer kihootin’ round hyar for, anyways, disturbin’ honest critters, an’ keepin’ ther babies erwak?”

The scout laughed. It was apparent that front some commanding position in the mountains old Nomad and Cayuse had seen the danger of the settler and his family, and had hastened thither.

The Indian band—what was left of it—was gone, not to return. The braves had good cause to believe that the settler had a small army of men hidden behind every hillock and every clump of sage brush.

The settler came out to thank the scout and his pards and to express his wonder at their presence. It seemed to him almost as if they had dropped from the sky to his assistance. He said it was the largest band of Indians he had ever seen in the valley and he had lived there six years, and had twice before been attacked by red marauders.

That he was watchful and prepared for them, the scout had seen, but he cautioned the settler to be doubly careful in future, for the Sioux were on the warpath and were centring in the Big Horn country. This valley was out of the natural course, but some tribes might send delegations this way.

The settler had made a trip to Fort Phil Kearney the previous year and was well supplied with the latest in arms and ammunition. He was prospering, he said; his herd was increasing, and he easily provided vegetables for his family by cultivating along the bank of the creek. Buffalo and antelope were plentiful and fish and fowl an everyday dish. He would not be driven out; he had come here to live and rear his family, and only death would drive him out. He and his wife and children loved the wild, free life.

Of such were the builders of the West—hardy and brave, and determined. They blocked out the frame of the vast and rich country that can feed nations.

Buffalo Bill made himself known and introduced his pards and the boy. He also told the settler of the miners in the mountains to the east—his neighbors. An invitation was sent to them to call at the settler’s cabin and partake of an old-fashioned Eastern dinner.

The scout assured the settler and his wife that he would gladly bear the message and could promise an early visit from the miners, who appeared like honest and respectable men.

Letters were hastily prepared to send to friends in the East, and then the pards were persuaded to remain at the cabin till daylight, when they could make much easier progress across the mountains.

At the first streak of day a bounteous repast was spread by the settler’s wife, and all did honor to it.

Good-bys were said, and the pards left the settler guarding his herd with rifle across his knees, and keen eyes constantly scanning the plain.

The scout determined to return directly to the mountain retreat of the miners and hear the reports of the other parties before continuing the hunt.

He was anxious to capture Price and Ike, and he was just as desirous of getting in touch with White-man-runs-him, who had promised to guide him to the headquarters of Sitting Bull himself, somewhere along the Big Horn Cañon.

The scout had little fear of the red trailer disappointing him, for he knew Indian traits so well. He also knew that it would be useless to hunt for White-man-runs-him, and felt quite confident the trailer would show up by the allotted day on the next moon, but he wondered where the Indian could be spending the time, meanwhile.

Several days passed and the search for Price and Ike was still unrewarded. The scout and his pards had scoured the mountains for miles in every direction unavailingly. If the outlaws were there they had a safe hiding place and food supply.

But the search had brought its reward in one way, for the miners had discovered gold and a lead that promised fortune. They were happy, in consequence, and already were talking of the joys of returning East with money to pay off mortgages, buy homes, educate children, etc.

It was such as these who blazed the trail—men driven to face with grim determination the hardships of such a life, by the necessities of loved ones—wives or aged parents, who needed homes; children who deserved opportunities in the future.

One morning very early an Indian stalked into camp, much to the surprise and alarm of the miners, at first.

“How?” he said, and sat by the fire without another word.

Buffalo Bill had not arisen from his blanket, but came out, extended his hand, said “how,” and sat beside the Indian.

Neither spoke until breakfast had been prepared and eaten and the pipes had been lighted, then the Indian asked:

“Is Pa-e-has-ka ready?”

“He is, White-man-runs-him,” the scout answered.

“It is good,” said the Indian, pulling steadily at his pipe.

At last the Indian arose and said:

“Come.”

“How far?” asked the scout.

“Two suns.”

“With ponies?”

“One sun.”

“We will go with ponies,” said the scout.

“Good.”

Cayuse saddled Bear Paw and brought out the pony that had followed from the plain, for the Indian.

White-man-runs-him examined the pony carefully and expressed himself with:

“Heap good pony.”

“Yes,” answered the scout; “he is a very good pony; he is yours.”

“Ugh!” grunted the Indian, once more going over the handsome little animal, and then swinging upon his back with evident satisfaction.

Buffalo Bill’s pards were left in the hills and continued to prosecute the search for Price and Ike, while the scout rode off to visit Sitting Bull, near Big Horn Cañon.

That Buffalo Bill’s interview with the powerful chief of the Dakota nation was fruitless is a matter of history. The Napoleon of the Sioux would hear to no terms. He was defiant. He said his people had been robbed, and now the Great Father at Washington had demanded the land on which they lived. The white man with the pick and shovel, and with traps and gun were killing off and driving the game and fur from the red man’s hunting grounds. They would move no more. If the red man was to be driven from the face of the earth it must be done with bullet and steel.

The Indian chief would listen to no argument or appeal. Crazy Horse, who had combined forces with Sitting Bull, held the same views and determination. Both recognized and proclaimed the friendship of Pa-e-has-ka, the Long Hair, to their followers, but they were obdurate. Pa-e-has-ka’s tongue was straight, and he did not know of all the crooked tongues of his people. If the Sioux were to be moved let the white soldiers come and move them.

Such were the replies to the scout’s entreaties for the red man and the white brothers. He would have averted war, but they would fight, and such must be the report of Buffalo Bill to the Great Father at Washington.

The scout shook hands with Sitting Bull sadly, and the immobile countenance of the chief expressed less of his emotions than did the warm pressure of Pa-e-has-ka’s hand.

The return to the heavy hills along what is now known as Pryor Creek, or rather to the range lying between that river and Beauvais Creek, was without incident, and nothing but the most friendly feeling was expressed by the Indians met. These parties frequently asked for information concerning the whereabouts of the headquarters of Sitting Bull, Crazy Horse, Spotted Tail, Red Cloud, and others. They were little bands of braves contributed by tribes far and near going to the aid of the uprising organized by Sitting Bull.

The bloody war which followed in the next few months is well within the memory of the present generation, and it behooves all well-regulated boyish minds to familiarize themselves with that important part of our nation’s history, but which it is not my province to relate.

As the sun sank behind the gray haze of the mountain peaks that backed the purple of the foothills of the Great Continental Divide, two men stole down to a roily creek and sought something floatable on which to cross.

This pair, pitiable in haggard faces and half-clad forms, and staggering with the weakness which long journeyings and hunger had wrought, furtively studied the narrow radius of the crooked gash the creek made in the plain. That they feared pursuit any observer would have said; that hope was low and endurance on its last legs was evident.

Crouching there, their hollow eyes eagerly seeking means of placing this slight barrier between them and their expected pursuers, they saw a lone Indian paddling his canoe up the creek.

They crouched among the willows and waited.

“Shall I knock him over?” asked one, fingering his rifle trigger suggestively.

“Not yet; let’s try to hire him to put us over, or, better still, take us far down the stream.”

“Good! and perhaps he can procure food for us.”

The Indian was hailed and came ashore for parley. He was a trapper, a probable outcast from some tribe, and was ready for barter. Yes, he would take them down the creek. “Food heap plenty—much fish and prairie dog.”

The Indian didn’t want money—he had been swindled—but he wanted rifle “heap bad.” So they struck a bargain. He was to paddle them down as far as the Big Horn and there deliver to them the canoe for one of their rifles.

The Indian had plenty of pemmican and was willing to trade for powder and ball. The trade was eagerly made, and the half-starved men fell to.

“Even biltong tastes good if a man is hungry enough,” said one, as they rode down the sluggish current.

“Yes, it does, Ike, but I’m tired of this dodging and starving existence. I think I’ll give in and take my medicine.”

“A blamed fool you are, if you do, Price. We have just got over the bunch. We have something to eat and a canoe. In the canoe we can paddle up the Big Horn nights and hide along the shore days, until we are out of the territory, where we are known. Then, if we can’t put up some sort of a yarn that will give us a start we are not as sharp as our friends have always counted us.”

The Indian shot a glance of intelligence at the pair, but said nothing.

Where the creek poured into the Big Horn a sharp turn to the right was made after the Indian had been landed, and Price and Ike began the tedious journey up the wildly picturesque river, knowing little of what it promised other than that it found its source hundreds of miles to the southwest, flowed northeasterly, and by following southward they would have a blazed trail toward settlements where their names had never been heard.

If this precious pair had known much that they later found out they would as soon have paddled their canoe over Niagara Falls as up the Big Horn River.

That night they paddled until well toward morning, when, worn and weary, they sought the bank and found shelter for the day.

An hour later red hands parted the willows and a pair of black eyes peered through at the sleeping men.

The bushes sprung back into place noiselessly and a satisfied “Ugh!” escaped the red man’s lips as he hurried away.

Late in the afternoon two large canoes came up the river and four men pulled them up beside the one which had been carefully hidden there in the morning. The occupants of the last canoes were Buffalo Bill, White-man-runs-him, Hickok, and Skibo.

The Indian took the lead and a moment later the fugitives were aroused to find themselves once more prisoners. They were disarmed, securely bound, and loaded, one in each canoe, and the long run down the Big Horn begun.

The remainder of Buffalo Bill’s party, with all the horses, had headed back to the Yellowstone, where the scout hoped to join them in the next few days. His plans were to run down the Big Horn to the junction of the Yellowstone, where he had information that a detachment of U. S. Cavalry, on a scouting expedition, were encamped. If he was lucky enough to find them there he would turn over his prisoners to them and then pull up the Yellowstone to join his pards. He hoped, too, to receive orders in possession of the cavalry officers from headquarters, and to forward his report of Sitting Bull’s answer.

Fortune favored and he arrived the night before the cavalry orders were to return to the spot near the present Miles City, where Fort Keogh was established.

As he had expected, he received orders that sent him once more into the far country, and his mission, though of a far different nature, led to a series of adventures rivaling any in his experience.

The officer in command of the detachment was glad to receive the prisoner Price, who had once slipped through the army’s fingers, and that Bloody Ike would receive just deserts, after a civil trial, there could be no doubt.

But this particular detachment could not well foresee rapidly approaching events, which not only robbed it of its prisoners, but several of its officers and men of their freedom.

Buffalo Bill’s present order, to offer Sitting Bull and his chiefs one more chance, had been obeyed, and his report was on its way to Washington.

Before the scout took up his next work, he determined to return to Bozeman, and on the way to pay a visit to the Averys and Coreys, and see that the boy, “Little Buffalo Bill,” was safe with his parents.

Old Nomad, Cayuse, Avery, and young Corey expected to make the trip to Avery’s ranch in three days, but in a set-to with a small band of Indians, the trapper was knocked from the saddle by a bullet and Hide-rack galloped away with three Indians in pursuit.

The trapper was not seriously injured, the bullet just grazing along the scalp, but he felt deeply the loss of his famous horse. Nomad determined to recover the horse, if possible. He ordered the party into camp immediately, in a rock-bound gully, which could be easily defended, and then, on Bear Paw, set out alone to recover his horse.

It was late in the afternoon when the trapper parted from his comrades, and he promised to be back before daylight the following morning, whether he recovered Hide-rack or not.

The trail of the Indians was easy to follow until dark, and soon after the trapper saw a camp fire and guessed that the Indians had camped. He approached cautiously and saw that the reds had built their camp fire in the mouth of a little blind cañon, into which they had succeeded in heading Hide-rack.

Apparently the horse had given them so much trouble to capture him that they had turned their ponies in to make his acquaintance and perhaps soothe his ruffled temper.

But Hide-rack had evidently decided to form no new acquaintance. As Nomad reached a position from which he could command a view of the pocket, his “horse pard” was just in the act of making an impression on the ponies. The impression they got was of a vicious pair of heels that seemed shooting out in all directions at once.

The Indians, fearing for the legs if not the lives of their ponies, rushed in to take a hand.

Then old Nomad broke loose with a wild:

“Yip-yip-yar-r-r! Hide-rack, give it to ’em, ole hoss! Don’t let no dirty redskin put a hand onto ye! Soak ’em, ole pard!”

And Hide-rack, in response to his master’s voice, did “soak ’em.” He rushed at the Indians like a mad thing, biting, striking, and kicking.

Before they could get out of the way the horse laid out two of the red men and was pursuing the third, who ran like a deer straight through the camp fire, with the vengeful Hide-rack only one jump behind.

The savage dodged among the rocks and escaped, while Hide-rack capered up to Bear Paw with a whinny of delight.

“Ye kicked ther tarnal stuffin’ outen um, didn’t ye, ole pard?” yelled Nomad in high glee, as he cantered back across the plain.

It was the fourth day when Nomad’s party reached Avery’s ranch and found all well, and no Indians had been seen for several days.

Two days later Buffalo Bill, Hickok, and Skibo arrived, to rest a bit before continuing their labors.

“What’s ther verdict, Willie—aire yer comin’ erlong, er be ye goin’ ter stay ’th yer paw an’ maw?” asked old Nomad, who sat with the boy and Skibo.

“I don’t know, yet; Mr. Cody an’ Mr. Avery are talkin’ with dad and ma, now. I’m all ready—got my rifle cleaned an’ loaded, an’ my bugle in my saddlebag. Whee! I hope I go,” sighed the youngster.

“I hopes yer does, kid, ’cause yer kind o’ livens us ole fellers up when times git dull, an’ ther redskins fergit ter ’tend ter bus’ness.”

“Yah, yah! Dat’s what Ah reckons—dis yere kid go toot-toot on de boogie an’ de sabage he gits his moggins goin’ fer de tall timber on de lively. Ah specks Mars’ Billyum don’ hab no mo’ do but jes’ go ’long nachally an’ pick up de skins o’ dem dar red debils—coz why? Coz dey run plumb outen ’em tryin’ fer git ’way f’m dat tooter.”

“You’re makin’ fun of me now, Skibo.”

“No, no! ’Deed Ah ain’t, Billie boy. Ah’s jes’ nachally tickled coz Mars’ Billyum he tell yo’ fadder an’ yo’ mudder yo’s better off ’f yo’ goes ’long—yah! Ah’s jes’ tickled ’s de hoss Hide-rack’d be ’f ’e had fo’ mo’ laigs ter kick wiv; dat’s what Ah is, Billie boy.”

“See hyar, Skibo, ye needn’t go ter hingin’ on Hide-rack’s repertation. ’Taint none ter brag on much, but sech as he has, he’s goin’ ter keep, ef he does play tit-tat-too on er nigger’s trouserloons now an’ ergin.”

“Yah, yah! Mistah Nomad; Ah baigs yeh parding ’f Ah stepped on dat dar Hide-rack’s feelin’s spectatiously an’ superditiously, coz Ah specs his ripertution’s mos’ ’bout ’s bad as it kin be now, fer a fac’—dat’s what Ah t’ink, anyhow.”

“Pa-e-has-ka come; soon see. Make-up-noise,” offered the Piute boy, who had come up and was listening to the usual verbal firing between Buffalo Bill’s pards.

Wild Bill, who had also sauntered along, remained quiet, puffing away at his pipe, but now he hailed the scout, who was coming from the bungalow, with:

“What is the word, Cody—does the boy go?”

The scout nodded with a smile and said to the lad:

“Run in and cheer them up, boy, and we’ll be off.”

Little Buffalo Bill had secured the scout’s permission—if his parents were willing—to accompany him on his new mission.

Buffalo Bill did not urge them to let the boy go, but he assured them he would do his best for the lad’s comfort and safety, if they permitted him to accompany the pards.

And at last they had consented, with tears and heartaches, to grant the boy’s pleadings.

The horses were saddled and Mr. Avery led out his best, a gritty, bay mare that could run “like a prairie fire,” he said, for the boy.

All was in readiness when the lad bolted out of the door, bounded into the saddle, and dashed away without turning to right or left.

The scout and his pards waved adieu and rode off leisurely.

“Let the boy alone,” said Buffalo Bill, “and when he feels himself he will fall back with the rest of us.”

The scout’s orders had read:

“Report at Fort Phil Kearney after seeing Sitting Bull.”

That was all, and the scout wondered why the dispatch had been so brief and devoid of detail. He had read and reread the order, and pondered over it. There was only one logical conclusion, and that was that some matter concerning the army was to be investigated and the officials in Washington did not fully trust some of the hands through which this order must pass to reach him.

It was probably one hundred and fifty miles to Fort Kearney, and the scout hoped General Sheridan himself would be there. Although his order did not refer to it, Buffalo Bill expected to find full instructions at the fort. The scout was more or less curious to know, and the Laramie man speculated much, but old Nomad could hardly wait.

“D’ye know, Buffler, I didn’t like ther look o’ that chap thet brung ther paper talk. I don’t blame Uncle Sammy for not trustin’ him ’th any news wuth mentionin’; I wouldn’t trust ’im ’s fur as I c’d throw Hide-rack by ther tail, which same ’s a middlin’ short distance.”

“Ah specs Nomad’s been usin’ ’is dreamer some mo’,” observed Skibo.

“Looky hyar, Skibo, this ’ere haint none o’ yore funeral, so yer better stay out. What yer gittin’ at, anyways?”

“Nuffin much, Nomad, on’y yo’ wa’n’t present, nohow, w’en de ossifer fotch de cumflaboration f’m yo’ Uncle Samwell.”

Old Nomad looked foolish for a moment and then he said:

“By the picked-tailed honey bees I warn’t, wor I? Must er been thet measly red hoss thief thet gut erway ’th Hide-rack I’s thinkin’ ’bout.”

“Mebbeso Nomad thinkum ’bout ‘ketchumnappin’,’” suggested Cayuse.

The scout laughed and Hickok and Skibo asked for information. They hadn’t heard the joke. Nomad galloped on ahead and the scout told of the trapper’s attempt to fool Price and Bloody Ike in the cañon, by tearing out a shirt sleeve and filling it with sand to throw in the darkness for them to shoot at.

“Did they shoot at it?” asked Hickok.

“No, they threw some sort of a torch that Ike fixed up, and which lighted up the whole place so that Nomad had to skedaddle.”

The pards laughed so heartily that Nomad looked around and shook his fist at them, and then put spurs to Hide-rack and came up with the boy.

“What shall we call the boy for short?” asked the scout.

“‘Make-um-noise’ plenty short for him,” said Cayuse.

“‘Billie,’” said Skibo, “then we hab Buffalo Bill, Wild Bill, an’ Billie.”

“We are getting too many Bills and not enough receipts,” said the scout.

“Why not call him ‘Tootsie,’ in honor of his profession?” asked the Laramie man.

“Good!” was the chorus, and “Tootsie, the boy bugler,” stuck to the boy from that day.

At noon the party halted the horses to graze an hour, and all the others found that “Tootsie” had regained his usual demeanor and was the life of the party. His new name amused him, but he accepted it with good grace, and sang, after pulling his bugle from his saddle horn:

Tootsie waved his bugle, danced a jig, and wound up with a toot-toot-ta-tar-rum.

“Thet’s ther stuff, Tootsie, wake us up, er I may git ter dreamin’ ergin.”

That night they camped at the mouth of a little ravine which offered water and tender grass for the horses.

It was a beautiful night, and the scout, when the moon arose, was tempted to “stretch his legs a bit,” after a long day in the saddle, and look about the country.

Tootsie asked permission to accompany him and the request was promptly granted.

They set out, keeping a southerly course along the bank of the ravine until they came out on a flat-topped and vertical-sided butte of considerable height.

In the hazy light they could not see far, but the soft evening breezes from the almost limitless plains came sweet and pure and dream-inducing.

Standing well out on the cliff, the scout noticed that under the side of a neighboring butte of like formation, one hundred rods away, a party of Indians were holding some sort of a ceremony. He had no doubt they were warriors and offering some sacrifice to propitiate the Great Spirit because of their intended exploit, or to win protection in expected battles to come.

The scout told Tootsie of his surmise, and the boy was filled with a desire to get near enough to hear and see the ceremonies. So they made their way through a difficult gulch and scaled the butte beyond which the chanting of the red men now could be heard.

There were twoscore of the braves, and a part of the services consisted of prancing in file around a pot of water which was sending up a great volume of steam from where it hung over a bright fire.

Occasionally a rock was pulled from the fire with sticks and dropped into the pot to increase the volume of steam; then the Indians would caper around the pot, chanting loudly, waving their arms, and now and then darting up to brush hands and arms through the ascending steam.

“I’d like to see what they would do, if I blowed a good blast on my bugle,” said Tootsie.

“You might wish you hadn’t tried it, before it was over,” said the scout.

“Couldn’t we keep out of sight and mystify them?”

“They would probably go back up the gully where they could climb the cliff and come up to investigate.”

“What do you suppose they would do if a tall white figure stood out here in the moonlight and waved its arms and I blowed the bugle at the same time?”

“They would shoot at the tall white figure,” laughed the scout.

“Suppose the ghost kept right on waving its arms and blowing the bugle?”

“Then I think you’d have them stampeded.”

“Will you let me try it?”

“Where is your ‘tall white figure?’”

The boy pulled from under his blouse a roll of white. The goods was plain cotton, and inside was a jointed arrangement of hollow reeds with strings running through them. These he adjusted skillfully and lifted the figure erect. By pulling strings at the bottom the arms waved weirdly in the moonlight.

The scout was amused and decided not to interfere with the boy’s plans.

Tootsie found a desirable position where he could approach the very edge of the cliff, and, lying flat, peep down at the Indians, and at the same time operate his dummy and blow the bugle.

Buffalo Bill found a similar position almost directly over the heads of the Indians.

Tootsie stood his figure on the edge of the cliff as though it were dancing on air, and then gave a triumphant bugle call.

The Indians below scattered instantly, seizing arms of all sort before they looked for the cause.

Another “tar-ta-ta-tar—ta-ta-tar!” and they looked up and saw the strange human form swaying in the moonlight.

Slowly the arms began to rise, and when they were wide extended there came a loud, strong blast, sinking away into a faint imitation that sounded like an echo.

The Indians were irresolute. They hardly knew whether to attribute the strange scene to supernatural demonstration or trickery. They held brief council and then one stepped back, and taking deliberate aim, fired.

He was answered by a defiant blast and wild waving of the arms, as the figure danced along the edge of the rock for a few feet and back.

The Indians moved away in awe at the spectacle. But they mustered courage enough to fire again, and once more came the strong blast of the bugle and the dancing and waving of arms.

Then came a volley from a score of rifles, and some of the bullets found the framework of Tootsie’s image and the thing crumpled pitifully upon the rock above his head.

But Tootsie was equal to the occasion, for he sent forth a weird, plaintive wail that died away in a moan and then kept up a series of nerve-rasping cries and wails.

At the same time Buffalo Bill dropped a rock over the brink, which, descending with great good luck, landed fairly in the kettle of water, sending hot water and steam in all directions, breaking the kettle and extinguishing the fire, with much hissing and popping, all in one operation.

The Indians could not see the rock descending, but they saw the dying figure on the brink of the precipice and the demolition of their offering, as if by magic.

Then they fled, vaulting upon their ponies and urging the animals away across the plain with quirt and heel.

When Buffalo Bill could speak, from laughing, he said:

“The sound of a bugle will give those fellows nervous prostration for a long time to come. And the mysterious ‘bad medicine’ will be handed from party to party and tribe to tribe for generations, and whenever an Indian passes these buttes he will offer some present to propitiate the spirits.”

Before the final downfall of Price he had been deeply interested in the beautiful sister of the wife of Doctor Karl Griffin, of Bozeman. Although he received no encouragement from the young lady, Miss Dorothy Reed—called Dot—he took it upon himself to feel encouraged, and had been a frequent visitor at the doctor’s residence.

Doctor Griffin had no love for the Indian agent, but as the latter had large influence and was constant in his manifestations of good will, he felt obliged to tolerate the agent’s presence in his household.

The doctor’s wife and Miss Reed also were politely tolerant only. They had heard much of the character of Price, and concerning their approval or disapproval it is only necessary to say that both were highly respectable and intelligent young ladies. Both were graduates of an Eastern college and reared in a good old Virginia home.

The doctor, after receiving his diploma from McGill University and serving a year in a New York hospital, married Miss Clarice Reed and went West for health and fortune, and to devote himself to his profession.

Miss Dottie Reed, after graduation, had come to pay her sister an extended visit. She loved the big West with its possibilities. It made the East seem narrow, and pinched, and crowded. She loved the purple haze of mountains and the greenish brown of the plains. From Castle Rock to the gorges of the Bridger Range she loved the wild, free life with its crudeness and roughness of the unhewn block of civilization.

And Price, coarse as he was, dishonest as he was, and generally bad as he was, first admired, then respected, and finally entertained a warmer emotion for the gay little college girl.

Such were conditions in that part of Bozeman that centred around young Doctor Griffin and his family, when Lieutenant Avery, just out from West Point, arrived on the scene.

Long horseback rides in the beautiful Gallatin Valley with Miss Dot Reed won for the dashing lieutenant the cordial hatred of Price and culminated in an open insult in public, for which the young lieutenant disarmed and then soundly thrashed Price, the first time he saw the Indian agent alone.

Price’s threats were blood-curdling in their intense hatred, and twice after that attacks were made on Lieutenant Avery at night after he had left the residence of Doctor Griffin.

Miss Dot became Mrs. Avery in the autumn preceding the exciting events which ended the career of Price as an Indian agent and his arrest by Buffalo Bill.

But before his arrest and imprisonment Price had perfected a scheme for revenge on Lieutenant Avery through his acquaintance and influence with certain officers, one of whom was jealous of young Avery’s advancement over him in the army.

After his marriage Lieutenant Avery was sent to Fort Phil Kearney, and while Buffalo Bill was in the Bad Lands, Lieutenant Avery and his young bride had disappeared from Fort Phil Kearney.

It was a puzzle for the military men, and it was even whispered about that Lieutenant Avery was in trouble in the East and had fled with his wife to take up their abode beyond the reach of the law.

These whispered rumors were at first sternly discountenanced, but were insistently repeated from some unknown source, and then it was said that Lieutenant Avery had married a girl in the East while in college, and that this wife number one had heard of his marriage to Miss Reed and was on the way West to confront him with his perfidy.

Young Avery had firm friends in the army, and they refused to accept a word of these stories. They believed the young lieutenant and his wife had been captured or murdered by a roving party of red men, and they continued active search.

An order was sent to Buffalo Bill to report at old Fort Phil Kearney for further orders. General Sheridan, because of some things that had been brought to his notice, distrusting a certain officer through whose hands this order must pass to Buffalo Bill, gave no detail of the scout’s commission. He knew that Cody would report at Fort Kearney at the earliest possible moment, and in the meantime the general would prepare and forward his orders to that place.

As subsequent events proved, it would have been better had he ordered Buffalo Bill to investigate that portion of the military organization in the Northwest.

Through what connivance Price was the second time enabled to escape, probably never will be known. At that time it was as much a mystery as was the disappearance of Lieutenant Avery and his bride, and there was a strong inclination in the army toward the belief that both were engineered by the same hand.

Nothing could be proved, however, and it remained a mystery for some time.

“Buffler, what d’ye make out o’ thet mirrij?”

Old Nomad had aroused the scout very early to look at the sky, which reflected the plain for miles.

The pards had camped the previous evening in a basin in the broken clay of the Bad Lands where the rains had formed a miniature lake, around which grass had started up luxuriantly. The place resembled an immense “buffalo wallow” and had all the appurtenances in the way of “buffalo flies” which at first threatened to drive the thin-haired horses into a stampede, when the party first arrived late in the afternoon. But a flock of starlings came soon after and, alighting on the horses, soon put the flies to rout.

Cayuse had stumbled upon the place in the afternoon and it was decided to remain where there was good grazing and plenty of water, although the latter was not an attractive quality.

Hidden from the surrounding country, with the breeze sweeping across the pool, after the sun went down the pards found it to be a delightful camping ground.

They slept soundly, and although two-hour watches placed each, with the exception of Tootsie, on guard during the night, not the slightest cause for alarm was discovered.

It was old Nomad’s morning watch and he had finally awakened Buffalo Bill to study a beautifully clear mirage, which depicted a scene that puzzled the trapper.

The young reader may not know that the phenomenon referred to is extremely common in some localities, and due to atmospheric conditions. It is usually caused by a diminution of the density of the air near the surface of the earth, often produced by the radiation of heat, the denser stratum being thus above instead of below the rarer, which latter is the usual case. Now, rays of light from a distant object, situated in the denser medium—that is, a little above the earth’s level—coming in a direction nearly parallel to the earth’s surface, meet the rarer medium at a very obtuse angle, and instead of passing into it, they are reflected back to the dense medium, thus acting as a mirror.

The image produced by the reflected rays will appear inverted, and below the real object, just as an image reflected in the water appears when observed from a distance. The phenomena are frequently much more strange and complicated, the images being often much distorted and magnified, and in some instances occurring at a considerable distance from the object, as in case of a church seen over the sea or an inverted vessel sailing over the land. If the object is a cloud, or portion of sky, it will appear by the reflected rays as lying on the surface of the earth and bearing a strong resemblance to a sheet of water; also, as the reflecting surface is irregular, and constantly varies in position, owing to the constant communication of heat to the upper stratum, the reflected image will be constantly varying, and will present the appearance of a water surface ruffled by the wind.

Thus in the deserts of lower Egypt, Persia, Turkestan, and on the great Western plains of the United States, whole caravans have been led from the trail by thirst toward an inviting lake which appears to be but a few miles away. If the ground is favorable the mirage may be dispelled as the observer advances, but in others it is like an ignis fatuus, hovering ever in sight, but always beyond reach, until the victim succumbs to thirst and his body is left a monument to his own misunderstanding of one of nature’s most fascinating jokes.

Buffalo Bill came to the trapper’s side on the rim of the basin, where Nomad pointed to the southwest. The sky looked a lead-colored haze that held well down to the horizon, with a belt of clear blue underneath, but nearer, and seeming a few miles away, was a tracery in the heavens, apparently far below the clouds, of a vast map of the plain.

The buttes, and ravines, and gashes, the buffalo wallows, skulls, and clusters of weeds, were laid out across the sky with a variation of distinctness and color.

The distortions were surprising, the images coming suddenly nearer or fading away in the distance. A little brook suddenly grew to a great river and objects seemed to be moving on its surface.

But more surprising than all the rest was the mirrored outline of a crack in the hard-baked surface of the plain. Reflected there in the peculiar morning sky, the crevice looked to be several feet wide and running for a long distance in a direction that allowed the smaller or farther end to fade out and disappear in the distance, while the nearer approached diagonally until it appeared scarcely half a mile away, ending in the side of a strangely marked butte.

This latter, seen top down in the sky, appeared hollow, surrounded by a high, square-topped wall. And the centre of the hollow reflected green.

Down the crevice toward the butte some object was moving. Sometimes it came out clearly, enormously magnified by the variation of heat radiation, and would seem about to be distinctly revealed in every detail to the observer; then its brilliancy would fade.

On the whole, the moving object looked like some gigantic worm crawling along the rut made by a narrow-rimmed wheel. The reflection gave no detail below the ground level, because of a different layer of air there, but moving along the centre of this outlined crevice was the bobbing, disappearing, and reappearing object.

“Don’t that git yer guessworks clogged, Buffler?” said Nomad, after a period of silent observation.

“It certainly is a puzzler; call the rest of the boys and see what they think of it.”

Before the mirage had faded the pards had seen the crawling thing reach the mirrored butte and disappear.

“That’s not in the direction we travel,” said Hickok, “but I move we go out of our way a few miles to see if that picture was painted true.”

“I second ther motion,” said Nomad.

“It is moved and approved that we make a tour of investigation to satisfy our own curiosity,” said Buffalo Bill. “If that be your minds you will so vote.”

All raised their hands and answered “Ay.”

Breakfast was prepared and eaten and then the pards set off on a mission of inquisitiveness which led to one of the strangest adventures that ever befell either of the famous scouts.

While the mirrored picture of the gash and butte represented the scene as not more than half a mile distant, after a ride of an hour the pards had seen nothing that looked like it. They had hardly expected to find the place much sooner and perhaps not at all, for, with the exception of Tootsie, they were familiar with the false reports of nature’s news sheet.

Another hour and they had paused on the crest of one of the great prairie waves to study the surroundings, when Buffalo Bill, who was using a field glass, uttered an exclamation of surprise.

The scout handed the glass to Wild Bill, who said:

“By gorry!”

Nomad reached for the glass and alter a moment’s study of a distant butte, let loose with:

“Waal, by ther ring-tailed, rip-snortin’ heifercats! Wouldn’t thet make ye swaller yer gum?”

It was Skibo’s turn, and after a moment the giant black man handed the glass to Tootsie and turned to Buffalo Bill.

“Mars’ Billyum,” he said, “yer goin’ sabe de lil’ missy if it takes de las’ piece ob meat f’m ole Skibo’s bones to do it—ain’t dat so, Mars’ Billyum?”

“She sees us and seems to think we are Indians, for she is running along the top of the mesa and now she drops out of sight!” cried the boy excitedly.

The cause of the exclamations by the scout and his pards was the sight of a girl, or young woman, with long yellow hair floating in the wind, standing on the top of a high, perpendicular-sided butte, and, apparently, studying the landscape by peering under her hand.

The butte on which the girl stood seemed above its surroundings and alone. Not a wrinkle on the surface about it showed at that distance, but far beyond could be seen the sheen of a river, with bushes and little bunches of timber along its banks.

“Mebbe she’s a angel, but I didn’t notice any wings,” mused Nomad, staring in that direction, although with the naked eye he failed to see the picture on the bluff.

“Yah, yah! Ah reckons she mus’ hab wings, ter hab flewed so high to roost,” remarked Skibo.

“Probably the other side of the butte is scalable,” observed Wild Bill, “but if a maiden is lost or hiding from Indians, we ought to rescue her.”

“That is right, Hickok,” said the scout, “but——” He hesitated. Buffalo Bill was thinking of the mirage of the morning. There was the butte of the same contour as the one mirrored in the sky. The crevice did not show, but he believed it would be visible, on nearer approach.

“But what, Buffler?” asked Nomad.

“I think we have discovered all we shall of this mystery unless we spend a lot of time on it,” quietly answered the scout.

“That is just what I was thinking,” said Wild Bill.

“Ye don’t think this hyar kentry is muy malo, do ye?” queried Nomad.

“No, Nomad; I think the country is all right, but I’ll wager that there is some deep mystery in this case of a girl on the apex of a pinnacle in the middle of the wildest country in the Northwest.

“We will investigate as far as practicable at this time, and, if we do not reach an explanation readily—as I do expect we shall—we must ride on and attend to our duties first; then if we care to come back here to unravel a mystery, that will be our privilege.”

“Righto!” chirped Wild Bill, “but suppose we toddle on the base of the bluff and look around it? That will not occupy much time.”

They were obliged to advance more or less cautiously because of the broken nature of the footing, seams and chasms running hither and thither, like rivulets after a shower.

At last at the base of the isolated butte, which was much larger and higher than it appeared from the distance, the pards found it to be a precipitous wall of more than one hundred feet from base to top of the main cone, and this was surrounded by a massive foot-piece more than half as high and three times as broad.

By difficult climbing and jumping wide and deep crevices, they at last attained the top of the base rock, which was as level as a house floor and formed a plateau of probably two hundred acres. Out of the centre of this arose the shaft first seen, towering scores of feet above them, an apparently solid block of rock, smaller in circumference at the base than at the top, as smooth and as impossible of ascent as the outer surface of Bunker Hill monument.

It was on the top of this block, which was perhaps sixteen hundred feet in circumference or five hundred feet in diameter, that they had seen a human being.

“’Member what I said erbout angels?” asked Nomad, staring up dizzily at the top, which seemed wavering against the sky.

“Mars’ Billyum, Ah reckons ’twouldn’t do no harm ’f Ah should jes’ holler a few words o’ United States so’s de lil’ missy won’t t’ink we’s Injuns,” suggested Skibo.

“I think there is no need of it, Skibo,” answered the scout, who, with head thrown back, had been studying the top of the rock.

As the scout spoke a hush fell over all the pards, for there had suddenly appeared on the very edge of the pinnacle a girlish figure quaintly dressed and looking down at them.

The scout and Wild Bill doffed their sombreros and the former shouted:

“Can we be of service to you, young lady?”

“No, sir; I think not. I am as free as the air and the birds, and care not for the ways of the world or its people.”

“Are you alone?” he asked.

“Why should you ask? If I am happy and need nothing of the world, why should it care whether I am alone or not? The dark-skinned people of the plain respect my desires and call me, in their tongue, the daughter of the moon. I go and come as I wish among them. But the dark-skinned people hate the white-skinned people and hope to drive them into the sea. Even now I can see, far across the plain, a large party of mounted warriors who come this way. If my white-skinned brothers remain here they will be slain or taken prisoners.

“Go that way”—and she pointed to the south and east. “Two miles on you will find a river. Follow it far and keep well to the timber, for on both sides the country swarms with red brothers who are hostile to the white brothers. Go! and tell the white people who ask, that I am the mystery of the lone rock.”

She disappeared, and the scout and his pards turned away as she had directed, but not until Buffalo Bill had discovered the crevice which the mirage had revealed, leading from far away toward the river to the base of the butte. He mistrusted that some hidden entrance led under the bluff to the hollow interior which the inverted cone had shown.

Lieutenant Avery had been sent from Fort Leavenworth to Fort Laramie, thence to Fort Fetterman and on to Fort Phil Kearney. At each place he and his bride, both of whom were passionately fond of horseback riding, had taken long gallops into the surrounding country.

Before he had left the Yellowstone, to Lieutenant Avery had been confided a secret by a brother officer. This captain had asked young Avery not to mention the legend, which was of the country to the northward of Fort Phil Kearney. He had suggested that Avery, if he should be sent to that fort, should investigate, in a quiet way, the foundation of the Indian belief.

The story he told in detail was of fascinating interest to the lieutenant, who asked permission only to repeat it to his wife. The captain said it came to him from an Indian trailer who was familiar with that part of the Northwest, and said the Indians there told in whispers of a white queen, of Indian blood, who ruled the stars. They believed her to be the daughter of the moon, because of her pale beauty and great mass of yellow hair, which curled about her face like a halo.

This girl was said by the Indians to be of magnificent physical proportions and to fear nothing. She was supposed to be protected by the spirits, and great buffaloes and grizzly bears lay down and fawned at her feet. She was said by the red man to live upon a sacred mountain which none could scale, and to appear on its top in the moonlight conferring with the spirits. She was said to have a voice of such marvelous purity and sweetness that angels hovered near to listen and to applaud when she sang from the top of the mountain at evening. The Indians made offerings before the mountain and carried meat, fish, berries, and skins, which the rock itself swallowed up.

The captain said the Indian only had told him because he—the captain—had saved the red trailer’s life, and the latter had repeated the story as never before having been told for white men to scoff at. The red man had enjoined great secrecy, but the captain claimed that his curiosity had been excited, and he wanted some reliable white man to discover, if possible, upon what these Indian fairy tales were based.

Lieutenant Avery had promised to interest himself in the matter if he was ordered to Fort Phil Kearney. The country had been so graphically described to him that the young officer believed he could recognize the sacred mountain, if he should see it at a distance. It was said to be twenty miles from the fort in a northerly direction.

It was because of the captain’s story that the young lieutenant and his bride galloped northward one morning early, although warned by the officer in command to be constantly on the lookout for Indians, for they were becoming very troublesome in recent months. Although the couple had ridden out several miles in all directions during the first few days after their arrival, they had seen no Indian bands, and only an occasional lone red man after game or, more likely, headed for some fort or settlement for fire water or tobacco.

Avery was a daring fellow, and his young wife feared nothing when he was present. Their comradeship became proverbial at the military stations.

After the young couple rode away that morning their fate became a sealed book, and in due time the high army officials looked to Buffalo Bill to solve the mystery.

The Indians had suddenly appeared in numbers and constantly harassed the soldiers. Every mail brought news of atrocities all along the border of the Indian country. In this section the Cheyennes and Sioux were the terror of the frontiersman.

Proceeding at an easy canter the young lieutenant and his wife enjoyed the pure morning air. Here and there they would sometimes catch a glimpse of young coyotes playing at the mouth of a ravine. Overhead swung an eagle which could study from its height every crack in the surface of the plain, and note his foes and his intended prey. In the sage bush of the mesa and the willows along the creeks little birds were swinging and chattering merrily.

Up one long swell they rode and looked across to one still higher. From there, which seemed scarcely more than a mile away, they felt sure they must be able to view a vast stretch of country. Perhaps they could even see the wonderful sacred mountain. But that and another of these deceitful swells of the Western sea of sand and grass and sedge were passed without thought of turning back, and then Mrs. Avery exclaimed:

“Oh! see there! It is a castle!”

And, sure enough, there ahead of them, surmounting another of those “heights of land” or “divides,” gleaming, vari-colored in the sunlight, stood what at first glance might have been mistaken for some old-world castle of colossal size.

The lieutenant pulled his horse to a standstill and gazed in wonder and admiration.

“It is the sacred mountain,” he exclaimed. “And who can wonder that the simple savage peoples it with the children of his fancy, and tells among the tribes the dream of some romantic red yarn-spinner! We must go nearer and bring away some souvenirs to show, along with our description of this wonderful mountain palace and its pretty Indian legend.”

They rode on, causing their horses to leap gaping seams in the crust, and, after considerable difficulty, mounted the broad base which looked like an esplanade surrounding the citadel.

The commanding view of the country was delightful and the young couple lingered long in admiration.

Suddenly, from behind a bluff two miles to the westward, a score of mounted Indians swung into view.

The young lieutenant glanced at his bride and turned pale. Could their horses outfoot the wiry Indian war ponies? He feared the worst, and his throat grew parched as he pictured the fate of his wife in the hands of these red fiends.

The young woman had seen and understood. She looked confidently into the eyes of her husband. She had no fear, but the look she saw in his eyes sent a little quaver to her heart.

“Let us get away as quickly as possible,” he said. “Perhaps they have not seen us.”

He knew better, and as he lifted her to the saddle she felt his hand tremble.

For a half mile over the broken surface their progress was necessarily slow—and how rapidly those red devils lessened the intervening space!

The lieutenant pointed to a distant bluff and told his companion to keep her eyes fixed on that and “ride—ride! ride, as you never rode before!”

Swinging in behind her, Avery unslung his carbine and looked to the magazine. It was full.

“Eight Indians!” he whispered to himself, “and there are twenty-two.”

He looked to his revolver—“five more; still there are nine!”

He felt for his knife—“could he last till nine were down, if—if he held her image in his mind?”

Somehow he felt that even death could not conquer if her life and honor were at stake.

Into the hardened frame of the college athlete he felt the steel of “I must win” creeping.

He watched the oncoming yelling horde and measured with trained eye their proportional gain.

He glanced at the fair one, who was riding so nobly, and then he saw red. His nerves became like piano wires and his muscles like bands of steel.

Presently he urged his horse forward until nearly neck and neck with that of his bride. He reached over and touched her soft, white hand and looked into her eyes.

“Ride, Dottie! For Heaven’s sake ride, and let nothing stir you from the saddle! Don’t spare the horse! Don’t be alarmed if they begin to shoot, and don’t look back, whatever you do! Remember, Dot; don’t look back! I am going to stop some of their ponies.”

Again he dropped back and watched their pursuers.

Now the savages were trying their rifles, but the distance was yet too great.

He allowed Dot to gain rapidly on him, and then suddenly pulling his horse to a dead stand, he wheeled and threw his carbine to his shoulder.

As the first cartridge exploded a pony leaped sidewise and fell headlong. Its rider rolled over and over, trampled upon by those bounding after.

Again the carbine spoke and a red man threw up his arms and plunged from the back of his pony.

The lieutenant now put spurs to his steed and raced madly after the brave little woman in advance.

“Six more and then—then they’ll have to come nearer for their medicine,” murmured the lieutenant, as he lovingly patted his carbine.

Bullets now sprinkled plentifully about them, and without pausing in his headlong flight, Avery responded, now and then, by dropping a red man from the saddle.

How long could his wife’s horse hold out at this killing pace? That was uppermost in his mind. His own noble animal was fast becoming winded.

He knew that only half the distance to the fort was covered. If he only could hold the fiends in check until she was beyond their reach, it was all he would ask.

He wondered if the clatter of the rifles behind and rain of bullets had sent terror to her heart.

She held the same poise and she had not once looked back. If he could only offer her a few words of comfort.

And then came the final catastrophe! Even as he gazed lovingly at the trim little figure in the saddle her horse plunged into a prairie dog’s hole and fell with a broken leg.

The fair rider struck the ground and lay as if dead.

Lieutenant Avery threw himself from the saddle and his horse dashed on. His wife’s animal was thrashing about pitifully and threatening momentarily to flounder upon that beloved form.

“Here’s one for you, poor little Fan!” he said, pulling his revolver and shooting the suffering horse through the head.

“And I must save one for you, too, Dot,” he said, to the inanimate form of his wife, as he picked her up and placed her behind the body of the horse where the Indian bullets could not reach her.

Kneeling there, the carbine now began to talk rapidly and several more ponies galloped away riderless.

He did not mind the bullets spatting about him in the sand and into the carcass of the horse—they could not reach her.

Yes, he could feel a burning sensation in his shoulder; a red-hot band suddenly encircled his body; blood was running into his eyes from a “scratch” on the head, somewhere.

The carbine was empty now and the revolver came into play. That, too, was empty except for one chamber—he had carefully kept count.

The savages were almost upon him, yelling, shooting, wielding knives and tomahawks, as he arose to his full height and drew his last weapon, his knife.

“They’re too many for me,” he said, “but they shall not have you, Dot!” and he took careful aim at the white, upturned brow.

“I saved this for you——”

The sentence and the deed were never completed, for a bullet sent him headlong, as the red riders swarmed about.

To the mysterious maid of the Castle Rock, Buffalo Bill and his pards owed their escape from a long, hard flight or a desperate fight with a strong war party of Cheyennes. They reached the river at the point indicated by the girl, and by crossing and galloping away behind the timber growth along the bank, escaped the sharp eyes of the savages.

But the scout and his pards were not to pass the day without its quota of excitement.

It was past midday when the party rode around a bend in the river and came upon a child crying bitterly. It was an Indian girl, and when they came upon her so suddenly she was terrified. She expected to be put to torture, evidently.

Buffalo Bill dismounted and spoke kindly to the child. She could speak no English, but the scout caught the Sioux tongue and learned that she lived alone with an old Indian who was ill and unable to hunt, and they were starving.

The scout asked the child to lead the way to her companion, which she at first refused to do, fearing that the white warriors would kill him. Buffalo Bill assured her that he would give them food, and perhaps he could cure the sick man.

She at last led the way into a dense thicket by the river bank where a rude tepee had been erected, and inside they found an aged Indian whose eyes glared defiantly at the white scout.

“How,” said Buffalo Bill.

The Indian grunted, then asked:

“Why come see red man die?”

“We came so you would not die; we bring food for you and the papoose.”

“What does the white man want?” demanded the Indian, somewhat mollified by the promise of food.

“Nothing, but to aid the red brother, who is sick.”

“Ugh!” grunted the Sioux incredulously.

The child was chewing pemmican now, taken from the haversack of Wild Bill, and the sight of it seemed to soften the old Indian.

Buffalo Bill now went outside and with Wild Bill and Skibo began preparing their own evening meal, while Nomad, Cayuse, and the boy kept watch against surprise.

Over the fire some of the pemmican was simmered until a sweet, warm broth was made and well seasoned with pepper, which appeals to the Indian taste, and a dipperful taken to the old Indian. As he sipped it the fire died out of his eyes and he said gratefully to the scout:

“Long Hair heap kind; old Indian no good: lost um medicine; banished; tribe go away; only papoose left.”

“Did your tribe once live here?”

“Wuh.”

“Do they never come here now?”

The old Indian shook his head sadly. “Never look here now. Long Hair no watchum; Sioux no come.”

“Why were you banished?”

“Lost um medicine; too old hunt; left um die with papoose. Old squaw die, young find um young chief, likeum better, no work for Black Coyote.”

It was a tragedy of the children of the plain, but rendered doubly so by the abandonment of this little child to starve when the old Indian should fail to provide food.

Buffalo Bill was puzzled. To leave this pair to the fate which must soon overtake them, even if he provided food for the present, was manifestly inhuman. To take them with him to Fort Phil Kearney seemed impossible, owing to the infirm condition of the old man; neither could he bear to separate the pair, each of which was all the other had.

“How far to Fort Kearney?” he asked of the Indian.

“One sun walk.”

“Do they know Black Coyote there?”

“Wuh.”

“How far to sacred mountain where the moon child lives?” asked the scout abruptly.

“What Long Hair know?” asked the Indian, without change of countenance.

“I know she is there; I have seen her and talked with her—what does Black Coyote know?”

“Know heap: dare not tell; queen of stars keep Black Coyote out happy hunting ground.”

“The queen of the stars,” said the scout, “is a woman. She is tender and would have pity for the Indian baby. She will shut Black Coyote out of the happy hunting ground if he lets the papoose starve.”

The Indian hesitated. The scout had placed the matter in a new light.

“Would Long Hair tell the pale queen of the stars about papoose?”

“Yes, Black Coyote will tell Long Hair about the moon girl.”

After a time, when the fire had died down and the scout’s pards were silently smoking in camp near by, and the child had gone to sleep in the tepee, its hunger satisfied—while Buffalo Bill and the aged Indian were sitting alone in the darkness, the latter told the story of the “queen of the stars,” the “child of the moon.”

In substance it was that years before a little child had been stolen by a band of Kiowas who had murdered her parents. Later the chief who had the child became alarmed, because of persistent inquiries by the government agent, who suspected him and threatened to cut off his allowance from the government, and sold the little yellow-haired girl to a Cheyenne warrior for two ponies.

The Cheyenne a year later sold the child to a Sioux chief for five ponies, and the tribe soon discovered supernatural attributes. With the colored figments of the squaws the child made pictures that “deceived the eye” and sang in a way that charmed the great chiefs of the tribe.

And then one day, with a white woman who had long been a prisoner, the child walked out of camp and defied all the warriors to detain them. She pointed to the moon and said she was its child and came to watch over the red men and they must not dispute her. She pointed her finger at the medicine man, looked sternly at him and walked toward him. He shrank before her.

The old Indian told how the child, followed by the woman, went to the mountain and knocked with a stick upon its side, and the mountain opened and swallowed up both child and woman, and closed again.

Next evening the child was heard singing in a voice that hushed the universe, and when the people of the tribe drew near they saw her walking on the very top of the mountain and pointing to the stars. Again she told them she was daughter of the moon and queen of the stars, and sang to them.

The Indians left rich offerings of food and blankets before the rocks that had swallowed up the girl and woman.

Thereafter when the new moon appeared other offerings of food and blankets were made, and the custom had continued until it became a tribal law.

The story of the child spread to other tribes, particularly to the Cheyennes who had sold her to the Sioux. The Cheyennes made long pilgrimages each year to make offerings, swear allegiance and hear the sweet voice of the child once held by their tribe.

From the Cheyennes the Kiowas learned of the child’s power, and they, too, came to pay tribute each year.

The aged red man became flowery and eloquent as he described the beauty of the young woman who dazzled the sun with the light of her face, and those who saw her smile carried happiness ever after. She walked alone in the forest, and great bears and bull buffaloes lay down for her in mute homage. Her touch soothed the hottest fever, and if the red man must not live any longer she asked of the gods that he die happily and enter the happy hunting grounds.

This young woman came and went among the red folk and her word was law and her slightest wish was granted.

“What became of the white woman who went away with the child?” asked Buffalo Bill.

“Injun no see um again: all same fly ’way to people where come,” the Indian had replied solemnly.

The scout terminated his interview, promising to leave food enough for the old Indian and child until he could come again. He must first go to the fort, but might soon return and would visit the daughter of the moon.

Next morning with Hickok the scout set out and soon returned each with an antelope. These were left to supply the old man and child until they came back. They also left tea and tobacco.

When Lieutenant Avery went down in the midst of the yelling horde a brave leaped from his pony and seized the hair of the young soldier, while another clutched the long tresses of the unconscious woman. But the eager ones were halted by an elder chief. Both prisoners must be taken to the Indian village, he told them, to trade for prisoners held by the pony soldiers. If the young officer was dead, he was brave, and the white men would give a live war prisoner for the body, but it must not be mutilated.

The lieutenant was not dead, and before the party had traversed many miles he was raving in delirium.

The bride remained blissfully unconscious.

As the sun hung low in the western sky it shone upon the Indian party and its prisoners passing near the sacred mountain, and they paused to leave the first antelope shot during the trip to insure good luck for the remainder.

A voice from the top of the rock in their own tongue asked the Indians concerning their prisoners. They told her of the long chase and capture, after a fight in which ten braves had been killed and several horses. They paid a tribute to the valor of the prisoner and the beauty of the woman.

The queen of the stars then pointed to the setting sun, which was going down blood red, and said:

“The god of day blushes for the Cheyennes who make war on women.”

She sang beautifully in an unknown tongue to them, and then ordered them to ride on and leave the prisoners beside the antelope.

The red warriors obeyed without demur and rode on sadly, bearing their dead, and with no trophy of the chase.

The bride had recovered and was moaning over her delirious and apparently dying husband. He was shot and cut in many places, while she had escaped without a scratch.

Suddenly a rock near her slid aside, and two women came forth—the fair being who had addressed the war party, and an elderly one. They at once set about removing the wounded man to the interior of the mountain. They also dragged the antelope within, and the surprised Mrs. Dorothy Avery found herself behind the wall of solid rock, and in the most marvelous place she had ever seen or ever expected to see.

The first care of the three women was to dress the numerous wounds of the lieutenant. All night long three pairs of tender hands worked over him, and when the sun arose it lighted the interior of the mountain, and reflected on the tepee where the young soldier was sleeping quietly.

To make other incidents of this narrative clear, it is necessary to give some little description of this home in the interior of a mountain which any one might imagine, but few be fortunate enough to see.

To begin with, the mountain, which appeared to be a solid, square-sided, flat-topped rock from the plain, was hollow. The great interior cavity sank to a level with the river two miles away, and the water in a clear pool along the edge of the south wall arose and fell with that in the river. The whole bottom seemed made up of rich loam and where not cultivated in vegetables, corn, herbs, and flowers, was clothed with green and luxuriant grass.

Down here, walled in by walls many rods thick, impenetrable alike to heat and cold, the temperature was pleasingly equable. It was never hot, yet vegetation thrived, mostly on reflection of the sun’s rays. It was never very cold, for the falling snow melted before it touched the soil. There were no high winds, and blizzards and cyclones were never felt.

On the north side of the interior was a massive pile of rocks of all sizes, as if they had been poured there from some gigantic measure. On these it was possible to ascend to the very top of the mountain.

The entrance was by way of what apparently had been in some other age the bed of a river, and the small outer opening led into a crevasse where the girl’s first disappearance had so puzzled the Indians. The moving aside of a small rock revealed the opening, which was nearly filled with loose stones of all sizes. Once on the inside and the key rock in place, others could be piled upon it until it was safe from attacks.

The girl, while a prisoner, had accidentally discovered the opening and had explored it alone without telling even her friend, the white woman prisoner. Later, when they had the opportunity, the woman was told and they laid plans to escape.

Stores of provision and seed were hidden there by the child on secret trips. Then she had conceived the plan of playing upon the superstitions of the red people. Her ruse was successful, due almost wholly to her sweet voice, and the fact that she had remarkable artistic talent.

For ten years the couple had lived there, neither caring greatly to find their way back to civilization. The woman’s entire family had been murdered when she was made prisoner; the girl had been so young when captured that she knew nothing of her people or their fate.

Thus they had lived on together very happily.

These women had found solace in raising vegetables and flowers, for water was always plentiful in the pool and of good quality. The younger had gone much among the Indians, but the elder had never left the walled-in space and only on rare occasions had she climbed the rocks to the top, to view the world beyond. She had learned, during her captivity, many of the Indian methods of treating the sick and wounded, and, discarding the fanatical and appeals to the elements, the use of prayer-sticks, etc., she was skilled in the selection of herbs, and raised them in the beautiful little garden which thrived nearly all the year.

For several days at least two of the women always hung over the cot of the wounded lieutenant, while the other slept. With cool water, fans, and aperient drinks, they kept the fever down, and at the end of a week Lieutenant Avery was on the road to recovery.

And then began as strange a life as a soldier probably ever enjoyed, for Lieutenant Avery did enjoy it. Indeed, how could he help it? With his bride ever at his side and his every wish anticipated, who can blame him if his period of convalescence was somewhat prolonged. At times little pangs of conscience pricked the young officer, who felt that the small force at the old fort needed him in these troublous times. But he was soon enticed to wait yet a little while until he was stronger, and his numerous wounds should give him less of pain and weakness.

Later the strength of the young man began to come back and with it a desire for activity. He busied himself in the garden and improved the crude tools of wood which they used in the cultivation of the soil. He enlarged the area cultivated, and, with the ever-present Dot and the other young woman almost constantly with them, they watched the growth of every flower and bud.

At evening the quartette spent many happy hours, the lieutenant and his wife telling the others about the wonders of the great outer world, and in turn enjoying the tales of the red-skinned people and their manners and customs.

The Cheyennes had given the child prisoner the name of Little Moonbeam, but the woman, who said her name was Mrs. Sherley, called the girl Mona, the name of one of her own dead daughters.

The Indians had accepted the name Mona as the white man’s short for Moonbeam and had not objected to Mrs. Sherley’s adoption of it. Thus the girl was called Mona, and the Averys immediately affixed Sherley for a surname, in honor of the motherly soul who had been robbed of all that was dear to her.

At the top of the mountain in some of the clear, moonlit evenings, Mona sang in her marvelous voice to the others, and Mrs. Dot, with tears in eyes, said it was no wonder the simple red folk worshiped the girl. They were songs of the old frontier days, and hymns that had been taught her by Mrs. Sherley; and to these the girl had added some of the mythical verse of the Indians, for which she had improvised quaint and weird airs that lent rare enchantment to them, especially to the savages themselves.

The lieutenant and his wife never appeared at the top of the butte until after the keen eyes of Mona had carefully swept the horizon and every part of the plain for signs of Indians. She did not wish to dispel any part of her power over these people of the plains, and wished that the departure of the couple should be as secret as if their lives depended upon it.

In spite of the happy years the girl had spent here, the coming of this young couple had opened up new vistas which she had begun to try and understand. Their stories of the beautiful world beyond, with its love and its tears, awakened new emotions. The love of this girl called Dot, and near her own age, for her handsome warrior husband was a revelation to this physically marvelous flower of femininity. She began to question herself if in the world beyond the plains there was not such love in store for her.

Oh, the mysteries and miracles of the tender emotions! How soft and insidious their grasp, yet how tenacious. In a few short weeks the life of this child of nature had been taught the pangs and aspirations of the world.

With the coming of Lieutenant and Mrs. Avery, Mona had experienced her first desires for education—that something, acquired from books and teachers which controls the world. She never tired of the fascinating relation of college incidents by Dot, or of Lieutenant Avery’s laughable experiences in the great university.

But how could she attain them? In this strange place “the world,” which, it seemed to her, was just beyond the skyline, she understood that everything was attained by money—how could she first obtain the money?

Already Mona was spending sleepless nights, never known before, because of this, her first touch with civilization. As yet she had said nothing to Mrs. Sherley or her new-found friends, but she could not long hide her troubles.

At Fort Phil Kearney Buffalo Bill found orders based on the reports and recommendations of General Sheridan and other officers that he be assigned to the duty of learning the fate, if possible, of Lieutenant Avery and his bride.

The scout’s orders were in detail, so far as the department understood the case, but he was given much latitude for his own judgment and experience. From the officer in command of the fort he learned every assignment of the young officer since he left the military academy; the report of his trip to Bozeman and his marriage; under whose command he had been, and of all officers who might in any way have become jealous of the preference of Avery over themselves. He also heard of the young officer’s difficulties at Bozeman and of the thrashing of the Indian agent, Price.

The scout was delighted with that part of Avery’s career which included the trouncing of Price.

“I should have enjoyed that privilege myself,” he remarked.

Prevailing rumors of Lieutenant Avery’s troubles in the East also came to Buffalo Bill’s ears, and he immediately set about tracing them to their source. He heard of the return of the lieutenant’s horse, and the hint of a ruse to deceive those at the fort.

Buffalo Bill decided shortly that Lieutenant Avery and his girl wife had either been killed or captured by Indians, or had fallen victims to the jealousy and hatred of a certain element in the army. From the persistence of the poisonous rumors he feared that rank treachery among his brother officers had led to the tragedy.

The scout determined to sift the matter to the bottom, wherever the blame might fall. He relied implicitly on the good sense and nerve of Wild Bill. His other pards were all trustworthy in intention, but he feared they might make a break inadvertently that would put certain army officers on their guard.

The very next day after the arrival of the scout and his pards at the fort a party of cavalry had found the carcass of the horse ridden by Mrs. Avery. Plenty of evidence that the horse had been running toward the fort when it plunged into the prairie dog’s hole and broke a leg was discoverable.

The scout decided to visit the scene with his pards. Under special instructions, Wild Bill was left at the fort to play cards and drink with the officers. The scout believed Hickok might hear references to the case which would prove of value later on. He wished also to know the general feeling among the officers and among the men toward Lieutenant Avery.

No man was better prepared to obtain such material than the magnetic Wild Bill. All the officers and most of the men knew the reputation of both the scout and Wild Bill, but few of them had ever seen the latter.

Wild Bill, standing six feet two in stockings, and built “from the ground up,” was a man of perfect poise, physically and mentally. He was quiet, conservative, and unobtrusive in manner, never given to boasting or indulging in expletives, his strongest expression being “by gorry.” In fact, Wild Bill was the exact opposite of the typical frontiersman.

Wild Bill loved to play cards, and only the strongest abuse or cheating could make him lose his temper, and then a few quiet words from him had settled many disputes that otherwise would have ended in tragedy.

Old Nomad paid this tribute to his pard:

“Hickok seldom gits mad, but when he does, look out! He don’t say very much, but when he opens up ev’ry word weighs er ton.”

Wild Bill’s reputation as a dead shot had penetrated every company of the army, and when the officers saw the tall, wiry, iron-nerved, steel-eyed scout they believed every word they had heard of his prowess. No man on the frontier, with the single exception of Buffalo Bill, was held so much in awe as was Wild Bill Hickok in those days, and with good cause.

In the finer, keener qualities of mental make-up only did the scout lead his famous pard. Buffalo Bill possessed an analytical mind and a natural mathematical sagacity. Wild Bill was practical, level-headed, and keen; quick as a flash in mind and body, and fear was minus in his make-up; but he deferred to his leader in matters of difficult solution.

The coyotes had stripped the bones of Mrs. Avery’s horse, but Buffalo Bill examined them critically. He could discover no other evidence of wound than the broken leg and bullet hole in the head. The bullet had not passed entirely through the skull of the animal, and with a hatchet he removed it. It showed to be a bullet from a .44-calibre army revolver. This was good evidence that Lieutenant Avery had shot the animal himself, after it had broken a leg. That the animal had been running toward the fort at the time of the accident was plain.

And right then the scout’s opinion of Lieutenant Avery advanced many per cent. A man who would pause under such stress as was apparent at the time of the accident to put a suffering animal out of its misery was no coward.

The scout believed also that right then and there the officer had dismounted from his own horse, which had galloped away, leaving the young couple afoot on the plain. Who took them away?—that was the part that must be unraveled. If treachery had been practiced, some one must suffer; if the officer and his bride had been captured they must be rescued; if dead, their bodies must be given decent burial.

The next step must be taken from the carcass of the horse. The scout held a consultation with Cayuse, beyond earshot of the military escort which had come to point out the place where Mrs. Avery had been thrown and her horse had ended its days.

Little Cayuse went down on the ground, while the others retired for some distance toward the fort and left him alone. Over and over the ground he went, each time broadening his circle, while the others smoked and watched.

At last the Piute began moving away across the plain, slowly at first and then faster, until he was going at that tireless lope which only an Indian trailer can follow.

Buffalo Bill dismissed the army men, caught up Navi’s lariat, and with his pards galloped after.

The cavalrymen, as they rode away, turned in their saddles and watched the progress of the strange procession as long as they could see them, and then hastened on to the fort to report.

“Looky hyar, Buffler; et strikes me we’re gittin’ inter fermiliar territory—don’t et yeou?” asked Nomad.

“Yes; there is the rock where the yellow-haired girl hailed us,” answered the scout.

“An’ Cayuse is goin’ plumb centre at et,” continued the trapper.

“Well, we intended to come this way sometime, and we got around sooner than we expected,” said the scout.

“Mars’ Billyum,” broke in Skibo, “Ah reckon yo’ eyes am better dan dis yeah niggah’s—don’ yo’ see sumpin’ atop o’ dat mounting?”

The scout looked, and then pulled his field glass.

“There certainly is quite an important something there, Skibo. It is no less than our yellow-haired girl of beauty and mystery. Perhaps she’ll invite us to lunch, Skibo.”

“Yah, yah! Mebbe she do, Mars’ Billyum; but Ah specs it’ll take a pow’ful lot o’ floppin’ for dat dar Nomad to fly up to dat high roost ob hern.”

“Yer jes’ look out fer yer own floppin’, Mr. Skibo—who ever hearn tell o’ a nigger with wings, anyhow?”

“I guess if I could get up there with my bugle, Miss Yellow Hair and I could make the Indians look silly,” said Tootsie.

“Yes, thar ye go ergin! Course ye’ll begin ter make plans, fust thing, ter git up thar ermong ther pretty gals. Like ernough ther mounting ez full er yaller-haired angels,” teased Nomad.

As they rode nearer Buffalo Bill saw that the girl on the mountain top was signaling to them. He could not understand what she was trying to convey. He thought of Indians approaching from beyond, but he could not understand the girl’s apparent perturbation. She ran back and forth on the rock, and waved a cloth at them, and then looked and pointed away beyond their view, on the other side of the mountain.

When they had reached hailing distance they pulled their horses to a standstill, and heard the girl cry:

“Go back! Go back! A party of Indians are approaching from the other side.”

“How many?” asked the scout.

“Nearly a score,” she answered.

“Only four to one,” said the scout; “we have come on an important mission, and if they mean fight we will entertain them.”

“Oh, sir, I beg you to go back. They are Sioux and bent on mischief, I feel sure.”

“How near are they?” asked the scout.

“Ten minutes’ ride.”

“Very well; it is only two minutes’ ride for us to the crevasse south of your castle, and once in there we are willing for them to try their mischief on us. We thank you, just the same, for your kindly warning. And again we thank you for your advice the other day; it saved us lots of trouble and brought us in contact with a child and an old man in whom you may be interested.”

“Who are they?” the girl asked, although she was manifestly nervous for the safety of the scout and his pards.

“Black Coyote and his little daughter have been abandoned to starve by their tribe. I will tell you more when I have time; just now I wish to get my men and horses where they will be protected from Sioux bullets.”

“By ther great horn spoon an’ granny’s ole tin ladle! I c’u’d lick twenty Sioux all alone ef she’d luk on an’ cheer fer ole Nick,” announced Nomad, as he galloped along behind the scout.

The party was barely well below the jagged walls of the fissure when along the base of the cone thundered the war party of Sioux.

The Indians had seen the white riders enter the cleft some distance below the mountain where the walls were not so high or precipitous. They saw, too, the strategical advantages of the position, and were careful to turn aside when they saw five rifles protruding over the top of the wall and pointing in their direction.

The Indians halted, and one rode on in front a short distance and then began riding in a circle.

“He wants to hold a parley,” said the scout.

“I noticed et?” answered the trapper.

“I think I’ll meet him,” said the scout, setting down his rifle and looking to his revolvers and knife. He led Bear Paw to the place where they had entered, clambered out on top, and mounted.

“Ef they ’tempt any funny bus’ness we’re goin’ ter make um think et’s rainin’ red-hot bullets,” shouted Nomad.

The chief who came forward was well mounted, and advanced with a genial:

“How?”

“How?” answered the scout, riding up to the Indian and extending his hand.

Like a flash the Indian’s knife came out, and he struck at the heart of the scout.

But as other treacherous Indians had done before him, this one had miscalculated. He built too much upon his own prowess, and underestimated that of his antagonist.

Bear Paw was away like a flash, and then back again with a lunge that knocked the Indian pony almost off its feet. At the same instant the scout struck the chief’s arm a blow that sent his knife flying through the air, and, lifting the savage bodily from the saddle, hurled him backward to the sun-hardened mesa, stunned.

But at sight of this the entire party charged upon the daring white man, and the battle was on.

The scout put spurs to Bear Paw and dashed back toward the cleft where his companions were hidden, at the same time, turning in the saddle, he poured several shots from his revolvers into the scattering, yelling, shooting savages.

Old Nomad, Skibo, Cayuse, and Tootsie let loose a galling fire from their rifles, and the charge was of brief duration.

As the Indians wheeled and dashed away beyond the range of the rifles, Tootsie sounded the “advance” on his bugle.

The Indians immediately huddled together, gesticulating and talking excitedly.

“Give um ernother sample o’ yer tootin’, Tootsie,” said Nomad.

The boy responded sharply on his horn, keeping well out of sight, and the Indians were puzzled as to its source. From their actions the scout judged that it sounded to them as if it came from the top of the butte. They pointed and looked in that direction, and then back toward the fissure where the party of whites and their horses were hidden.

“I guess if I had my ghost fixed up it would finish the job,” said Tootsie.

“Mebbe some o’ them aire ther same fellers ye s’luted berfore,” suggested Nomad.

“Try them with another ‘advance,’” said the scout.

This was sufficient. The Indians wheeled their horses and dashed away, in half an hour disappearing beyond a mound of the rolling plain to the west.

The pards were so intently watching the Indians that they heard no sound until a voice beside them said:

“Pardon me, sir, may I ask about the old Indian, Black Coyote, and his child?”

The pards doffed their hats with amusing celerity, and Buffalo Bill, stepping forward, introduced himself and the members of his party.

“Are you Pa-e-has-ka, the Long Hair, of whom I have heard so much?” she asked.

“I am Buffalo Bill among the white people of the West,” he answered, “and the Indians have called me Pa-e-has-ka.”

She extended her hand to him and then to the others.

“I am ‘Little Moonbeam’ to the red people,” she said, “and my only white friend, Mrs. Sherley, calls me Mona. The red folk regard me as daughter of the moon and queen of the stars, because my goings and comings mystify them.”

“An’ I don’t blame ther Injuns, nuther!” interjected Nomad, unable to conceal his admiration.

The scout then told of the aged Indian and little girl, and their pitiful condition. If some one did not watch over them, he told her, they would soon starve. Black Coyote had told him of the queen of the stars, and had expressed the desire, which he seemed to think hopeless, that he might communicate with her before he should die.

“He seemed to think the daughter of the moon would care for his helpless child,” the scout added.

“I will see him before the sun comes over the hills again,” she told him.

“May we not escort you to the tepee of Black Coyote?” the scout asked.

She smiled indulgently, and answered:

“I should be far safer alone, and I could find the tepee of Black Coyote in the blackest night, although he does not know it.”

“Perhaps you knew of their troubles,” suggested the scout.

“No; he was well and provided with buffalo meat the last time I was there—but I have been very busy of late and have not paid them a visit,” she answered, as if regretting the neglect.

“If you cannot well go to see him now I will visit him in the morning and provide food for several days, and tell them you are coming,” said the scout.

“No, I shall go very soon, although I thank you.”

“Very well; it is for you to choose. But we are at your service, my pards and I.”

“Now that you have performed the errand for Black Coyote you had better make haste back to the fort,” she said.

“I have a far more important errand,” said the scout.

“Not that I am interested in?” she asked.

“Perhaps so; listen: Several weeks ago a brave young soldier, recently married to a girl almost as lovely as yourself, went out to ride from the fort. They never came back, and their people and the Great Father at Washington are grieved because of it.

“For many days the pony soldiers and walkaheaps have searched the plain for the missing ones. Now the Great Father has asked me to try to find the young lieutenant. I have traced him thus far. That is my mission here. Little Moonbeam, can you give me any word of encouragement or tell me anything of their fate?”

The girl stood blushing and paling. She was manifestly disturbed by Pa-e-has-ka’s recital; but she calmed herself with an effort, and replied in a low voice:

“Pa-e-has-ka has done well to trace the lost soldier and his bride so far. If his trailers should be able to discover it in the much-trodden soil beyond, it would lead him on. But Pa-e-has-ka will do well to turn back and wait with patience.”

“Can Little Moonbeam tell me if both are alive?” the scout insisted.

“Both are alive, although the brave young soldier was pitifully wounded. But he is recovering, and some day will be allowed to go back with his bride to their people.”

“May I ask you more?” queried the scout.

“No more now,” she answered. “Go back to the soldier village, and come again when the moon is round, and I will tell you more.”

“And Black Coyote and the child?”

“Give no further thought to them; they shall not suffer.”

“I thank you, Miss Mona, for what you have done, and I wish you to remember to call on Buffalo Bill or any of his pards, if you are ever in trouble or we can in any way be of service to you. Do not hesitate, especially if you should desire to visit the outside world; then our advice might save you from many pitfalls.”

“I thank you. When I meet you again I may have a request to make, or, at least, may wish to ask your advice concerning the future. Good-by.”

She turned away, and the scout and his pards led their steeds out of the cleft and rode away. They had proceeded barely a hundred rods when, looking back, they saw Little Moonbeam waving to them from the mountain top.

“Wouldn’t thet make yer guess some?” exclaimed Nomad. “I’d like ter see little Yaller Hair when she flies up thar!”

“Don’t be impatient, Nick. We are getting acquainted much faster than we expected. Perhaps she will give us an exhibition of her aërial prowess some day. Restrain yourself, pard; she is too rare a bird for any of our cages.”

“Thet’s all right, Buffler; but when I see er bird thet I cyant ketch, et do my eyes good ter look at um.”

“I think,” observed the scout quietly, “that we are to have a long, hard ride to-night.”

“What’s ther sign, Buffler?”

“A party of horsemen came over a ridge to the north of the butte and are heading this way. I caught but a momentary glimpse of them before they disappeared, but I think they are Sioux and have seen us.

“Now, boys, the safest way is usually the best way. Let each dismount and look to his trappings. A broken girth with Indians close in chase might mean disaster. Also carefully examine your rifles and revolvers and see that everything is in prime condition. One minute’s time lost in that way while our animals are puffing may mean several minutes gain for us in a hot chase.

“You see that long ridge running quartering to us about two miles distant? Well, they are now behind that, and if they think we have not seen them they will continue behind that and ride like all-possessed to head us off if we keep on in this direction.

“Now, when we mount, bear five points or so farther into the south, and don’t push your horses until we are hard pressed, and then we’ll adopt tactics which will give the animals a little leeway on the ponies.

“Cayuse, you and Tootsie lead the way and set the pace—not too stiff, you know, but a good easy lope for the animals. There will be time enough to run when we know we are being chased. Skibo, you follow Cayuse and the boy, and Nomad and I will bring up the rear and sort of regulate the speed of our pursuers.”

Five minutes later the scout called to Cayuse to swing harder into the south, so the Indians would not be too near when they rounded the end of the ridge.

“Keep to the right and around the end of the ridge ahead of you, then swing hard into the east again and make good speed as soon as we are out of sight; but don’t look around. If the Indians attempt to ride over the ridge to cut us off they will wind their ponies, after what they have been giving them.”

The scout had been exactly right in his calculations. Presently a strong party of perhaps fifty well-mounted Sioux dashed around the ridge, and apparently expected to be almost upon the white men, who were as far in the lead as before, riding easily southward, as if unconscious of the proximity of red warriors, and without a glance behind them.

It had been Buffalo Bill’s orders that all should be riding unconcernedly and without looking back, so that the savages would still think themselves unseen.

The Indians sent their ponies away in full pursuit, hoping to pull well up on the white riders before being discovered.

The scout had no more than passed from the view of the Indians around the next ridge before he shouted to Cayuse:

“Now get away at good gait, and hard to the left.”

When the Indians at last rounded the end of the divide they were surprised at the change of course by their intended victims, and the gain the fugitives had made on them, and also that the white riders still seemed to be riding leisurely and were not looking backward.

The whites were now almost at the north end of another ridge that ran away toward the southwest, and would soon pass from view.

The Indians suspected that they had been tricked by the seemingly unconcerned white riders. They would not be fooled so again, and, as soon as the fugitives had passed out of sight, turned their ponies and urged them with all speed toward the divide and up its long, wind-breaking rise.

At last they had reached the top, but instead of discovering their prey just down the other side, swinging into the south again, they were nowhere in view.

The Indians were puzzled, but urged their tired ponies along the high land toward the point where the scout and his pards had last been seen. At the end of the bluff the party was still undiscoverable; but there was their plain trail leading away into the southeast, and back from behind another ridge, a mile away, came the clear notes of a bugle.

The red men had been hoodwinked by an old trick of their own.

Wild Bill made the acquaintance of all the officers and mingled freely with the men at the fort. From the latter he soon got several hints regarding the officers, without seeming to have any desire to do so. One officer, he discovered at the start, was unpopular with the men of the ranks, and it soon became evident that this man was disliked by his brother officers. Wild Bill immediately made it his business to cultivate the acquaintance of this man.

For reasons which will be obvious later in this tale, the true name of this officer will not be given. We will call him Captain Smith for convenience, simply because that was not his name.

Captain Smith well knew that he was generally disliked, and when the distinguished and daring plainsman appeared to favor his society, the captain hastened to meet his new-found friend halfway.

In card games that day Hickok found opportunity to size up all the officers, and skillfully led to some reference to the missing Lieutenant Avery. In the conversation that followed he remarked:

“I wonder if this Avery isn’t the same man I saw up Callatin way a few moons ago.”

“The same,” answered another; “that is where he found his wife.”

“Oh, yes; by the way, he must be the one who had a falling out with the Indian agent up there.”

“Yes. Did you meet Price?” asked Smith.

Wild Bill affected not to exactly remember the name.

“Let’s see,” he said, “was this Price the Indian agent?”

“The same.”

“Yes, I met him several times at the hotel—pleasant fellow, evidently.”

“You bet he is; Price is all right,” avowed Captain Smith enthusiastically.

The others made no comment.

Wild Bill shuffled the cards and dealt new hands.

“I may have this Avery mixed with some other man,” he said. “Was he of medium height and fairly stout?”

“No; as tall as you are and about your build,” said Cook.

Captain Smith opened his mouth to speak, but changed his mind. Wild Bill noted the captain’s hesitation and resolved to give him an opportunity to relieve his mind.

After the game had ended Hickok approached Captain Smith, and said:

“What sort of country is it west of here? Looks like quite a sizable cañon dead west.”

“Yes, that’s the Big Horn range, and it’s a picturesque country as far as I’ve been. That is called Carvel’s Cañon, I think. Just now the foothills are swarming with Indians.”

“Crows?”

“Mostly; but Olgallalas, Poncas, Otoes, and Cheyennes are too plentiful for comfort. They are traveling in strong parties during the last few months, and it is a hopeless case for the settlers wherever they go. A cattleman with a few cowboys and good rifles can stand off the small parties, but these war parties are out for scalps and plunder, and they will never be quiet until they are given an everlasting licking.”

“What do you say to a canter out toward the cañon, to see what we may see?”

“It would suit me first-rate, if the general doesn’t object. He is short of men now, and the supply train, which is accompanied by fifty men, is five days late.”

“Have to turn to buffalo meat pretty soon, eh?”

“It looks that way now, and the general is getting uneasy about the men with the train, as well as the supplies. He may ask you and Cody to investigate if it doesn’t show up pretty soon. And, by the way, Hickok, would it be impertinent for me to ask what your mission is here?”

“Certainly not,” answered Wild Bill suavely. “We are making for Fort Leavenworth, and Colonel Cody thought he would look over the forces at the different forts and see how they compare, according to the districts they are in and an experienced Indian fighter’s notion of the places that would require the stronger forces. Of course you know that back in the States there is a good deal of criticism concerning the disposal of the frontier troops. Some blame the war department and some the interior department for the stand they take in opposition to each other. I shouldn’t like to have you make any talk about the object of our visit, of course, but I don’t mind telling you privately.”

Captain Smith felt flattered by the scout’s apparent confidence and became somewhat loquacious.

The general in command asked both to use exceeding caution and to take no chances. He should prefer if they were going simply for a gallop that they should proceed along the route to the southeast, from which direction he was momentarily expecting the supply train and escort. If the Indians should discover and capture this train it would mean disaster for the fort, as the quantity of ammunition now on hand was small.

It was a pleasing day for a canter, if there were no necessity of a constant study of the surroundings for signs of the treacherous reds.

Wild Bill was always on the alert, and his eye was as quick as that of any Indian. They had left the fort perhaps three miles in the rear, and Captain Smith had entered deeply into a subject which interested Hickok. It was concerning Price, the former Indian agent, and his affairs, particularly that which concerned Lieutenant Avery. They saw nothing of the hoped-for supply wagons, and the scout was so absorbed by the words of his companion that he at first gave no heed to a row of strange objects along the crest of a hill far to the left of them. Then the habit of years fixed his gaze.

“Do you see anything there?” he asked of the captain.

The captain did not, but Hickok leveled his field glass as he rode, and a moment later announced:

“They are Indians, cap, and they are between us and the fort. How is your horse for a run?”

The captain paled, but answered:

“There is no pony living that can down him in twenty miles.”

“Good! Let’s look to our saddle girths, for as soon as those fellows see that they have been discovered they will come out in full view. They are only waiting now to give others time to cut off our retreat by riding out behind that ridge we have just crossed.”

“What is best for us to do?” asked the captain.

“Keep out of their way, if possible, and when they get too near make it costly for them.”

“I’ve revolver ammunition in plenty, but only half a dozen rounds for my rifle.”

“Hold your ammunition for a while, then, and when they get too insistent I’ll entertain them. How far is it to the crest of that ridge, should you say?”

“One thousand yards.”

Wild Bill raised the sights of his rifle.

“Watch me let them know they are discovered,” he said.

Swinging in his saddle, his rifle cracked and dust flew beside one of those round objects that lay so motionless.

Instantly more than a score of warriors leaped to their feet and darted back out of sight down the opposite side of the divide.

“In two shakes of a sandpeep’s tail they’ll be back again, fully mounted and after us,” said Hickok. “Are you prepared for a run?”

“I am, and ready to wager that I can leave those fellows out of sight in an hour.”

“Don’t try it, old man. If you do you may sleep without a scalp to-night. My advice to you is not to push your horse too hard at first. The farther we get ahead of them the farther we’ll be away from the fort when darkness comes on. So long as there is nothing in the way, I move that we stick to the route as though we never intended to come back, and then they won’t be looking for us when we return after dark.”

“They are coming, Hickok!” exclaimed the captain excitedly, sending his horse away at a swift canter.

Wild Bill saw the fiercely charging cavalcade now plunging down the descent and yelling fiercely.

It was a fearsome sight to those unused to it, and Wild Bill did not blame the captain for being nervous. He rode near enough to the latter to call to him:

“Don’t push your horse too hard at first; hold him in a bit, and when the reds get too near I’ll caution them. Save your horse for later on; also keep your eyes peeled for an ambush ahead.”

Smith’s horse benefited by the advice to his master, and presently Wild Bill’s rifle cracked and one of the pursuers dropped out of the race.

Soon the savages eased up their pace, keeping beyond the range of that unfailing rifle.

“No hurry, cap; just keep going fast enough so they can’t drive by and surround us—but look sharp to the front.”

Five minutes later the captain shouted back at Wild Bill:

“I hear firing ahead—sounds like an army engagement.”

“When we mount the next divide we can see. And say, cap, if it’s your supply train surrounded in the valley beyond, put on all speed and dash straight at the Indian line, shooting and yelling. Ten to one they would be so surprised at this attack from a new quarter that they will forget to shoot till we are inside the line.”

They rode not too rapidly up the rise, the Indians respecting Hickok’s rifle sufficiently to keep beyond range. Wild Bill’s plan was to save the wind of the horses until dark, when he knew the Indians would attempt to surround them.

As they rode out on the crest, Captain Smith exclaimed:

“Jupiter! see there.”

In the little valley below them was the wagon train huddled on the plain, with the horses in the square between the wagons, and the escort lying and kneeling all about the wagons and keeping the Indians at bay. Several hundred warriors were riding in a circle about the train, keeping their bodies behind their ponies and shooting from behind these living shields.

“Straight at them now, and begin yelling and shooting the instant we are discovered,” said Wild Bill, putting spurs to his horse.

When Buffalo Bill and his pards reached the fort that night the commander was becoming alarmed because of the prolonged absence of Captain Smith and Wild Bill.

“Which way did they go?” asked the scout.

“Down the route toward Fort Reno.”

“Oh! they’ll show up, all right,” said the scout reassuringly. “Hickok is a whole regiment and an ambulance train combined.”

“I know; but I am getting worried about the supply train, which ought to have arrived five days ago. Captain Smith and Wild Bill rode that way, and should have returned two or three hours ago. What do you think of it?”

“I think, in that case, that Hickok discovered your wagon train in difficulties and has gone to their assistance. If you will give me fifty well-mounted men I should enjoy going to the relief of your supplies and men.”

“You can have them, Cody; and the sooner you start the better it will suit me.”

Tn spite of his hard day’s ride, the scout was impatient to be off. Old Nomad got wind of it and came tearing up to the officer’s quarters.

“See hyar! what’s this aire manœuvrin’ whar’s likely ter be moosic an’ ole Nick hain’t included, hey?”

“You had better go to bed, Nomad; you’ve had a hard day,” said the general soothingly.

“Who, me? Me had er hard day? An’ ther prospects o’ scrimmagin’ woul’n’t rest me! Guess you don’t know ole Nick purty good, do ye? Say, gin’ral, ’f I cyant go ’th that thar outfit I’ll lay erwake an’ holler all night, so’s yeow an’ nobody else cyant sleep, nohow.”

The general laughed. “Well, go with Cody, if you expect to take it so much to heart.”

“Thar, thet’s more like yore usual ginerosity, gin’ral. I knowed ye’d do et, ef I put it up to yer right. When Pard Buffler goes anywhar I jest likes ter jog erlong, ’cause somethin’s bound ter hap’n.”

Nomad hurried away to saddle Hide-rack, but one of the officers insisted that the trapper take a fresh horse. Buffalo Bill, too, was given a splendid mount, and Cayuse, who could not be left behind, was provided with a good animal.

There were fifty-three men in the rescue expedition, with Buffalo Bill, ole Nomad, and Little Cayuse well in the lead to insure against ambush.

Two hours’ hard riding had shown no signs of a supply train, or of Hickok and the captain.

“We will ride for another hour, boys,” said the scout, “and then, if we discover nothing, turn back.”

But they had not ridden fifteen minutes farther when the quick ears of Little Cayuse detected the sound of firing.

The scout halted the line and listened. Distinctly now there came to their ears the sound of desultory firing, far to the southeast and beyond what must be quite heavy ridges.

“Look to your trappings and outfits, boys,” said the scout, “and be ready when we charge to carry all before us. Give ’em a good lesson this time, and chase them into the next county.”

The party took the last long rise easily, husbanding the strength of their horses, and when near the top paused for the animals to puff and to reconnoitre the situation.

But by the flashes of the guns and occasional attempts of the Indians to set the wagons afire by throwing blazing torches, the conditions were easily understood.

“Do you notice, to the north of the wagons, the Indians are doing everything to attract attention in that direction?” asked Buffalo Bill of a lieutenant at his side. “Well,” he continued, “I’ll bet a hundred to one they are massing to charge on the south side.”

“What shall we do?”

“Move down upon them quietly and get as near as possible, and then charge to the south of the wagons—make things hum.”

“I wish we had a bugler and some rocks,” said the lieutenant.

As if in answer to his request, Tootsie appeared at the withers of the officer’s horse.

“Let me do the tooting, sir?” he asked.

“What! you here?” exclaimed Buffalo Bill.

“Yes; I knew you wouldn’t let me come if you knew, and so I sneaked. You’ll forgive me, won’t you, Mr. Cody?”

“Yes, boy; get out your bugle and ride beside me. When I say the word sound the ‘charge,’ and then keep out of the way of the cavalry.”

So intent were the Indians in carrying out their own schemes that they knew nothing of the approach of reënforcements for the whites.

Suddenly from out of the darkness, two hundred yards south of the wagon train, started the thunder of beating hoofs and the fierce yells of at least three hundred red warriors.

But almost at the same instant, above the shrill, savage yells, arose the penetrating notes of the bugle in triumphant “charge.”

Like an avalanche thundered the half-hundred heavy cavalry horses, and before the Indians could be fully aware of their presence the soldiers were upon them.

Tootsie clung to his horse, and when he saw the dark forms of the savages scudding before him, he fired as fast as he could pull the trigger of his revolver, and occasionally added a blast from his bugle.

The boy bugler felt his horse overtake the Indian ponies and plunge among and over them, and then he found himself alone on the prairie beyond them, and heard the continuous crash of revolvers and the clank and clash of sabres on lances and shields.

He would have emptied his rifle into the black mass, but he could not tell friend from foe. He had entered the volcano by the side of Buffalo Bill, but the scout was back there in the midst of it now, and the boy wondered how he had been belched out beyond the rim.

Then out by him tore a maddened horde, the first part of it in full flight and the last part of it spitting flame and lead at the fugitives and hoarsely cheering as they rode after, relentlessly cutting down man and beast of the red marauders.

It was Tootsie’s first real taste of battle, and though it was tempered by the kindly gloom, it turned the boy’s soul sick—this useless waste of life, because of what?

Well, older heads than his have tried to reach the right of this question and failed. But it is always safe to assume that somebody was wrong, and with greed at the bottom of it and vengeance to drive it on, the soil of the great Western plains is soaked in human blood.

For another sickening hour the running battle raged, with the badly whipped Indians in full flight and their numbers constantly growing less until the scattered remnants were lost in the night and darkness had saved many lives.

Several white men were dead and wounded, and the train moved on sadly and slowly toward the fort. Buffalo Bill and his rescue party, led by himself and Nomad, with Little Cayuse and Tootsie closely following, were in advance. The scout had been slightly wounded and old Nomad had received an arrow in the flesh of his left leg. He also had a cut from a spear on the head, but he “never felt better” in his life, he assured those who asked regarding his wounds.

It was some time after daylight when the wagon train, intact, with its escort, reached the fort and relieved the anxiety of the commander. Buffalo Bill and Hickok were closeted for a long time with the general that night, and the latter profusely thanked the scouts for the part they had taken in saving the wagon train. He stated frankly that he believed the coming of the scouts to the fort had saved the supplies and the escort of fifty men, as well as the two women, wives of officers there, and the teamsters.

Buffalo Bill told the general of his discoveries concerning Lieutenant Avery and the mysterious “Queen of the Stars.”

The general was amazed. He looked almost incredulously at the scout for several moments, and then said:

“Twenty years ago, when I was living in Ohio, a man whom I had known from boyhood, Jake Payne, came home from a varied career in the West. He had always been wild and irresponsible, and at an early age ran away from the farm where he had been ‘bound out’ by his guardian—his parents were dead—and was not seen in his native town again until he came home to die from a pistol-shot wound which he said had been given him by his partner. He told a long story of their hardships and adventures in the Black Hills and elsewhere, and how at last they struck it rich. They opened a pocket and took out many thousands of dollars’ worth of pure nuggets of gold.

“The Indians became so troublesome that they at last attempted to steal away with their gold. They feared to go east through a country they knew then to be swarming with Indians, and determined to try their luck to the westward, hoping to fall in with other gold seekers or a cavalry detachment, or wagon train. They traveled nights, hiding their trail as much as possible, walking their mules in the beds of streams for miles and choosing the hard and dry mesa wherever possible.

“He told how they were chased by a party of Crows one night, and finally surrounded near the base of a particular butte. Their mules were killed and they dragged their treasure bags into a fissure and, there entrenched, held the Indians at bay.

“They finally discovered a hole in the rocks, and crawled in with their precious burden and plugged the hole up after them. At daylight the Indians charged, and were greatly mystified at their disappearance.

“To make a long story short, they found the mountain to be hollow. It was an absolutely safe retreat, and they remained some time. Later they buried the principal part of their treasure, filling their pockets only, and attempted to make the settlements to the southeast on foot. This they had nearly accomplished when a dispute arose between them regarding the final disposal of their gold, and a shooting affair resulted. Both were fatally injured, Payne finally reaching the nearest settlement, his partner dying on the plain.

“Payne described the mountain and hiding place of the gold to me, and I believe your sacred mountain is the place.”

Buffalo Bill had decided, while awaiting the day of his appointment with Little Moonbeam, to scout a bit in the mountains to the west of the fort. He believed there were Indian villages located in the fastnesses of the Big Horn range, and from these the numerous war parties sallied forth on their expeditions of plunder and rapine. If these villages could be discovered, and the Indians punished and driven back to their reservations, the lives and property of many settlers might be saved.

The scout was convinced that the raids were mostly to be laid at the door of a few daring and bloodthirsty chiefs like Rain-in-the-face. If these leaders could be captured and punished, the cause of peace would be promoted.

“Waal, ov all ther ringtail-peelin’, sidehill loungers I ever seen, ther b’ar thet tore round hyar wuz ther plumb biggest. Look et thet paw mark, Buffler, an’ see what yer think ov et.”

“Yah, yah! dat ain’ nuffin, Nick. Why! down in ole Virginy de possums make bigger tracks ’n dat dar grizzly done leab. Go way, dar, Nick! yo’ eyes been er magnifigetin’ circumspiciously. H’m! dat lib b’ar git ’is head kicked off if he come nigh ole Hide-rack.”

“Nomad heap ’fraid; bear all same raccoon,” put in Little Cayuse.

Buffalo Bill and Hickok grinned at the “kidding” of the old trapper, but offered no comment. They kept their eyes open for the appearance of the animal that had made the track, for he certainly must be a monster.

The pards were riding in the foothills of the Big Horn range, looking for signs of an Indian encampment and also a little sport, if it came their way. They had found no signs of Indians since leaving the plain, but evidences of bear were plentiful.

The party separated slightly, keeping always within hailing distance, but beating the bush as their horses picked their way over the uneven footing.

Presently there was a shot, followed by eight more as fast as old Skibo could pump his Spencer carbine, and then there was a wild whoop, a crashing of the underbrush, and Skibo’s horse went plunging down the bluff, with the darky clinging for dear life and an enormous grizzly in close pursuit.

The pards saw that it would be serious for the colored member if he should be swept from his terrified horse, which was making for the open land with all the speed it could muster with a two-hundred-and-fifty-pound negro on its back.

“Bear heap plenty bigger caballo,” said Cayuse, as he turned in pursuit. The other pards dashed down the mountain with as much speed as was consistent with the rough footing.

As they burst through a thicket of evergreen near the foot of the mountain they obtained a good view of Skibo clinging with his arms around the neck of his horse, which was still dashing madly out upon the plain, and the wounded bear shacking after at his best speed.

Then old Nomad arose to the occasion.

“Hy, thar! Skibo; how ’bout them Virginy possums now? Ef yer likes possum meat he’p yerself. Et’s free, Skibo; don’t be bashful. Git yer tarnation jawers onter et an’ chaw ter yer heart’s content. Cyan’t yer ketch ’im, Skibo? Never mind; yer doin’ well, an’ I opines ye’ll git ’im by an’ by, ef yer hoss hol’s out. Git er goin’, Skibo, an’ don’t let thet thar possum git erway f’m ye!”

Turning to Cayuse, the trapper continued:

“Why don’t yer git out thar an’ he’p yer brother? Mebbe ’tain’t possum, arter all; mebbe et’s coon, er a hedgehog. Git yer pied pony er-goin’ an’ ketch ther varmint.”

Skibo heard the shouts and laughter behind him and looked about. He saw that his horse could now outfoot the bear, so he began a large circle back toward the point where he had made a somewhat hurried dash upon the plain.

“Hyar, Skibo, doan’t bring ther varmint back this way till yer tie ’is feet. Quit it, yer dar-devil!” called Nomad.

“Yah, yah! Nick; take yo’ ole beah; Ah ain’ done los’ no beahs.”

In the laugh that followed Tootsie’s exuberance of spirits got the best of him, and he suddenly blew a loud and long series of toots on his bugle.

The bear stopped, looked up at the group, sniffed the air suspiciously, and started to investigate.

“Hyar comes yer coon, Cayuse! Now’s yer time ter ketch ’im. Recomember, papoose, no foul holts now, but fair ketch-es-ketch-ken, an’ ef yer gits ’im yer welcome.”

Nomad gave Hide-rack a slap and dashed out on the plain.

Buffalo Bill and Hickok sat on their horses a little apart from the others, enjoying the chase. They were ready to take a hand at any time their services might be needed, but were inclined to wait and see what the others would do.

Nomad, too, was inclined to take revenge by not raising a rifle against the enraged grizzly.

Little Cayuse’s pinto would not face the bear for a moment, but dashed madly away.

Tootsie was the only one left, and the bear made straight for him and his trembling horse. The boy blew a stiff blast at the advancing beast and then dashed away, with the bear in pursuit.

As he galloped Tootsie turned in the saddle and blew the “advance” at the bear, and a moment later the “charge.”

The bear was doing his best at both orders, but the fleet bay mare was too swift for him, and at last he gave it up and turned to sniff toward some of the others.

Tootsie was on the alert, and rode back, stopping a few rods from the bear to serenade him.

The bear looked at the bugler in disgust for a moment, and then started slowly back toward the mountain. Tootsie galloped alongside, far enough away for safety, and continued to serenade the monster.

The animal stopped several times, and, sitting on its haunches, looked quizzically at the boy with the bugle; then he would move on slowly. At last he sat up and, sticking his nose in air, emitted a mournful howl that made the pards shout with laughter.

“Why don’t yer shoot ’im, Tootsie?” asked Nomad.

“He ain’t my bear!” yelled Tootsie, who was having fun enough with the animal as it was.

“Ef yer ever wants ter kill er grizzly now’s yer chanst, boy—take ’im in ther front when ’e throws ’is head back ter holler.”

“Oh! I’d rather let ’im go. Perhaps he’ll ketch an Injun some day, an’ that’s excuse enough for livin’.”

The bear had started on again, but when Tootsie dashed up beside and blew a long blast at him the animal again sat up and howled mournfully. Whenever he stopped Tootsie again blew at him and the bear gave vent to that mournful sound.

Again and again the laughable performance was repeated, when suddenly the bear tipped over backward, kicked a few times, and died.

One of Skibo’s bullets had done its work, after all.

While watching the sport the keen eyes of Buffalo Bill had discovered a side show. His eye had suddenly caught a flash from the top of a bluff five hundred yards away, and he had kept watch of that point while apparently giving his whole attention to the fun in hand.

Falling back until he was in the rear of his pards, the scout quietly pulled his glass and studied the bluff. His suspicions were confirmed. Peering out from various hiding places were a score or more of Indians, who had been attracted by the hubbub.

They watched the performance with apparently increasing curiosity and amazement, even crawling out from their hiding places in order to acquire a better view.

When the bear sat up and howled so disconsolately they exchanged excited remarks and gestures, and repeated these every time the act occurred.

The climax came when the bear fell over dead. The Indians seemed dumb for a moment and then fled. Five minutes later the scout saw them darting around a bluff that sat out into the plain, and then disappear as fast as their ponies could carry them.

The Indians believed the boy had killed the enormous grizzly in some mysterious manner. They probably linked this with recent incidents in which the sound of a bugle had invariably spelled disaster for them.

On the appointed day Buffalo Bill and the pards who accompanied him on the previous trip rode northward to visit the “Daughter of the Moon.” On the way out the pards wondered if the “Queen of the Stars” would be there to greet them, or were they going on a fool’s errand?

No one was in sight as they approached the butte which the Indians called “Sacred Mountain.” They rode entirely around the cone and scanned the plain in all directions. Not a living thing was to be seen besides the birds and a solitary antelope a mile away.

“What d’ye say ter thet, Buffler?” asked Nomad.

“I think we had better put our horses down in the crevasse, where they can’t be seen from the plain, and then hang out here and smoke and wait.”

The horses were snugly corralled in the rock-bound fissure, where a savage ten rods distant could not discover them. It was an ideal hiding place, and half a dozen well-armed men could defend it against a regiment.

“Suppose I blow ‘general’ on my bugle?” suggested Tootsie, when arrangements had been completed.

“Go ahead, if you please,” said the scout.

Five minutes after the bugle call, Miss Mona appeared at the top of the mountain. She waved her hand in greeting and then disappeared.

The pards wondered what the next move would be, when the girl suddenly came out from among the horses and said:

“If the gentlemen will kindly step this way they will be treated to a little surprise.”

Buffalo Bill stepped briskly forward and his pards followed. They passed the horses in the cleft and came to what appeared to be an abrupt ending to the crevice; but the girl turned a sharp angle at the very end and entered a break underneath the wall forming quite a respectable room. At one side of this a hole in the rocks led under the mountain itself. The girl crouched and entered and the pards kept near her.

After stooping and crawling for a rod or so, the passageway opened out until they could stand erect in comfort, in a place lighted by a torch.

The party traversed some distance, and then came into the bright sunlight again, except that instead of the sunburned clay and rocks they had left, they saw before them a magical bower of beauty. Here beautiful flowers nodded welcome and green grass stood knee-high. Birds were singing happily, and the whole place seemed the realm of a fairy.

“I knew we’d go ter heaven ef we follered ther angel,” said old Nomad decisively.

“Welcome to the home of the Daughter of the Moon,” said the girl, bowing low in mock gravity.

“We accept your splendid hospitality in fear and trembling, O Queen of the Stars,” returned Buffalo Bill, removing his hat and also bowing extravagantly.

“And now,” said the girl, “I will introduce you to some friends of mine.”

She whistled sharply, and from a cluster of conifers in which the top of a tepee showed, a tall, handsome, soldierly-looking young man came forth, and leaning on his arm was a handsome young woman.

“Buffalo Bill, and your compadres, allow me to introduce to you Lieutenant and Mrs. Avery,” said the girl of mystery.

The lieutenant and his bride advanced rapidly to greet the scout and his pards, and general congratulations followed.

Mrs. Sherley came forward and was introduced, and soon announced that a luncheon, which had been prepared in anticipation of the event, was ready to be served.

And what a joyous occasion it was.

The young officer anxiously asked about everything at the fort, and was told of all the news, including the attack on the supply train.

Lieutenant Avery declared that he was well enough to go on duty now, and he would return to the fort as soon as the general would send horses.

The scout promised to convey the message, and said he would guide an escort to the Sacred Mountain for the officer and his wife.

“If there were any means of sending word to the fort we should be pleased to have Buffalo Bill and his pards remain with us until the Lieutenant and Mrs. Avery return,” said Miss Mona.

Cayuse promptly offered to take the message, but Buffalo Bill demurred, saying that he presumed it would be best for all to return to the fort, on account of the horses.

Little Moonbeam instantly overcame that objection by saying:

“In our farming operations Mrs. Sherley and I have had use for an Indian corn knife and secured one. With that we can easily cut grass here and carry it to the horses. The cavern at the outer end of the passage is large enough for all of them, and no roving band of Indians would find them there. If they did they would not dare touch them.

“Mrs. Sherley and I have lived here years, and the Indians have never as yet even discovered the cavern, although leaving offerings in the crevasse as often as once a month. Inside the cavern, covered with a flat rock, is a pool of pure water—and thus we have the dumb animals provided for.”

“We accept your hospitality, and if you will produce the corn knife we will proceed to feed the animals at once, so that Cayuse may be on his way early in the afternoon.”

The horses were led into the cavern and given water and grass. Then Nomad thought he had better stay with the animals, as he said:

“Fer fear that cantankerous ole sarpint ov er Hide-rack’ll git p’inted in ther wrong direction an’ cut loose ’th them weepins o’ hisn.”

Skibo “reckoned” he had best remain with Nomad, and so only the scout and Tootsie were left with the Averys and their hostesses.

After Cayuse had been gone some time Miss Mona invited the scout to accompany her to the top of the wall. Tootsie was asleep in the grass and the lieutenant and his bride had retired to their bower.

Far to the south could be seen Little Cayuse, jogging along toward the fort. The girl became greatly interested in the scout’s field glass, never having seen one before. She was delighted with the way it jumped Cayuse back a mile or so in his journey, and she laughingly exclaimed:

“What a trim little Indian he is! I can see his feather with the glass.”

Several miles to the westward a small herd of buffalo were feeding.

“A peaceful scene,” said the scout.

“Yes, and how great and desolate it is! Except for this little garden of Eden below, it is two miles to grass and water—yet I love it and hate to leave it, but——”

She paused and looked curiously at the scout.

“But what?” he asked.

“I want your advice,” she told him.

“I’ll give you the best I have in stock,” he said.

“I have had a glimpse of my own people and a dream of the great world beyond where I can see. They have told me of the wonders of the cities and the great schools of girls, where they learn so much that I yearn to know.

“I love this place and Mrs. Sherley is contented, but I feel as if there were something more in the world for us. I long for companionship of my own age—sweet girls who would put their soft arms around me and love me.

“Oh! Mr. Cody, when I think of these things it seems I cannot wait. And yet, where should I go and what should I do? Neither Mrs. Sherley nor I have a relative in the world of whom we know or can ever expect to find. What shall I do?”

The girl had worked her feelings up to the point of tears, when the scout interposed to give her opportunity to control herself.

“If you had means to go direct to some Eastern school, with Mrs. Sherley to accompany you and remain with you, it would be well enough for you to start out for an education; but the pitfalls of civilization, before a young lady of your beauty, are far more numerous and dangerous than those of the Bad Lands, because of the attractiveness of one and the repulsiveness of the other.”

The girl looked at him, not half understanding his meaning.

“There are thousands of men with much money and little honor who are on the watch for such innocents as you are. If you had friends with whom you could remain and attend school, Mrs. Sherley could readily find employment that would pay the way for both of you. Perhaps we can bring it about through the families of some of the military men. Keep up your courage and I will see what can be done; but I cannot allow this opportunity to pass and neglect to warn you, if you go out in the world, to be suspicious of everything, and place yourself under the guidance of an experienced and reliable female friend.”

He would have gone on, but the girl, whose eyes had fixed upon him in wrapt attention, turned away for a moment, and then she sprang up and extended her hands in mute greeting toward a pitiful little figure making its way across the plain toward them.

The scout instantly recognized the little daughter of Black Coyote.

“Poor little thing!” said the girl, with tears in her eyes and her heart full of pity. “Black Coyote is dead. He wished to die there where his tribe deserted him. He would not come here and the child would not leave him. I told her to come to me when the Great Spirit came for her father. She is coming.”

She watched the child for a moment, and turning to the scout, said:

“There are three of us now, but the case is not hopeless. I have much more to talk to you about to-morrow—or by this evening’s moonlight. Let us go down and meet Laughing Water.”

Buffalo Bill expected a detachment of cavalry would arrive the next forenoon, and gave himself over to keen enjoyment of this homelike retreat in the heart of an almost barren country. Here he could lie on the grass at evening and look up at the stars without the momentary expectancy of that charming visitor, the rattlesnake. Neither did he feel obliged to sleep with one eye open to guard against surprise by Indians. No sound of the howling coyote came to him here, and the odors of delicate flowers and pungent herbs tickled his nostrils.

And not the least of the attractions was the charming hostess, whose innocent, confiding nature appealed to all the real manliness in such men of honor as the famous scout. Mrs. Sherley, too—a motherly soul—sent Buffalo Bill back to childhood’s days. It had been a long time since the scout had felt so care-free and wholly at ease and peace.

Lieutenant Avery told to the scout the story of his fight and capture, and how Little Moonbeam had rescued them from the Indians. The lieutenant openly expressed his respect and admiration for the girl, and remarked to the scout his desire to aid in placing her in the advantages of an Eastern city, where she not only could go to school, but could study music, both vocal and instrumental.

“What of your people in the East?” the scout asked.

“They do not live in a city which furnishes the advantages this girl requires. But my wife’s people are ideally located. My wife and I have talked much of it in the last few days, but have not touched on the matter to the girl herself. So far as we knew she had no desire to leave this beautiful oasis.”

Until their pipes had gone out the scout and lieutenant discussed the girl’s future, which always included Mrs. Sherley and the little Indian maiden. They came to a very definite understanding, and promised to consider ways and means at a future sitting. In the meantime, Buffalo Bill would once more confer with the girl.

At noon the following day no party had come from the fort for Lieutenant Avery and his wife, neither had a messenger appeared.

The lieutenant was more or less chagrined. He had felt that the commander and his brother officers would be so glad to hear that he was alive that they would hasten to escort him back to the fort and hold a general jollification in his honor.

As night came on no one was in sight on the plain, so far as the scout’s field glass would reveal from the top of the butte.

Old Nomad had become uneasy and declared that something had gone wrong with Cayuse. He, Nomad, was for putting off to discover its meaning. He would go through to the fort and, if Cayuse had not arrived, search for the Piute pard.

The scout would not agree to this proposition, but decided to go himself to the fort, leaving the others at the sacred mountain, and telling them not to be uneasy if he did not return for several days. He expressed the utmost confidence in the ability of Little Cayuse to come out on top, but if the Piute had not reached the fort, he, the scout, should go into the mountains looking for the Indian pard. He still believed the Ogallalas had a village there and were conducting their raids from such a centre.

As soon as it was dark the scout mounted Bear Paw and set out. Before leaving he cautioned Nomad and Skibo to be watchful and keep close to the rocks until he returned, or an escort came for Lieutenant Avery.

It was a lonely night ride to the fort, but without adventure of any sort. Little Cayuse had not been seen. The scout told the general of the finding of Lieutenant Avery and his wife, and that the officer was fully recovered and ready to return to the fort.

The general was rejoiced at this piece of good news and promised to send horses and an escort at once.

But the scout’s work was just begun. What had become of Little Cayuse? He had no doubt that Indians were at the bottom of Cayuse’s disappearance, but how they had succeeded in capturing the wily Piute on the open plain puzzled the scout.

He resolved to sleep until daylight and then set out on a blind trail and trust to luck, or his intuitive bent toward a solution of such problems.

At sunrise a detachment of fifty cavalrymen, leading two extra horses, set out for the sacred mountain, Buffalo Bill and Hickok riding with them for a mile or two and then turning away toward the Big Horn range.

The scout and Wild Bill struck the mouth of the cañon previously referred to by Wild Bill in speaking to Captain Smith. On several occasions Hickok had suggested a ride to this cañon, but some excuse had been found by the captain each time to ride in another direction.

Hickok told Buffalo Bill, as they rode slowly on toward the mountains, all that he had learned from Captain Smith, and also of his suspicions aroused by certain incidents.

The previous evening an apparently old and decrepit Indian had come to the fort begging. He asked to see Captain Smith, as that officer had been generous to him at other visits. The captain was called, held a few moments’ low and hurried conversation with the beggar, gave the latter food and tobacco and something else that looked like a small missive, and then stalked back toward his quarters, swearing about “these Indian beggars.”

Wild Bill had quietly slipped out and followed the Indian, who became an active young buck the moment he was outside the fort, and in an arroyo half a mile away, mounted a pony and galloped toward the western hills.

The Laramie man believed the Indian had come for a message and had borne one to Captain Smith. He had also discovered enough to convince him that Captain Smith had arranged with the Indians to be on the watch for Lieutenant Avery and to see that he did not return to the fort. By Captain Smith’s own words he was glad Avery was out of the way. He had said, when slightly under the influence of liquor, that Avery was an upstart and wanted to ride over his superiors. But that he—Avery—had run against a snag when he attempted to ride over Price, the Indian agent.

Captain Smith’s version of the affair was that Avery had insulted a girl who was out walking with Price and the latter had knocked the officer down. Smith had received a letter from Price describing the situation and telling him that through Avery’s attempts the army was trumping up false charges against him—Price—and were trying to down him.

Hickok had apparently accepted Captain Smith’s version, not telling of his own experience with Price and the latter’s intimate association with Bloody Ike, the cutthroat. Hickok also learned that Captain Smith’s half-brother was an officer in the service along the Yellowstone. This half-brother had married Price’s sister and the Indian agent’s influence in former years had done much to promote his brother-in-law in the service.

“If Price escapes again we shall know to whom to look for an explanation,” said Buffalo Bill quietly.

“Precisely; and if there is any deviltry carried on here by the Indians that requires knowledge of the fort and troops we shall know pretty well who furnished the information,” returned Hickok.

“We are getting into a pretty rough country for horses,” said the scout presently.

“Yes; suppose we leave them in some secluded spot where they can feed, and proceed on foot?”

“I think that the best plan, and here is the place.”

They had arrived at the mouth of a little blind cañon, well hidden by evergreen growth. The horses were led beyond the fringe of green to a grassy plot and tethered there, the scouts removing the saddles and hiding them among the rocks.

The way became more difficult as they advanced until they were clambering up rock-bound heights, clinging to narrow ledges and scrubby cedars, far above the cañon.

It was yet early in the day and the pards thus far had seen neither Indians nor large animals of any species. Higher up and beyond appeared to be a barren and almost impassable waste of rock, with here and there a stunted cedar or pine finding footing. To the left hung an immense bald dome of granite, and hither they bent their steps.

Panting and weary from the hard climb they found themselves at an elevation overlooking a vast expanse of country, both mountains and the plains beyond. The fort was distinctly visible and with the field glass men and animals were easily distinguished. Far to the northward the square-topped butte, the home of the queen of the stars, was to be seen.

That which interested the pards more, at this time, was the character of country immediately surrounding them. They could follow the windings of the cañon until it ended in a precipitous wall above which lay a broad plateau. To them it looked as though by following the gorge to the end and climbing the wall of the cul-de-sac, the high land, which was heavily timbered and surrounded by peaks, might be reached with comparative ease. They wished now that they had continued up the cañon instead of leaving their horses.

As they were studying the walls of the cañon through their glasses, an Indian appeared among the trees at the edge of the plateau and began a descent into the gulch. Others followed rapidly until twelve had disappeared in the depths below the scout’s line of vision.

“The village is on that wooded mountain plain,” said the scout decisively, “and their horses are anchored in the cañon below. There is the seat of all the trouble in this part of the country.”

Little Cayuse’s trim figure sat astride the pinto Navi with all the pride of a king, as he rode out of view of the sacred mountain that afternoon.

Just now Little Cayuse was executing an important commission for Pa-e-has-ka, and the boy’s native pride in positions of trust bade him carry it out with celerity.

As he rode the Indian youth’s eyes constantly swept the plain, not from fear or nervousness, but from force of habit. Indeed, with Navi under him the boy felt that he had no cause to fear anything that stalked the plain, for Navi was tireless and as fleet as the wind.

But Cayuse had not foreseen all the events of the afternoon. As he gazed at a single white spot on the skyline he became convinced that it was a prairie schooner. It seemed to be moving west across his line of travel.

As it came nearer the young Indian could see that the wagon was drawn by four mules which were, apparently, driven by a woman. An Indian on a pony was riding in the wake of the wagon and seemed to be directing the course of this ship of the plains.

The wagon halted where the travelers’ line intersected that of Little Cayuse and waited for him to come up. Cayuse believed it to be a party of white emigrants who were looking for the fort and had missed the trail while attempting to travel at night.

The woman who was driving hailed the Piute as he drew near and asked:

“Where is Fort Phil Kearney?”

Cayuse pointed down the route he was pursuing.

“Will you show us the way?” the woman asked.

“Wuh,” answered the Piute, although he did not care to delay his own trip by bothering with the outfit.

A man in the interior of the big white wagon, and whose eyes Cayuse could see at an aperture in the canvas, said something in a low voice to the woman at the lines. She looked hard at Cayuse.

“What is your name, boy?” the woman asked.

“All same Little Cayuse,” he answered.

“What I thought,” said a gruff voice within.

The Indian who accompanied the outfit had ridden around the wagon and stopped near the Piute, when suddenly a double-barreled gun was poked out by the side of the woman and a man’s head and shoulders appeared, as he said:

“Hands up, Cayuse, and no monkey business. Take his arms and hitch his pony to yours, Slow Foot; then tie Cayuse’s feet together under his pony.”

Little Cayuse had not the slightest chance of escape against such treachery. The people he had mistaken for harmless travelers had proven banditti of a sort the Indian boy had never met. He could not imagine what these white people should want of him, especially if they were going to the fort, where he would be known and released on Wild Bill’s word.

The voice of the man inside had a familiar sound, but the Piute could not recall its owner. The voice of the woman was hoarse and strained, probably from shouting to the mules.

When Little Cayuse had been securely bound, the outfit moved ahead in the direction it had been pursuing—toward the mountains.

As they approached the mouth of a cañon a party of Indians rode out and, wheeling, galloped toward them. The Indian called Slow Foot rode on ahead, and after exchanging a few words with the leader of the party of a dozen warriors, they dashed away and the schooner entered the gorge.

For some distance the wagon bounced over the rocks and logs of the cañon and then all were told to dismount. The wagon was pulled into a thicket by the Indian, the man with whiskers, and the woman, who, Cayuse discovered, wore a woman’s garment and shaker bonnet over a man’s clothing and face.

The outfit passed as a frontiersman and his wife and household goods, wherever they met white people, and when they met reds the Indian guide explained to them that these were white refugees who were fleeing from their own people to take up their abode with the red brothers.

Little Cayuse could now see how he had been entrapped, but he was not yet able to understand how he came to be known and why he was wanted.

The party made its way up the bed of the cañon for probably three miles and then came to the end of it. They were confronted by a solid wall, probably one hundred feet high.

Near the end of the cañon was quite a growth of conifers, and behind this hedge a green little valley of swale land. Here a herd of ponies were tethered, and with these Navi and the mules were left.

Little Cayuse’s hands were tied behind him and one of the white men held the end of the lariat, as the quartette toiled up the side of the mountain. The one dressed as a woman had discarded that garb, after there was little or no danger of meeting white people.

At the top of the wall the rocks seemed to fall away for a few rods to a flat-bottomed timber land, under which the moss was soft and green. The growth was protected from the high winds by the surrounding peaks.

The Indian Slow Foot led the way through the shadowy forest, where only the sighing of the winds in the evergreens overhead and the twitter of birds in the branches could be heard. In that soft, green moss not the sound of a footfall was heard, and after they had passed the moss sprang back into place, leaving no trail. It was damp, and dark, and velvety; pleasing to the eyes and to the feet.

Cayuse, who had spent the most of his life on the plains, from Mexico to Montana, had never seen anything like this. It was much as he had pictured the happy hunting ground—cool, and soft, and free from alkali dust, with plenty of dark pools for water and fish, fat antelope to be seen among the trees, where the red men swung and smoked from moon to moon.

Far across this beautiful land of trees they at last heard the shouts of children and the barking of dogs. Ten minutes later they came upon a group of tepees and found themselves in an Indian village, where fat and lazy bucks lay smoking and enjoying the plunder taken from the white settlers and supply trains, and stolen from the forts; all this in addition to the bounty of the Great Father at Washington.

Preparation seemed to have been made for the two white men, and they were led direct to a tepee, where they proceeded to make themselves at home.

Little Cayuse was left bound in the care of a pair of braves, whose only notice of the young Piute was to sneer:

“Pai-ute! Ugh!”

Little Cayuse disdained to make reply. His captors were the hated Sioux. He could die without a murmur, if they tortured him, but he would not talk to them.

In a cleared space where the trees and stumps had been grubbed away, some sort of a dance was being held. Two circles had been formed around a mystery pole. The cowskin drums boomed, and men of deeds composed the inner circle in their war finery and with buffalo-horn dancing clubs.

These warriors shook their clubs at the outer circle and repeated their deeds of daring. When this was done the drums boomed again and the warriors of the inner circle marched up to the mystery pole and then suddenly sprang back and danced about it, part going one way and part the other.

The drums boomed once more and ceased and the dancing warriors began to chant. After a time these men took seats and the speechmaking began. At the end of each exploit related the drums were pounded furiously.

It was a sample day of the way these red men lived in luxury—according to the red man’s notion of luxury—on the loot wrung from the daring white men who were every day pushing the borders of civilization farther toward the setting sun, and opening a vast domain of wealth and happiness then infested by Indians and white pirates of the plains.

The sport becoming boisterous, the two white men came forth to witness the ceremonies. They had shed much of their outer garments, including the hair and beard which had been used for disguise, and Little Cayuse instantly recognized his old friends of the Gallatin Valley—Price, the Indian agent, and Bloody Ike, the ex-miner and blasting expert.

Cayuse now understood how he came to be known to them and why he was wanted by them. The Piute fully realized the seriousness of his situation and resolved to escape, even if by taking most desperate risks.

It did not take long for the scout and Hickok to decide to pay the wooded area among the mountain tops a visit. They were probably two hundred feet above the woodland, and hoped they could make their way down the side with ease.

It proved no easy task and the last lap was a hard one. At the edge of the woodland was a perpendicular drop, an unscalable cliff as far as they could discover entirely around that side of the great basin, varying in height from thirty to seventy feet.

Fortunately, when they had hidden the saddles, they had taken off their lariats, and retained them for possible use in mountain climbing.

They selected a spot where the evergreens grew close to the wall and the scout fastened one end of his lariat to a stout cedar and slid over the rim. He landed lightly in the moss at the base and then Hickok followed.

The lariat was left hanging for future use, and the pair, marking well the spot, set out on a tour of inspection. Their progress in the moist, springy moss was noiseless, but they realized that quick-eyed Indians on the watch could also move as noiselessly as they.

The pards traveled a rod or two apart and constantly scanned their surroundings. They were in the enemy’s country and it behooved them to exercise great caution.

At last the scout paused to listen. He had caught the sound of a human voice. It was far away across the forest, but it was unmistakably the call of a man.

The answer came and the pards stared at each other in amazement—the voice was that of a white man, and an American.

As the pards approached, the voices became more distinct, and at last they could distinguish words exchanged between two men who were some distance apart and carrying on a conversation. The men were busy at some labor, and presently the scouts made out that the strangers were picking boughs, probably for a bunk.

Buffalo Bill was surprised again that whites should be here and apparently so free from fear of interruption by red men.

“Who could they be?”

They might be miners, but this location must be at least two miles from the seams and gashes of the mountain rock, in any direction. They could not be mining in the centre of this deep, mucky soil that furnished food for a great forest.

The pards crept nearer, and at last, secreted behind evergreen shrubs, could see the men plainly.

Buffalo Bill rubbed his eyes, looked again, and then turned to glance questioningly at Hickok.

The Laramie man stared at the strangers, scratched his head, pulled out his field glass and tried to see them through it, and then turned to the scout.

Both looked again at the men who were bundling up their boughs to carry away. Buffalo Bill stole over toward his pard and Hickok hitched nearer the scout.

“Are my eyes on duty?” whispered the scout.

“They look all right to me, but I fear mine are out for a joke,” returned Hickok.

“Who do you call that pair?” asked the scout.

“Well, if my eyes ain’t lying and these woods are not playing the deuce with my think machine, I’ve been looking at that knave Price and his worse comrade, Bloody Ike. How do they look to you?”

“You’ve expressed my feelings,” said the scout. “Let’s follow them.”

It was an easy matter to trail Price and his partner to the Indian village without being discovered, for the two men seemed to have no thought of interruption.

Hiding in the thick evergreens for several hours the pards studied the village from all sides. They wished to know the strength of the camp and if they had any prisoners. Price and Ike moved about at will and might have owned the village, from all appearances.

The pards decided that the village contained about one hundred people—bucks, squaws, and papooses. With the party they had seen set out in the morning they believed there might be sixty warriors.

The camp was as peaceful as a country village on Sunday. None seemed to expect visitors or to care to exert themselves enough to do guard duty. They evidently considered that the guard in the cañon with the ponies was sufficient.

The camp was admirably located for summer and winter quarters, the forest breaking the cold winds and hot sun and furnishing abundant fuel, while water was convenient and plenty.

One tepee was guarded by two smoking, sleepy bucks, and securing a good position, Buffalo Bill waited patiently, hour after hour, for some one to pull aside the flap and reveal the interior.

At last Price himself appeared and, looking in, sang out:

“Well, Cayuse, you red dog, how do you like it? Guess Buffalo Bill himself can’t save you this time. These red brothers of yours are planning on a sort of Thanksgiving celebration, and you are to be the roast turkey. Never mind, though, Piute, when I see Cody I’ll tell him you cried like a spanked papoose and wanted to go home to ma.”

Price turned away, grinning, but if Cayuse made any reply it was so low that the scout could not hear it.

The pards withdrew, at last, to some distance from the village, where they could talk over what they had seen.

After comparing notes they decided to await darkness and once more visit the village. They had spent many hours in reconnoitring the camp, and night was at hand by the time they had paid their compliments to the haversacks.

The Indians seemed to have gathered around the camp fires between the rows of tepees to listen to the stories of the day’s hunt by the returned warriors. They had killed twenty buffaloes and had had a brush with a great army of pony soldiers.

The Indians had called at the sacred mountain to leave a tender young cow buffalo for the daughter of the moon, when they saw the pony soldiers approaching.

There were hundreds of the white warriors, according to their tale, and the red men had attacked them and slain many, but had escaped without a wound themselves. The white warriors were coming to make offering at the sacred mountain, the red men believed.

Price and Ike were present, and the former made a speech setting forth the valor and bravery of the red warriors, and telling them that the white men were becoming afraid of the Sioux braves and would be swept back across the great river and forever leave the plains for the Indians. He was cheered and the cowskin drums were beaten wildly.

But while this was going on Buffalo Bill and Hickok had not been idle. They readily selected the tepee in which Cayuse was confined, and a sharp knife running down through the buffalo skin back gave no sound that could be heard above the hubbub at the fires.

An Indian sat on either side of the front of the tepee, as they had done in the afternoon, but they were so engrossed with the performance as to be oblivious to the light sounds made by the scout as he entered the wigwam through the slit in the back.

The firelight shone in past the flap and revealed to the scout that Little Cayuse was not there.

At first the scout feared he had entered the wrong tepee, but he soon reassured himself by finding the thongs that had bound the Piute’s feet and hands.

Little Cayuse had made his escape from the village unaided, but whether he could manage to pass the guard at the head of the cañon before he was missed was another story.

The scout made haste to find Hickok and the two set out for the cañon, realizing that the moment the alarm was sounded that the prisoner had escaped from the tepee an attempt would be made to cut off his escape down the narrow, difficult trail to the cañon.

Every moment they expected to hear shouts of enraged savages behind them, and knew that in their hurried progress through the forest they were likely to step into the arms of warriors at any instant.

But they reached the incline that led up out of the wooded basin before the descent to the cañon begun, without incident. As they left the moss for the rocks they could see the top of the wall plainly outlined against the sky—and at that moment at the crest could be seen a crouching, silent figure just going over the rim.

“Cayuse,” spoke the scout in a low tone, and the figure paused, then slid back toward them.

It was the Indian pard, sure enough, and now there were three to steal down by the Indian guard in the cañon.

“Do you know how many bucks guard the ponies?” the scout asked of Cayuse.

“Me see t’ree; mebbe more, but me no see um.”

When the pards reached the foot of the trail there was some sort of a commotion among the ponies. They were kicking and fighting among themselves, and soon two Indians appeared with torches and clubs to quell the riot.

Buffalo Bill and Hickok stole around to that side of the opening to await the return of the Indians, and Cayuse went searching for another red man.

When the twain came back talking together, their torches gone out, they walked into two pair of powerful arms, and found their windpipes closed before they could emit a sound.

The struggle over, the Indians were bound and gagged and dragged to one side where they would be out of the way and not likely to be discovered.

About this time, at only a few rods distant, the scout heard a grunt of surprise followed by a heavy blow and a rustling in the underbrush. He approached cautiously and saw a dark form at work over another which was lying on the ground.

“S-s-t!” hissed the scout, and Cayuse answered in a low voice.

“Did you get him?” asked the scout.

“Wuh; him have Cayuse’s belt and knife. All same bump him head hard, no make um noise.”

This one, like the others, was gagged and tied up like a sheep for market, and dragged away.

Buffalo Bill was surprised that Cayuse’s absence at the village had not been discovered and an alarm sounded before this, but he determined to improve the opportunity.

“Can you find Navi in the dark?” he asked of Cayuse.

“Wuh; Navi smell Cayuse, come all same dog.”

“Good! Get your pinto as soon as possible and we will turn the others down the cañon.”

In another half hour the cavalcade of riderless ponies thundered out of the mouth of the cañon upon the plain, free for a time of all restraint, and bound to make the most of it until recaptured.

The scout and Hickok found their horses where they had left them, and were soon riding hard for the fort to bring a force to capture the village.

To Wild Bill fell the duty of leading a strong force of cavalry back to the cañon that night, while the scout and Little Cayuse galloped northward to relieve the anxiety of Nomad and Skibo on guard at the sacred mountain.

The Averys had been escorted back to the fort and properly serenaded by the soldiers and dined by the officers, but Nomad and Skibo stayed at their post, according to Buffalo Bill’s orders, and Tootsie remained with Mona and Mrs. Sherley.

The scout wished to confer with Mona again before he should leave that part of the country, and the excuse was thus presented.

Before the cavalry force set out, Wild Bill assured the scout that Price and Bloody Ike would come back with him, dead or alive, whether the Indians were brought in or not.

The sacred mountain was reached some time before daylight and Nomad and Skibo routed out to be told the news.

Until sunup the pards sat and smoked and discussed the events of the past few weeks. In some ways it had been one of the most remarkable of their exploits, but more real enjoyment had crept in with the danger and strife of the border life than either of the pards remembered on any previous expedition.

“Thet thar queen o’ ther stars is sweet an’ purty ’nuff ter make er man fergit thet he likes ter chase Injuns,” remarked Nomad by way of explaining his present peace of mind.

“Yah, yah! She am de sweetes’ li’l’ plum Ah ever seen in long dresses, ’cep’ li’l’ Miss Comfort down on de Popo-agie,” added Skibo loyally.

For once Nomad and Skibo agreed.

“What is Tootsie’s opinion of Miss Mona?” asked the scout.

“Ther lad is wishin’ he was ’bout ten y’ars older, I’ll bet Hide-rack ergin er grasshopper,” laughed Nomad. “Ther bye sticks to her like death to er dead coon,” he added.

Just then Tootsie’s bugle sounded from the top of the rock, and was followed by the merry laugh of the girl. The pards heard her exclaim:

“You beat me up the rocks, Tootsie, but you couldn’t do it after breakfast.”

“I could if Mrs. Sherley didn’t make the grub so good,” retorted the boy.

Buffalo Bill stepped out in view and whistled, and was at once greeted with merry shouts of welcome as the pair hurried away to the underground passage.

After Little Moonbeam had been told of the safe arrival at the fort of Lieutenant and Mrs. Avery, the scout went inside with the girl and Tootsie. There Little Moonbeam at once launched upon the subject nearest her heart.

She told the scout of a strange discovery she had made while at work in one corner of the newly cultivated garden. She had unearthed a quantity of what she believed to be pure gold, from its color and weight. She wished the scout to examine it and pass judgment.

Then the scout remembered the story told him by the general. He resolved, however, to make no mention of previous knowledge of the treasure.

It was gold, without doubt, and he told the happy girl so.

“Now I can go to school,” she cried, “and Mrs. Sherley and little Laughing Water with me, and Tootsie and his sisters and Buffalo Bill and his pards must come and visit us, and——”

She paused for breath and the scout laughed:

“You are a real girl, all right!”

“Well, why shouldn’t I be happy, when the good fairies have provided a way for me to gratify my greatest desire—to go to school?” she demanded.

“You should be happy, my dear child,” said the scout soberly. “And no one rejoices in your good fortune more than I. With my pards I shall be glad to escort you as far as Leavenworth on your way East. I think Lieutenant Avery and his wife will accompany you to the city where her parents live and arrange for your comfort and school course. The lieutenant will be granted a furlough to fully recover from his wounds.”

“Oh, Mr. Cody! You have been arranging all this for me and without knowing where the money was coming from to pay the bills!”

“Yes, I should have asked an appropriation from Congress to provide for your education as a victim of its charges, the red men.”

“How splendidly it has come about! Tootsie’s relatives also live in the East, and he thinks they may return next year.”

Thus they rejoiced for a time and then the scout said:

“My pards and I will return to the fort to give you time to make your final preparations to leave this place till your school days are over. Tootsie may remain if he wishes and can be of service to you. When shall we return with prairie schooner and cavalry escort for the ‘Queen of the Stars’?”

“In one week,” she answered promptly.

And so it was left for Buffalo Bill to make the final arrangements at the fort.

As it had been hoped, the Indians did not discover the loss of Little Cayuse, and were taken completely by surprise.

They were surrounded in their village and easily overcome at daylight. Some of the leaders were held prisoners, but the others sent back to the reservation.

Price and Bloody Ike were once more in the hands of the army with added charges hanging over them. It was learned eventually that they had escaped through the connivance of the brother-in-law of Price, who was also a half-brother of Captain Smith. The latter was dismissed from the army for the part he had played, and his half-brother was given two years in a military prison in addition to dismissal.

The former Indian agent did not escape this time, and served a long term in the penitentiary. There was not much that could be proven directly against Bloody Ike, but in an attempt to escape he was shot and killed by a soldier on guard.

Tootsie returned to make glad the hearts of his parents, after having derived much benefit from his association with Buffalo Bill and his pards.

The little Indian girl was taken East with Mona and Mrs. Sherley, and took up school work gladly and with the promise of rewarding her fair patroness by her good advancement and of eventually becoming a useful member of society.

THE END.

No. 129 of The Buffalo Bill Border Stories, entitled “Buffalo Bill’s Sure Guess,” is one of the most entertaining stories of the king of scouts, and gives the reader an insight into the wildest of wild Indian life.

FOOTNOTE: