CHAPTER XI.

AN OLD FRIEND REAPPEARS.

The two old-time partners and fellow scouts and Indian fighters grasped hands, Wild Bill’s knife having quickly cut the thongs that had held the prisoner’s wrists. After the handclasp, the king of scouts was given the use of his feet.

Before entering upon an explanation, Wild Bill issued an order to three of his Indians and they immediately set out to find Thunder Cloud and convey him to the cliff.

“Now,” said Wild Bill, after the Comanches had departed, “I’ll try to satisfy your curiosity.”

Buffalo Bill, seated on the couch of skins and smoking a fine cigar, nodded. “You are in a curious position,” he said. “I can’t imagine how you got into it.”

“Accident, Cody, put me where I am. I had been hunting over on the Continental Divide when, unluckily, I provided myself with a badly sprained ankle. I couldn’t travel, and I believe I would have starved to death if one of the Yelping Crew had not seen and come to my rescue. The band was far away from their stamping ground—they had been out hunting like myself—and so I was brought here. Their chief was dead, and there was no one in the band capable of leading them. Some of them knew me by reputation, and when I was well enough to get about, what do you think? I was asked to become the chief, pro tem.”

“Pro tem?” repeated Buffalo Bill. “Why not permanently?”

“Because there was a Comanche in the line of succession. The fellow was in Mexico, and a messenger had been sent there to notify him that he could be chief of the Yelpers if he cared to undertake the job.”

“You accepted—your position here shows that, Hickok. But what induced you to do so?”

“A desire to assist the United States government. The Apaches are giving trouble again, and the soldier boys are having hard work to find them. Now, my Yelpers know all the Apaches’ holes, and they are the sworn enemies of the Apaches. Already we have had one brush with the enemy, and it was a win-out.”

“Why have you not descended on Black-face Ned and his gang?”

“For the very good reason that none of the gang were in this neighborhood until two days ago. We are now preparing to light down on the murderous outfit and wipe it off the face of the earth.”

Buffalo Bill, having heard Wild Bill’s explanation, astonished the tall border fighter by telling him of the abduction of pretty Sybil Hayden and the events of the past twenty-four hours.

“We must move just as soon as my Yelpers get back with Thunder Cloud,” said Wild Bill resolutely. “I’ll make Thunder Cloud tell me where the outlaws are, and if we don’t give them a hot surprise, I’ll resign my job and go to herding squirrels.”

Before the expiration of an hour the three Comanches returned. The Apache chief was not with them. They had found the camp of Buffalo Bill, but it was deserted.

“Rescued by Black-face Ned,” was Buffalo Bill’s sour comment. “I half expected it.”

In answer to questions put by Wild Bill, the spokesman of the trio stated that two white men had gone away from the camp with Thunder Cloud. The trail had been followed for a mile. There it ended on the sandy shore of the creek.

“Took to the water,” said Wild Bill understandingly. “Never mind. We’ll find them, for I have trailers who can match any Hualapi that ever ate rattlesnakes.”

“Better send out your trailers at once,” suggested Buffalo Bill. “If Black-face Ned’s force is small, he is on the retreat. The Apaches have probably told him about their enemies, the Yelping Crew; and he won’t likely desire to try conclusions with you.”

“All right.”

The trailers were dispatched on their mission, and pending their return the two scouts had a talk with the captured outlaws.

Flag-pole Jack was almost stupefied with amazement when Wild Bill, with face exposed, entered the room, followed by the released king of scouts.

But Shorty Sands showed no surprise. Neither did he seem pleased.

“I shore tumbled to your game,” he said to Wild Bill, “when you failed to wipe out Cody when he was whar he couldn’t play a hand.”

“How many men has Black-face Ned at his command?” demanded Wild Bill, with his eyes on Flag-pole Jack.

“Ernuff ter wipe out your measly outfit, you kin bet yer boots on that,” was the surly answer.

“Then he must have a mob of Apaches with him?”

“He’s got Thunder Cloud’s band, an’ thar’s more’n fifty of ther reds.”

“You lie, Jack,” put in Buffalo Bill sternly. “If the Indians were with Ned early this morning, one of them, a brave, would have been detailed to scout my camp. As it was, Thunder Cloud was the scout. That’s not the office for a chief, and you know it.”

The outlaw grinned, and Shorty Sands laughed outright.

“What do you find that is funny about this business?” said the king of scouts, with a frown.

Flag-pole Jack looked at his companion. Sands nodded, and then the tall outlaw replied: “You ain’t on to the sitivation, Cody. I’ll put you in line. When Black-face Ned struck the hole of his old pards, me’n Shorty an’ Bat Wason—you ain’t seen Bat yet, but yer likely ter meet up with him afore long—thar wa’n’t no Injuns thar. They was camped five miles beyond. See? Well, yesterday Thunder Cloud, all by his lonesome, meanders inter ther hole. He sees ther gal what Ned is a-herdin’, an’ he corrals her name. Jumpin’ Jiminetty, but you orter seen him when he heerd it war ‘Hayden.’ The kunnel was onto his black list, you wanter understand. Right away he ’lowed that Hayden war not fur away. ‘In course,’ said he, ‘he’ll follow you, Ned, an’ I wonder that you ain’t had scouts out a-safeguardin’ your retreat.’

“Ned sniffed, an’ said he wasn’t worryin’ any erbout a pursuit by ther kunnel. But Thunder Cloud stuck to his guns. He induced Wason ter trot to ther Apache camp an’ tell ther reds ter hike up ter Ned’s hole, an’ yarly this mornin’, afore the Indians appeared, ther chief lit out fer ther desert. Now, yer have it,” concluded the speaker. “Ther Injuns aire with Ned now, an’ Thunder Cloud at ther head of ’em with blood in his eye.”

Buffalo Bill was disturbed by this statement. His eyes sought Wild Bill’s. The same thought was in the mind of each.

Without a word, Wild Bill turned, left the room, and, going to one of the cliff openings, looked out into the ravine.

Buffalo Bill was at his side when he said: “If that scoundrel told the truth, and I think he did, Black-face Ned will not run away. He will hunt us.”

As he spoke, there came the report of several shots. The firing was about half a mile away down the ravine toward the cañon.

“My scouts have bumped against a scouting party from the enemy,” remarked Wild Bill. “I’ll wait five minutes, and if I don’t see my Indians, I’ll start out with all my force.”

“Bad plan,” replied Buffalo Bill, with a shake of the head. “You might fall into a trap. Better get the lay of the land before starting. I have another, and I think a more sensible, scheme. I’ll go out alone. The bushes are thick in the ravine, and I have been on the plains and in the mountains long enough to know how to work. I shan’t try to get on the trail to the cañon, for that would bring me into the zone of danger. No, I’ll take to the high ground, and try to spy out the location of the enemy without exposing myself as your Comanches must have done.”

Wild Bill tried to dissuade his old partner from undertaking the work, but Buffalo Bill was determined, and at last Wild Bill gave in.

“But you’ll understand this,” the latter said, with lips set in grim determination: “If you fail to show up in an hour, out I go and all my Yelpers with me.”

Five minutes went by, and there was no sign of the Comanche scouts. There had been no more firing, and the king of scouts concluded that the Comanches had either been killed or taken prisoners.

Wild Bill saw his comrade go down the shaft to the ground entrance, and there was a cloud on his brow when he turned from the windlass and spoke to the Comanches who had been taking in the scene with puzzled countenances.

Not far from the cave entrance to the cliff habitations the ravine narrowed so that passage along it was beset with danger. The banks were steep and high, and climbing would be slow and difficult work.

Buffalo Bill was too wise to attempt a journey through this narrow pass. Instead, he went up the hill where the ravine was wide, and did not stop until he had reached the summit.

Here the trees were few and scattered, and to go on with an approach to safety he must flatten himself on the ground and work forward like a snake.

He was making good progress, and was approaching ground where huge bowlders took the place of trees, when his quick ear caught the sound of a muffled groan in front of him, and not far away. In an instant he was concealed behind a large rock.

The groan was repeated, and the scout, peering round the rock, saw an Indian crawl into view not ten yards away. His face was contorted with pain, and when he stopped and began to nurse one of his ankles, an explanation of the groaning seemed to be afforded.

Seemed to be, for Buffalo Bill was not quite satisfied as to the genuineness of the Indian’s sufferings. Perhaps the Indian, who was an Apache, had seen the king of scouts and had resolved upon a ruse to make victory over the white enemy an easy one.

So Buffalo Bill waited, and he smiled when, after a few moments, the Apache stretched himself at full length upon the summit and let out a groan that could have been heard a quarter of a mile away.

The king of scouts, still smiling, picked up a stone of good size, and, watching his chance, flung it with all his force at the Indian’s head.

The aim was a true one. The stone struck the Apache on the ear, and he jumped to his feet as if he had been on springs.

For one short moment he looked toward the rock where Buffalo Bill was hidden, and then hastily retreated to the shelter of another rock a few feet from where he had fallen.

The king of scouts could have shot the Indian while he was standing, but for many reasons he had not used his revolver. A shot might bring on a force of Apaches, who were probably close at hand. But Buffalo Bill resolved that the Indian should not leave the summit to report what he had encountered.

Assured that stereotyped devices to deceive the Apache would not work, the king of scouts determined upon a course of flanking.

With the large rock as a screen, he backed away until he reached a cut in the ground that extended diagonally for several hundred yards.

Crawling in a direction that would bring him sidewise to the rear of the rock behind which the Apache was concealed, he reached the end of the cut, and then cautiously lifted his head and looked toward the Indian’s place of shelter.

To his surprise and annoyance the Indian was not there.

Soon a light broke in upon his understanding. The Apache was as wise as he, and had tried the same game.

Back along the cut the king of scouts hurried, and was nearly at the point from which he had entered the depression when he saw the Indian’s head projected from behind a mesquite bush that grew on one side of the cut.

Quick as a flash, Buffalo Bill was out of the cut and behind the rock that shortly before had sheltered him.

The Apache had not had time to fire, and the king of scouts, immensely relieved at the circumstances, looked out to find that the Indian had withdrawn from a position of danger, and was nowhere to be seen. But it was apparent to Buffalo Bill that the cunning enemy was behind one of the bowlders near the cut.

The situation in one sense was to the liking of the famous Indian fighter. He was anxious at this time to avoid a commotion that would bring down upon him a mob of savages, for a fight then and there, even if it resulted in the scout’s escape, might prevent a descent upon the camp of Black-face Ned and his Indian allies.

If the Apache could be captured or put out of the way without noise, the scout might pursue his journey under favorable auspices. And the Indian must be rendered powerless for harm, the king of scouts resolved, and so he welcomed the approaching battle of wits.

For some time no move was made by either white or red man. One thing was in Buffalo Bill’s favor: The Apache could not leave his hiding place to reach either the cut or the rocks on the other side of the scout without being observed.

On the other hand, Buffalo Bill could go forward toward the destination he had set out to make without exposing himself. He resolved to do this in the hope that he would be able to bring the Apache out of cover and to a point from which an attack could safely be made.

Without noise, he backed to the rock originally used by the Apache, and from that to another, and so on until he had placed himself a quarter of mile beyond the Apache’s station.

Here in a hollow, between two bowlders whence he could command a view of the country in all directions, he waited for what was to come.

For ten minutes he waited in vain. Then he saw the Indian crawl out of the cut and throw himself on the ground and listen for sounds.

Hearing nothing and evidently puzzled, he crept to the rock that had been his hiding place after Buffalo Bill had thrown the stone, and a low exclamation escaped him as his eyes fell upon the scout’s prints in the sand.

Now he proceeded with the utmost circumspection to follow the trail the white enemy had left.

Buffalo Bill knew the Indian was coming, and smiled, for before taking his position between the bowlders he had been shrewd enough to cover his trail. He had left the prints of hands and feet in the sand up to a point of a few yards to the right of the two bowlders. The prints terminated at the side of a single bowlder that stood in front of a stunted tree.

The tree was provided with a few live limbs, one of which hung over the hollow between the two bowlders. Buffalo Bill had used this limb to reach the hollow, and he was well satisfied with the ruse when he saw the Apache halt near the bowlders by the tree and look curiously at the plain trail in the sand.

A moment he stood in full view, and then walked straight for the hollow that concealed the enemy.

The king of scouts had not been expecting a move of this kind, but he made no attempt to retreat. He believed that the Indian was unaware of his presence in the hollow, and, therefore, resolved to give the foe the surprise of his life.

The Apache, a tall, fine specimen of his tribe, was within a few feet of the hollow when Buffalo Bill jumped up, gave a spring, and had the redskin by the throat before that surprised aborigine had time to realize what had happened. And now ensued a struggle that called into play all of Buffalo Bill’s resources of mind and muscle.

The Apache was powerful, supple, and as slippery as an eel. He had his adversary about the waist, and, in spite of the terrible pressure about his windpipe, his grasp tightened until the king of scouts thought that his ribs would collapse.

But the end came in a manner that neither combatant had anticipated. In moving about, the Apache’s foot struck a stone, and in tumbling his hold on Buffalo Bill was relaxed. In an instant he was lying on the ground, and the scout was sitting on his chest.

The fall had partly stunned the Indian, and he was soon placed so that further resistance was impossible.

When ready for a renewal of hostilities, he discovered to his rage and disgust that his hands were tied.

“If you raise your voice to call your fellows,” whispered the king of scouts, in the Apache tongue, “I’ll kill you. Understand?”

“Heap understand,” was the hoarse reply.

“Where are your comrades?” asked the victor, with a menacing expression.

“No know.”

“Where were they when you set out to scout the summit?”

“In the cañon of the Hualapis.”

“That’s down below where I had my camp, isn’t it?”

The Apache nodded.

“Are your fellow braves and Black-face Ned’s outlaws going to attack the Yelping Crew?”

“Maybe.”

“I see. You wish first to learn how large a force the Wolf Faces are able to muster.”

“Thunder Cloud desires no fight with the Yelping Crew. If the chief of the Yelpers will release the white men he has captured, Thunder Cloud will withdraw from these hills.”

“Meaning Flag-pole Jack and Shorty Sands, eh?”

“Yes.”

“Were you on your way to the cliff dwellings when you ran afoul of me?”

“No, I was afraid a white man who escaped from the castle this morning.”

Buffalo Bill received this statement with great satisfaction. Of course, the escape was Colonel Hayden.

“Escaped from the castle,” he said. “Is that the name of the Apache stronghold in these parts?”

The Apache shook his head. “No, the white friend of Thunder Cloud holds the place. He calls it the castle.”

In this conversation no attempt is made to use the precise language of the Indian. The Apache language was used, and a fair translation into English is given.

“What is this castle? And where is it? You might as well come out with the whole truth, for you are at my mercy, and my motto is ‘death to liars, especially if they be Apaches.’”

The Indian was unmoved by this speech. His face was stolid as he replied: “Greathead will not lie, because the mighty white scout will find no one at the castle. Black-face Ned has deserted it. He has gone to another retreat.”

“Gone without attending to the Yelping Crew? Without trying to rescue Flag-pole Jack and Shorty Sands?” Buffalo Bill gazed incredulously at the Indian.

“He has gone with the white maiden, but he has left behind Thunder Cloud and the white man who is called Wason to manage the affair with the Comanches.”

“How about my affair? Does he not know that I am in these hills?”

“No. Who was to tell him?”

“That’s right,” said the king of scouts to himself. “Jack and Sands couldn’t, for they were captured just after they clapped eyes on me. Hold on, though. There is Thunder Cloud. He knows I am here.” Again addressing Greathead, he said: “Your talk won’t wash. Thunder Cloud must have told Ned that I am here.”

“The chief did not see his white friend when he returned to the castle. Black-face Ned had gone. He left with the white maiden shortly after Thunder Cloud set out to scout the camp of the white maiden’s father.”

“Ah, that explains it. So the colonel escaped. When did he get away? Before Black-face Ned took his departure for another stamping ground?”

“The white maiden’s father has not escaped,” replied the Indian calmly. “Greathead did not say that he had done so.”

Buffalo Bill exhibited the greatest astonishment. “Not the colonel?” he said. “Then who was the white prisoner who escaped?”

“A blame’ long-nosed idjut whose handle used ter be Allen,” said a grunting voice behind the king of scouts.

Buffalo Bill turned and saw a tall, ungainly figure, with a long face, a hawklike nose, and two keen, snappy eyes, and his voice rang out in a glad cry: “Alkali Pete! Of all men in the world.”

The old plainsman, who had been in many campaigns with the king of scouts, was so delighted at the meeting that he opened his mouth in a grin that exposed a cavern of enormous size. This cavern was surrounded by yellow tusks, with such an irregular alignment as would have brought a sigh from any dentist in the land.

“Mortally s’prised ter see ther old man, aire ye?” he said, with a chuckle. “Ther s’prise is muchal. I no more expected ter run inter ye, Buffler, than I expected ter be persented ter ther Queen uv Maddygoosker.”

“But what are you doing in Arizona? I thought you had settled down in Kansas or Illinois, and was occupied in raising a family of Alkalis.”

“I hev settled down, Buffler,” replied the ungainly scout, with a sigh, “but this year I hankered arter ther old life. I shore told my wife that I must hev a mounting outing, or else I’d go plumb crazy. She reasoned with me, but it wa’n’t no sorter use. I war bound ter go, an’ hyer I be, stanch, loyal, an’ true, like a pig’s foot in mush.”

“Same old Alkali,” laughed Buffalo Bill.

“Erbout ther same, but not quite. My feet shore got tender a bit while I was cahootin’ with them innercent rickaroons that raise corn an’ mortgages along ther Missourah.”

“I understand. You wouldn’t have fallen into the hands of the Apaches if you had come out here with your wits rodeoed.”

“That’s a plumb true remark, Buffler,” rejoined Alkali Pete sadly. “I was too fresh when I hit these yer hills. I hed reckoned that ther ’Paches would let an honest white man alone. I hedn’t hearn that they hed been puttin’ on the war paint ag’in.”

“How were you captured?”

“How?”—in deep disgust. “Why, when I war snoozin’ on ther bank of ther crik on t’other side of those hills. Hed been huntin’, and hed killed a b’ar an’ two deer. War powerful tired, an’ while I war sleepin’ ther sleep that innercence only is shore acquainted with, ther ’Paches crope up and corralled me ez easy as if I war a lost babby. Shucks! it shore makes me dumgasted weary when I recollects how I war taken in.”

“Were there any white men among the Indians?” inquired Buffalo Bill.

“Nary a one. They war all ’Paches, an’ that old thief, Thunder Cloud, war ther leader. Ther capture happened a month ago, an’ I war with ther reds, moseyin’ hither an’ yon up ter a couple o’ days ago, when we hot-footed it fer ther castle.”

“The castle? I have heard of the place, but I don’t know where it is, and I have no idea what it looks like.”

“It’s a stone fort at the head of a valley, Buffler. Thar aire trees all round it, an’ I reckon it war built in ther year one by ther Azticks or ther Woodsticks, or some other tribe of flat-headed mavericks.”

Buffalo Bill slapped his thigh. “I know the place now,” he said. “I was there years ago. No one lived there then. The plainsmen called it the Palace of Adam.”

“Hed an idee that Adam lived thar onct, did they?”

“Perhaps. I never asked them. Come, let us talk fast. There is work to be done. How long did you stay in the castle?”

“Didn’t stay thar a minute. The Injuns camped outside, an’ this mornin’ I shore bade ’em farewell. I played possum onto ther thievin’ outfit, an’ believin’ I war sick ernuff ter peter, they made my cords easy ter bear. They made ’em so easy, Buffler, that I beat ’em an’ got away.”

“Did you know when you left the Indians that Black-face Ned and his band were in the castle, and that there were two white prisoners there—Colonel Hayden and his daughter Sybil?”

Alkali Allen blinked his eyes. “Never knowed anything erbout outlaws or prisoners. Ye shore hev got a story ter tell. Out with it.”

Buffalo Bill complied. He spoke hurriedly, and his tale caused the lanky plainsman to exhibit the most intense astonishment.

“Well, I’ll be eternally obfusticated an’ fried inter goose grease ef this don’t beat ther Dutch, an’ ther Dutch beat ther devil,” he ejaculated. “Wild Bill hyer a cahoodlin’ with ther Comanches, an’ you, Buffler, outer as purty a case as you ever tackled. I’ll take a hand myself. I’m mortal glad I kem ter Arizony. Aire ye ready ter mosey? Ef ye aire, take ther lead, an’ I’ll come a-trottin’ arter ye.”

Buffalo Bill considered the situation thoughtfully. After a few moments, he said: “I must go on alone. I will give you a job that ought to be to your liking. I lost one Indian this morning. I don’t wish to lose a second one. I want you to take Greathead here to the cliffs and deliver him over to Wild Bill. Having done that, go out and keep an eye on the trail leading to the cliff. Maybe the Indians are already marching against the Yelpers. I’ll scout about the castle, find out who is there, ascertain if Greathead told the truth when he asserted that Black-face Ned had left, and then I’ll hurry back to take part in the fight between the Apaches and the Comanches.”

Alkali Pete nodded, and when he had gone from sight, with the Indian in tow, the king of scouts continued his journey toward the haunt of the enemy.

The route he took would bring him to the farther end of the valley that held the stone fortification.

He was not obliged to use the cañon in which he had camped, and he hoped by moving in a direction opposite to that the Apaches would have to take to reach the cliff dwellings that he might meet with no obstructions.

Among the rocks on a ridge that overlooked the little valley he halted, and for some minutes listened for sounds and looked for signs of life in or about the stone structure.