CHAPTER VI.

IN THE ENEMY’S CAMP.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Buffalo Bill’s face blushed with joyous excitement.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But presently he smiled, and began rolling a cigarette.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Darke is dead, Hickok.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“As how?” inquired the other.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Soon a staggering form was outlined between the tree shadows.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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