BUFFALO BILL FALLS INTO A TRAP.
In reaching his position, the king of scouts had covered his trail as
far as was possible for him to do so. But he knew that the only effect
of his precaution would be to delay the arrival of the four Navahos who
had been sent out to run him to earth.
At the most, he had half an hour in which to continue his retreat or
make an effort to regain the ground he had lost at the cabin.
Circumstances had compelled him to relinquish an advantage, but his mind
was made up not to leave the flat until he had had another accounting
with the murderer of Matt and Jared Holmes.
He realized that the odds were against him, but the fact did not alter
his determination. “If only Bart Angell had lived,” he said sorrowfully
to himself, “the work would be easy. With him for support, I could rush
that cabin and have Rixton Holmes by the heels in a twinkling.”
A rifle shot from the direction of the ravine brought an expression of
amazement to his fine face. Upon the sound of the report, Raven Feather,
who a moment before had stepped into the cabin, came out accompanied by
Rixton Holmes. Their eyes met, and one thought was in the mind of each.
The Indian trailers had come upon Buffalo Bill and shot him. No other
theory was permissible, for, if the shot had been fired by the king of
scouts, there would assuredly have come an answering report.
The chief and his white employer stood a moment, listening, and then,
hearing nothing, Raven Feather spoke rapidly to the braves who had
remained with him at the cabin.
As they made for the bushes, Buffalo Bill saw to his relief and
satisfaction that Holmes and Raven Feather were moving toward the door
of the cabin. He waited until they had entered, and then stole quickly
across the space that separated him from the little building.
His movement was not observed, for the one window of the cabin was on
the other side. A slight noise in his rear caused him to turn his head
just as he was about to step in front of the doorway and cover the
enemies within.
What he saw brought a light of joy to his eyes.
Bart Angell, in the flesh, stood on the spot the king of scouts had left
but a few moments before. His rifle was in his hand, and, though his
face was bloody, he held himself erect, and seemed ready for any
emergency.
Buffalo Bill put his finger to his lips, pointed toward the cabin door,
and then wheeled, took a few steps, and brought his revolvers to bear
upon the Indian chief and Rixton Holmes.
The white villain and his savage ally were taken completely by surprise.
Holmes was sitting on the bunk, and Raven Feather squatted on the floor
in front of him.
“One yell from either of you,” the king of scouts hissed, “and I shoot.
Hands up!”
As he spoke, Bart Angell appeared by his side. The chief’s copper
countenance twitched once, and then became stolid. With the stoicism of
his race, he had quickly accepted the situation. But Rixton Holmes was
of different metal. He groaned, and then began to curse.
While the king of scouts held the pistols, the stalwart backwoodsman
quickly and deftly bound the limbs of the two victims.
The operation over, Buffalo Bill asked: “How many foes have we got to
face? Half an hour ago there were eight Navahos. Four went out on hunt
for me, and afterward three left to see what had become of the four.”
“I reckon that three will be erbout ther number,” replied Angell, with a
slight smile.
“I thought so, Bart. You met the four, and——”
“Wiped ’em out. Yes, that war ther ticket. I had ter, Cody.”
“Of course”—with a look of appreciation. “But the story will have to be
deferred. We must settle with the three who are out.”
“I don’t berleeve they’ll mosey back hyer,” was Angell’s comment.
“They’ll shorely find ther four dead bodies, an’ they’ll naterally
conclude that you hev made tracks fer ther cabin, fer, in course,
they’ll think as how you war ther slayer.”
“Maybe you are right, Bart.”
“You stay hyer a spell an’ I’ll prove I’m right. Ef ther three aire
hot-footin’ it fer ther plains I’ll soon know, an’ waltz back an’ tell
ye.”
Angell went off, following the route taken by the savage trio.
He was out of hearing when it occurred to Buffalo Bill that the three
Indians might retreat to the cave spoken of by Raven Feather where Myra
Wilton was hidden a prisoner, with the chief’s brother Crow-killer as
guard.
If this should prove to be the case, Angell might not be able to return
as soon as he had hoped when he set out.
It was probable that he knew nothing about the cave, for if he had, he
would assuredly have spoken of it. Somewhat uneasy in mind, the scout
lit a pipe and began to smoke.
Observing his sober face, Rixton Holmes said maliciously: “You are not
feeling very well, in spite of the fact that you have turned the tables
on me. I’ll bet a hat your pard doesn’t come back. He has played in luck
twice, but he’ll miss it on the third trial.”
“His coming here in the nick of time showed you up as the champion
liar,” returned the king of scouts sharply. “You said you had killed
him.”
“And I thought I had,” was the calm reply. “He was lying on the ground
up the ravine, looking at something below, when I stole up, used my
knife, and tumbled him over the bank. I saw him go plunging down a
hundred feet or more, landing in a clump of bushes.”
“He’s a hard man to kill,” said Buffalo Bill, as he blew a cloud of
smoke into the air, “and he won’t miss this last trick. When he returns,
the girl will be with him.”
“Do you care to make a small bet on that proposition?” asked Holmes, a
queer look on his face.
The king of scouts regarded the villain curiously. “You think you know
something that I have not yet discovered,” he said. “It’s about the
cave, I am sure.”
“Yes, it is about the cave, Cody. Your expression assures me that you do
not know where this cave is. It would be surprising if you did. I am
acquainted with this section as well as the next man, and yet I did not
know until yesterday that there was a cave in these parts.”
“I’ll have to acknowledge that I don’t know where the cave is located,”
replied the king of scouts, “but that fact does not prevent me from
thinking that Bart Angell will find it. He is as good a trailer as a
Navaho, and he’ll follow the redskins to the cave if, as I believe, they
have gone there.”
Rixton Holmes shook his head. “You don’t understand the layout, Cody.
The trail will be lost long before your partner gets within a half mile
of the cave.”
“Well,” said Buffalo Bill resignedly, “if Bart fails to find the hole,
he’ll come back, and then we’ll put our heads together and try to solve
the riddle.”
Holmes made no reply, but he winked at Raven Feather, who during the
conversation had been gazing placidly at the rafters of the roof.
Buffalo Bill began to grow uneasy. He did not like the attitude of his
prisoners. It was evident that they did not look upon their situation as
serious. It was also evident that they were expecting assistance. From
whom could it come? He puckered his lips in an effort to reach a
solution of the cheerful demeanor of Holmes and the chief. Ah, the
explanation of the situation was at hand. The prisoners expected help
from Crow-killer, the chief’s brother. The three Indians would reach the
cave and tell Crow-killer what had happened and what they feared.
Crow-killer, more shrewd and intelligent than the three braves, would
conclude that the slayer of the four Navahos would go to the cabin and
attack the chief and the white man, Holmes. If he succeeded in this
venture, then he would likely take the trail to find the girl. He was
now, in all probability, on the way to the cave. Good; for while he,
Buffalo Bill, the mighty warrior, was following the trail of the three
braves, Crow-killer and the braves would be hurrying to the cabin by
another route.
Thus reasoned the king of scouts, but his satisfaction over his
deductions did not last long. He called to mind the remark of Holmes
that Bart Angell would not return. The remark carried the implication
that he would be ambushed somewhere on the way to the cave.
“Hang it,” muttered the scout, in marked vexation, “I wish I could guess
what is going on outside of this cabin.”
Rixton Holmes spoke up at this juncture. “I would like to tell you a
story, Cody,” he said, with a half chuckle. “It is pretty long, but it
will serve to make the time pass pleasantly while you are waiting for
your pard. A few years ago——”
“Cut it,” interrupted the perturbed king of scouts as he walked to the
door. “I can guess what your object is. You want to keep me here in this
room so that Crow-killer can get a bead on me when he comes. I won’t
have it so. I am going to leave for a few minutes.”
The smile departed from Rixton Holmes’ face. The announcement did not
please him. A terrible fear gripped him when Buffalo Bill continued
coolly: “I shall not go far. I shall not go out of sight of the cabin.”
He paused, looked at the prisoners, intercepted a glance between them,
and then, to their manifest discomfiture, walked over to them and
proceeded to gag them.
Now, satisfied that they were powerless for harm, he went out of doors
and entered the brush. Along the trail he went until the steadily rising
ground brought him to a point whence he could command a view of both the
ravine and the flat.
For more than an hour he remained at his post, and was becoming alarmed
as well as impatient at the nonappearance of either Bart Angell or
Crow-killer, and his party, when he saw emerging from the ravine at the
southern end of the flat the forms of three Indians. By the aid of his
pocket field glass he was able to identify Crow-killer as one of the
trio. The brother of the Navaho chief was a giant in size, and the king
of scouts had heard of his prowess in battle, and also of his cunning
and audacity. The scout had never before been placed in a position where
he could try conclusions with the redoubtable savage, and he was not ill
pleased because an opportunity had at last arrived.
He watched the Indians, saw that they were not coming in his direction,
but were cautiously making their way across the flat so as to come upon
the cabin along the route the king of scouts himself had taken but a
short time before, and then he crept quickly and noiselessly back to the
building.
Entering, he assured himself that the prisoners were as he had left
them, and then he went out again.
A few rods from the door was a pile of logs which the owner of the cabin
had cut for firewood.
Behind the pile Buffalo Bill hastened to conceal himself, and there
awaited the coming of his savage enemies.
Fifteen minutes went by, and then the watcher detected a movement among
the bushes on the other side of the flat and nearly opposite his hiding
place. He used his field glasses, and soon discerned the head of an
Indian. The head was within rifle range, and the scout’s first impulse
was to fire. But sensible, second thought induced a different program.
If he fired and killed one of the savages, the others would likely take
themselves out of harm’s way, to give trouble in the near future. No, it
were best to wait and secure the chance to either slay or bag the trio.
Expecting that the Navahos would soon make for the cabin, Buffalo Bill
was disappointed and perplexed when many minutes passed and no such move
was made.
The head disappeared, and it was apparent that Crow-killer and his
braves had retreated farther into the bushes.
It might be that they intended to go around the flat and approach the
cabin from the other side. Or the delay in coming to the cabin might be
attributed to caution. Crow-killer did not know where the scout was. He
might be in the cabin, and he might be out searching for Bart Angell.
“I reckon I know what is bothering Crow-killer,” said the king of scouts
to himself. “He wants to know the layout in the cabin before making a
move to help his brother and that villain, Holmes. Maybe the program is
to make a sneak, get to the window, and look in.”
He was looking across the flat when there came the report of a rifle,
and a bullet struck a log a foot above his head. This action on the part
of the savages filled the king of scouts with surprise and uneasiness.
His body could not have been seen, for he was crouched behind the tall
pile of wood, and he had not exposed his head during his stay there.
How, then, could the Navahos know where he was?
He was endeavoring to answer this question, when a tomahawk, thrown with
murderous force, whizzed by his head. The attack had come from behind,
and his skull would have been cleft in twain if the wielder had not
slipped on the smooth, damp ground just as the arm shot out.
The king of scouts sprang to his feet and met the giant Crow-killer
advancing on him with drawn knife.
Buffalo Bill had his rifle in his hand. Quick as lightning he clubbed
it, and brought the stock down on the hand that held the knife.
The weapon dropped to the ground, and instantly Crow-killer leaped upon
his enemy.
Buffalo Bill had not time to again make use of the rifle. It left his
hand, and he met the rush by lowering his head and driving it like a
battering-ram against the weakest part of the giant’s anatomy.
Struck squarely in the pit of the stomach, Crow-killer doubled up, and
was in the act of falling, when Buffalo Bill, converting his right hand
into a sledge hammer, caused it to carom on the savage’s chin. The
result was what might have been expected: Crow-killer struck the ground
with a thud.
In an instant the victor regained his rifle and turned to glance at the
flat. The Navahos were running toward the cabin.
They saw him, and three reports rang out. They were not simultaneous.
Buffalo Bill, the quickest on the trigger, fired first, and then sprang
to one side, only to fire again and again.
When the smoke cleared away there were two dead Indians on the flat.
With a hard smile the king of scouts turned to see Crow-killer making
strenuous efforts to get to his feet.
A couple of well-directed blows had the result desired. The brother of
the Navaho chief sought again a horizontal position, and lay quite
still.
He was bound and gagged and dragged into the cabin. Taking a stool, the
victor of the recent combat wiped his perspiring face. He had reason for
exultation, but his brow was sad. The nonappearance of Bart Angell was
disquieting. He must have fallen into a trap and been conveyed to the
mysterious cave; and to find that cave, rescue Myra Wilton and possibly
the missing scout, was now Buffalo Bill’s fixed intention.
It was near the hour of noon. The king of scouts prepared a meal, ate of
it, and, removing the gags of his prisoners, gave each a supply of the
food. The two Indians partook sparingly of what was offered them, but
Rixton Holmes ate like a famished wolf. “I went off this morning without
my breakfast,” he explained to Buffalo Bill, with a nervous smile. “I am
in for it, maybe, but I’m not going to make a fool of myself. Food
imparts strength, and I may need my strength before I leave this neck o’
woods.”
“Yes, I think you will,” responded the king of scouts dryly. “Until I
find horses, there’s quite a long walk ahead of you.”
There was one horse outside. It belonged to Bart Angell. Affixed to the
pommel of the saddle was a reata. It was a long one, and Buffalo Bill
nodded approvingly as he removed it.
With the reata in his hand he reëntered the cabin, and thus addressed
his prisoners: “I am going to find that cave. You three will go with me,
for it would be the height of folly to leave you here. I shall give you
the use of your feet, but your hands will remain tied, and this reata
will serve as a bond to hold you together. The free end will be in my
hand, and I shall drive you much as I might drive so many fractious
ponies. Of course, it goes without saying that it won’t be healthy for
any one of you to disobey any order that I may give.”
None of the prisoners had anything to say. The ankle cords were cut, the
reata placed as explained, and then Buffalo Bill pointed to the door.
“March!” he commanded, and with Rixton Holmes in the lead, a sheepish
expression on his evil face, Buffalo Bill and his strange tandem left
the cabin.
Every order was obeyed as the party went along the trail that led to the
ravine. The two Indians wore scowling faces, but Holmes was cheerful.
The king of scouts wondered at the villain’s apparent state of mind. Was
he playing a part, affecting a joyousness that he was far from feeling,
or had he some card up his sleeve that he expected soon to play?
The scout determined to get at the truth if he could. “Holmes,” said he,
when they were near the ravine, “you are a slippery cuss, and you are
counting on getting out of the hole in which I have placed you. That’s
right, isn’t it?”
A cunning look came into the villain’s face. “I’d be a fool not to live
in hopes, when I am alive and well, wouldn’t I?” was the somewhat
evasive reply.
“Suppose I take you straight to Taos and not try to find this cave?
Would you still have hopes?”
Holmes’ jaw fell. But he quickly became composed. “But you won’t do
that,” he said. “I know you, Cody, and I know that you will not take the
trail for Taos until you’ve made an effort to find the girl.”
Buffalo Bill frowned. He had learned what he desired, and the knowledge
was not such as to give him any pleasure. Holmes was banking on
something in or about the cave. What that something was the king of
scouts had not the remotest idea. He had strong reason to believe that
it was a trap, and that Bart Angell had fallen into it. If he went on,
was able, either through the assistance of his prisoners or by his own
ingenuity, to find the cave, he might fall a victim to the wiles of the
enemy. Three Indians had gone from the cabin to Crow-killer at the cave.
One had been left behind, presumably to guard the fair prisoner and also
take care of the trap which must have received the stalwart and fearless
Angell. And yet, in spite of the probable danger, of the nature of which
he could not guess, he resolved to go on. “I’ve got to,” he muttered
under his breath. “I can’t leave the girl in the power of that Navaho,
and I can’t quit this section without ascertaining what has become of
Bart Angell.”
On the bank of the ravine the prisoners halted without an order. Their
eyes were directed toward a platform of rock about halfway up the
opposite bank.
Buffalo Bill, following the look, saw the head of an Indian appear above
some depression just beyond the far side of the platform. Before he
could raise his rifle the head disappeared.
“Your cave is over there,” the scout said to Rixton Holmes.
The villain nodded. There was an inscrutable expression on his face.
There was a safe trail to the bottom of the ravine. The prisoners and
their custodian went down the trail, the king of scouts keeping a sharp
eye meanwhile on the platform above.
But the head did not again appear.
“I wouldn’t try to go down to the cave if I were you,” said Holmes, with
affected earnestness.
“Perhaps you would like to become my substitute,” returned the scout
dryly.
“I wouldn’t mind,” was the cool response.
Buffalo Bill resolved to make a careful examination of the surroundings
before attempting to get into the cave. The trap, if there was one, must
be outside the big hole.
The three prisoners were ankle-bound and gagged, and left lying in the
bed of the ravine. Then the king of scouts, with an odd feeling in his
breast, began the ascent of the bank.
He reached the platform, but without stepping upon it, stood up and
looked at the point whence the Indian’s head had appeared.
There was no hole there. A large, flat stone occupied the spot.
The platform was carefully inspected. There was no break in the surface.
The ground about was next given the benefit of searching scrutiny.
Nothing unusual was presented to the sight. “Humph!” grunted the baffled
scout. “I wonder where the monkey business is hidden.”
He stepped upon the platform, and the answer to his question was at once
given, and in a most startling manner.
The huge rock sank under him, and he shot downward twenty feet. The
descent was rapid, but not so rapid as to cause him to lose his balance
when the bottom was reached. But he had not time to act on the defensive
against the enemy, who had been awaiting his coming. A lasso settled
about his neck, and he was jerked roughly to the hard floor of the cave.
A succession of heavy blows upon the head instantly followed his
downfall.
When he awoke to consciousness he was lying on a couch of skins in
another part of the cave. There was a subdued light furnished by a thin
crevice in the rocky wall over his head.
Raising himself on an elbow, he saw a young woman sitting on another
couch and bathing the head of a prostrate man. The man was Bart Angell,
and the young woman was Myra Wilton.
He was about to speak, when Rixton Holmes came in. The villain burst
into a laugh when he saw that the king of scouts had revived.
“Well, William the Great, what is your conclusion? Bit off more than you
could chew, didn’t you?”
“I certainly made a mistake,” replied Buffalo Bill.
“A mistake that can never be repaired.”