THE SCOUT CAPTURED.
Buffalo Bill did not remain by the side of his victim and await the
return of sense. He made practical use of his time. He ate his
breakfast, risking a small fire for coffee.
While he was eating, the Apache opened his eyes. For some time he
regarded the placid-faced king of scouts with a deeply malevolent
expression. But when he spoke in the tongue of his tribe, the expression
had disappeared.
“Coffee for the great white warrior, cold water for Thunder Cloud.”
Buffalo Bill started, then looked at the Apache keenly. “So you are the
renowned Thunder Cloud, are you?” he inquired in the Indian language.
The Apache nodded, and there was pride in his look.
“A chief,” the king of scouts went on reproachfully, “who stoops to the
work of the slinking, murderous brave. Thunder Cloud has forfeited the
respect of his foes.”
The Indian’s eyes blazed with anger. “The great white warrior speaks
without thought. Thunder Cloud was whipped like a dog by the white
captain, and now he is a chief without a tribe.”
“Yes, I heard of that whipping,” returned the king of scouts cuttingly.
“Thunder Cloud broke his parole, and Captain Foster punished him.”
The Indian gnashed his teeth in savage recollection of the action which
had disgraced him in the eyes of the Americans.
There was silence for a few moments. Buffalo Bill broke it by asking:
“Would the chief like a cup of coffee?”
“Yes,” was the quick answer.
The coffee was drunk, and then the king of scouts, believing the Indian
to be in a fairly quiet frame of mind, said:
“Why did the chief kill Panecho, the Hualapi?”
Thunder Cloud frowned. He did not answer the question.
It was repeated, and with sternness. The Apache noted the menacing
expression in the scout’s eyes, and mumbled something about an old feud.
“You are dodging the issue, Thunder Cloud,” said Buffalo Bill sharply.
“I must know the truth. You are in my power. Why should I not kill you?”
The Indian shut his lips tightly. He was a stoic. “Why not?” he
repeated.
The king of scouts took a new tack. “What if I take you to the village
of the Hualapis and deliver you over to the brothers of Panecho?”
Thunder Cloud shivered. “No, no,” he entreated. “Let the great white
warrior take his revenge. Thunder Cloud is content to die by the hand of
Buffalo Bill.”
The king of scouts appeared to seriously consider the matter. “I’ll tell
you what I will do,” he said, after a pause. “I will deal with you
myself, if you, on your part, will tell me what made you shoot Panecho,
and why you are in my camp, a spy.”
The Apache, who was without honor, and who would have betrayed his best
friend if he saw a chance of personal profit, promptly replied: “Thunder
Cloud killed Panecho because the Hualapi was hot on the trail of Thunder
Cloud’s friend.”
“Just as I supposed,” remarked Buffalo Bill quietly. “You have hired
yourself out to that white villain, Black-face Ned.”
Thunder Cloud nodded, and then in answer to another question said that
Colonel Hayden had been overcome while he was walking along the trail.
Buffalo Bill guessed how the colonel had been caught. He had arisen
early and had gone down the cañon, hoping to come upon the camp of the
abductor of his daughter before the coming of daylight. On the way he
had been attacked by a sentinel posted by the white outlaw, and was now
in the power of the man he had so much cause to hate and fear.
“How long has Black-face Ned been in camp?” the scout asked.
“Since yesterday morning.”
“Who is with him?”
“Three white men.”
This was unlooked-for intelligence. The king of scouts arose to his
feet. The situation had changed. It would not be safe to remain longer
in this open space. The four white men, all outlaws, so Buffalo Bill
believed, would not likely stay in camp longer than was necessary for
the return of Thunder Cloud, who had been sent up the trail to ascertain
who had come with Colonel Hayden.
After placing a gag in the Indian’s mouth, the scout concealed two of
the rifles, and with the third in his hand left the camp and stole
noiselessly toward the rendezvous of the enemy.
As he went forward he considered the statement the Indian had made.
Black-face Ned was with friends. Did he expect to find them in the
Hualapi hills when he set out across the desert? The scout believed that
the meeting had been prearranged. The three white men were probably the
members of Black-face Ned’s band who had eluded capture when the band
was broken up. The rendezvous in the hills was an old one, and was
probably off the trail and in a secure place.
After an hour’s journey, Buffalo Bill heard a suspicious noise in the
bushes in front of him. He instantly left the trail, and, climbing the
hill, got behind a bowlder.
He was scarcely out of sight before two white men appeared on the trail
directly below him.
One was tall, lean, and angular, with a broken nose and an ugly
disfigurement of the lower lip. One-half of the lip was of treble the
thickness of the other half, and hung down so as to disclose the teeth,
which were long, yellow, and fanglike. The eyes were small and piercing,
and looked out under shaggy brows that were contracted in a habitual
scowl.
The other man was shorter in stature, had a round, red face, with a
happy-go-lucky expression. He was red-haired, and wore a shoe-brush
mustache. The tall man was smooth-faced.
The king of scouts recognized the men as two of the most dangerous and
desperate criminals in the West. Before their association with
Black-face Ned they had been allied with the border ruffians of Kansas.
In that State Buffalo Bill had met them, and the short man bore upon his
body the marks of a luckless encounter with the king of scouts.
“Shorty Sands and Flag-pole Jack,” muttered the scout, under his breath.
“I’ll bet the third rascal is that sneak, Bat Wason. The three were
pards in the old Kansas days, and Wason was the slickest and the most
dangerous scoundrel of the trio.”
To the scout’s intense satisfaction, the desperadoes stopped at the
point of Buffalo Bill’s departure from the trail, and began an earnest
conversation.
“The Indian knows his biz,” said Shorty Sands, “and I’ll gamble he has
made a killin’. Thar’s shore no use in gittin’ skeered, fer Thunder
Cloud hed only a pigeon-hearted Hualapi ter contend with.”
“Don’t ye fool yerself,” responded Flag-pole Jack, with a deepening of
his scowl. “Ther ole kunnel war too foxy ter give away the hull
business. He allowed thar war only one man with him. Mebbe he lied.
Mebbe Thunder Cloud slipped his neck inter a trap when he pranced inter
the camp of ther kunnel. I ain’t plottin’ ter foller his example. Not by
a overwhelmin’ majority.”
“What’s yer idee?” inquired Sands.
“My idee is ter separate right hyer. One of us will keep on ther trail,
an’ ther t’other will crope up ther hill an’ git round ther camp.”
“All right,” said Sands. “I’ll take ther hill.”
The tall villain smiled contemptuously. “Aimin’ ter hit ther easiest
snap, aire ye? Well, take it, I don’t keer. Ther walkin’s better along
the trail.”
He might have added: “I’ll go mighty slow until I see how you come out,”
but he didn’t.
Shorty Sands was about to start, when a rattlesnake crawled out of a
hole in the bank, and, at sight of the outlaw, coiled and rattled.
The snake was between Buffalo Bill’s bowlder and the trail. Shorty Sands
uttered a cry, and then drew his revolver to fire. A warning from his
companion to desist came too late. The revolver cracked, and the snake,
unharmed, leaped its length toward the shooter.
Then it was that Buffalo Bill, excited by the shot, the meaning of which
he did not understand, showed his head. He saw the snake, saw Flag-pole
Jack taking aim to shoot, and was about to give warning of his presence,
so that the fight should be a fair one, when a series of yelps, like
those of wolves, made him quickly turn his head.
The snake was dead as the two outlaws, as much amazed as the king of
scouts, looked up the bank.
There in two lines, of a dozen each, crouched a curious and startling
body of human beings. Each was arrayed in wolfskins, and each face was
masked with the face of a wolf.
But the long, black hair, that protruded below each wolfskin cap, told
Buffalo Bill that the strange newcomers were Indians.
While the scout and the outlaws stared at the wolfish crew, taking note
at the same time that each member was armed with rifle and tomahawk, the
leader cried out in good English: “Surrender or we fire.”
The king of scouts looked down at Flag-pole Jack and Shorty Sands. The
outlaws now saw him for the first time, for, upon turning to gaze up at
the fantastic crew, he had withdrawn his head from in front of the
bowlder.
“Buffalo Bill!” gasped Shorty Sands. “We’re in for it now.” As he spoke,
he believed that the disguised Indians were allies of the famous border
fighter.
“Don’t make a mistake, Shorty,” said the scout coolly. “We are in the
same boat.” Then he added: “Go up, you two, and do the surrender act.
I’ll follow suit.”
“I’ll be hanged if I give in,” snarled Flag-pole Jack. “Hyer goes.” He
jumped down the bank, but a rifle bullet grazed his head before his feet
struck the ground. “That’s a reminder,” yelled the leader of the Wolves
sternly. “The next shot will be to kill.”
The outlaw, with many curses, returned to the trail.
As he was on the way, the Wolves marched down the hill.
Buffalo Bill was not foolhardy enough to try to make a stand against two
dozen armed enemies. He stood up, rifle grounded, and smiled when the
leader of the Wolves approached.
“Fine morning for ducks,” the scout remarked, as he tried to read the
expression of the eyes that looked out of the holes in the mask.
“And for lulus. You’re one, Cody, all right.”
Buffalo Bill started. The leader of this fantastic band was a white man.
“I failed to catch your name,” he said politely, as he craned his head
in the direction of the stranger.
The Wolf laughed. “The wind must have blown it away, I reckon,” he
replied shortly. Then he added brusquely: “Give up your arms to my
adjutant here, and place yourself in his hands.”
So saying, he marched down to the trail. Standing before the two
outlaws, he looked them over from head to foot. “Pards of Black-face
Ned, eh?” he said coldly.
No answer.
“Drop your guns!” The weapons struck the ground instanter. “Now go up
the hill and submit to be bound. No monkey business, or Ned will be
mourning your departure for a warmer clime than Arizona.”
With black brows, Sands and his companion obeyed the order. Soon the
three prisoners were conducted to the retreat of the Wolves. It was at
the head of a ravine about five miles south of the cañon trail, and
Buffalo Bill was surprised when he reached the spot. It was forty feet
above the bed of the ravine, and was nothing less than one of the old
habitations of the extinct cliff dwellers.
The wall into which the habitation had been cut was of irregular
formation, and nearly perpendicular. There seemed no way of reaching the
holes either from the top or the base of the ridge. But there was a way
to get up, and this passage was soon revealed.
Halting his band at a point directly below the holes in the rock, the
leader of the Wolves gave the hoot of an owl. A head showed at one of
the entrances, and as soon as it disappeared the leader marched forward
to a large bowlder that rested against the face of the wall. With one
hand he gave the huge rock a turn, and it swung back to reveal an
opening large enough for a man to enter without stooping.
Inside of a minute the king of scouts found himself in the chamber of a
cave. Upon the floor about the middle of the chamber was a cage, such as
is used by miners in underground journeyings, and attached to it were
stout ropes.
Looking up, the scout saw the opening through which the cage had
descended, and understood how entrance to the cliff dwellings was
obtained.
The prisoners were sent first, a windlass at the top furnishing the
motive power.
Buffalo Bill had been in many of these dwellings, and found the one that
received him to be like the others he had seen. All the furniture was of
stone, but to the utensils of the Aztecs had been added many of the
modern implements of easy, practical convenience.
There were three large rooms, each provided with a cliff outlook, and
furnished with stone seats and a plethora of bear and buffalo skins.
But one Wolf was in the dwelling to receive the prisoners. He was an
Indian, and never opened his mouth until the windlass had performed its
office.
He then addressed the leader in the tongue of a nation that had been
considered as practically extinct for many years.
“It is well,” he said.
“Comanche,” muttered Buffalo Bill, under his breath. “These reds may
turn out to be friends. Uncle Sam has had no trouble with them for a
long time. I didn’t know there was a single one of them in Arizona.”
Shorty Sands and Flag-pole Jack were placed under guard in one of the
rooms. The king of scouts was taken to another, and soon found himself
alone with the leader.
The latter threw himself upon the stone floor near a couch of skins that
served as the resting place of the prisoner.
“Well,” he remarked slowly, “how does it strike you?”
“The situation?”
“Yes. Sort of puzzling, isn’t it?”
The voice was muffled, but Buffalo Bill was sure that he had heard it
before.
“Take off that wolf mask and let me see your face,” he said
persuasively. “You have got me in a hole, so that there need be no
further use for a disguise.”
“Think so?” was the imperturbable response.
“Yes. You know me, and I’ll bet a hat I know you. The question is, are
you an enemy or are you a friend?”
“Yes, that’s the question.” A pause, and then the quick inquiry: “Have
you ever heard of my outfit?”
“No.”
“We are the remnants of the bravest and most fearless nation of redskins
that ever made Uncle Sam sit up and take notice. The disguise was
adopted at the suggestion of the leader who preceded me, and who was
killed by a fall about a month ago. We are the natural enemies of the
Apaches, and Silver Moon, the dead one, thought the Comanches could
better work in wolfskin than in their ordinary raiment.”
“What do you call yourselves?”
“The Yelping Crew. Appropriate name, isn’t it?”
“Very,” said Buffalo Bill dryly. The leader of the Crew lazily lighted a
cigarette, then tossed paper and tobacco pouch to the prisoner.
“We yelp to some purpose,” the strange man continued. “During the last
year we have wiped out seventy Apaches.”
“Then you cannot be an enemy of mine or an enemy of the United States
government?”
“No-o,” was the slow reply. “I am not your enemy, and yet I am not quite
ready to say I am your friend.”
“How can that be? You must be one thing or the other?”
“Let me explain,” returned the leader of the Yelping Crew composedly.
“You were found with two of the worst rascals in America. These fellows,
Flag-pole Jack and Shorty Sands—you see, I know them—the pards of
Black-face Ned, who is hand in glove with the Apaches. Thunder Cloud is
with Black-face Ned now.”
“Beg pardon,” interrupted Buffalo Bill quickly, “but you are in error on
two points. Thunder Cloud is not with Black-face Ned, and Thunder Cloud
has been cast out by the Apaches.”
“I may not have literally struck it when I said Thunder Cloud is now
with Ned,” replied the disguised white man calmly, “but I did strike it
when I said Ned is thick with the Apaches. The chief has not been cast
out by this tribe. He broke his parole, and was whipped like a dog, but
his tribe did not turn on him for a little thing like that. On the
contrary, his braves backed him up when he swore revenge. He has plotted
to kill the captain who ordered the lashes and the colonel who approved
the order.”
The king of scouts felt a cold chill strike his spine. “What is the
colonel’s name?” he asked.
“Hayden.”
A groan escaped the brave scout’s lips. The keen eyes behind the wolf
mask expressed both curiosity and sympathy.
There ensued a long pause. It was broken by Buffalo Bill. Speaking
abruptly, he said:
“I am putting you up to be a friend. I need a friend’s help. I not only
desire to be set at liberty, but I want your assistance. Will you give
it?”
The leader of the Yelping Crew laughed softly. “You are not very modest
in your demands,” he replied coolly.
“I am what I am,” rejoined the king of scouts sharply. Then he went on
quickly and earnestly: “Colonel Hayden is a prisoner in the hands of
Black-face Ned. Thunder Cloud is down in the cañon bound hand and foot.
I surprised him while he was trying to execute a murderous order given
him by Black-face Ned. The Indian must be removed from the cañon or the
outlaw will find and release him.”
The white chief of the Comanches arose to his feet. “Why did you not
tell me this before?” he asked.
“Could I tell you before I was sure you were in sympathy with my cause?”
was the cold reply.
“No, certainly not. You were wise to hold back your story. You want my
help in getting Colonel Hayden out of the clutches of Black-face Ned and
his Indian and white marauders and murderers. Well, you shall have it. I
never meant to keep you a prisoner. Your capture was a joke.”
“A joke?”—gazing at the masked leader in astonishment. “Why——”
A ringing laugh cut short the speech. “Fooled you to the limit, old son.
Never guessed the deception, did you?”
Buffalo Bill stared hard at the speaker. The truth was creeping into his
mind.
With one quick movement the wolf face was removed.
The king of scouts looked up into the smiling countenance of Wild Bill
Hickok.