STRANGE HAPPENINGS.
The girl was very pale, and there were signs of recent weeping. But a
look of relief came into her lovely countenance when her eyes fell on
the king of scouts.
“You are Mr. Cody, are you not?” she asked, as she came up to him with
outstretched hand.
“Yes, and how is your father?”
“I do not know. I haven’t seen him for over an hour. I—am afraid——” She
paused, and looked tremblingly at the chief, who was standing, grimly,
by the door.
“Trust in me,” the scout whispered. Then he turned, and a revolver was
pointed at Thunder Cloud’s head. “I am sorry to again place myself in
opposition to you, chief,” he said sternly; “but it’s a case of white
blood against red. You must give up this girl’s father.”
The Apache chief’s eyes flashed savage defiance. “Never,” he replied,
and with a quick movement his hand went to the tomahawk at his belt.
Buffalo Bill fired, but to wound, not to kill. The bullet struck the
hand that was gripping the handle of the tomahawk, and the grip
instantly relaxed. But the Indian never flinched. Not a cry issued from
his lips.
“Must I kill you, or will you surrender?” demanded the king of scouts
coldly.
The head of a white man showed itself above the hole in the floor. Sybil
Hayden saw the head, and uttered a shriek of fear.
Instantly Buffalo Bill whirled, and at the same instant a tomahawk
whizzed, and a pistol shot rang out. The Indian’s weapon, hurled with
the left hand, went wide of its mark, and the bullet failed to do more
than graze the scout’s scalp.
The man at the trap was Black-face Ned, and as soon as the bullet sped,
Sybil Hayden, scarcely realizing what she did, sprang to the edge of the
hole, and began to kick the villain in the head. As he howled and tried
to turn so as to shoot her, she changed her tactics and jumped with all
her force upon Black-face Ned’s hands. This was more than he could
stand, and he dropped back to the floor of the cellar.
Buffalo Bill was not a witness to the commendable actions of the
colonel’s daughter. He was occupied with Thunder Cloud, who had followed
the throwing of the tomahawk by a savage rush forward.
One hand was practically useless, but he made the best possible use of
the other. Sybil Hayden watched the struggle first with anxiety, then
with delight. The Indian, even at his best, would have been no match for
the muscular, scientific king of scouts. Two minutes after the assault
the Indian was lying on the stone floor, and the victor was banging the
red man’s head against the stone.
There were no cords about with which to tie up the chief, so Buffalo
Bill coolly proceeded to cut strips from the skin suit of the Indian. A
sufficient number, tied and knotted, served the scout’s purpose, and
when he arose to his feet, Thunder Cloud was powerless to accomplish
further harm.
Buffalo Bill glanced at the open hole in the floor, and shook his head
sadly. “I am afraid my comrade has been killed,” he whispered. “That
villain fooled him and fooled me. I had no reason to suspect that he was
in the cellar. I don’t understand why he came back.”
“I do,” replied the girl, with a little shiver.
The king of scouts nodded. “Yes,” he said, “he hated to give you up. He
is more courageous than I had given him credit for.” As he spoke, the
scout moved toward the hole.
“You mustn’t go down there,” expostulated the girl. “It would mean death
for you, for, of course, he is waiting, and his pistol is ready.”
Without having appeared to hear the girl, Buffalo Bill stood near the
edge of the trap and called down: “Pete, are you there?”
There was no answer.
“I’ll soon know how the land lies,” said the scout quietly. He replaced
the door over the hole, and then held out a revolver. “Take this,” he
said to the girl, “and stand by the trap. I am going out for a little
while. When I return, I hope your father will be with me.”
Sybil Hayden took the pistol and sat down by the trap. “You may rely on
me,” she declared firmly.
Buffalo Bill went out, and, reaching the rear door of the castle, threw
back the bars and opened it. Stepping out, he looked along the back wall
of the building. There were no Comanches there, nor anywhere in the
inclosure.
Surprised and ill pleased, the scout walked around to the front. No one
there. The front gate of the wall was open, and Buffalo Bill went
through the grove of trees and looked down the valley. No sign there of
a human being.
He thought he understood the situation. While he was talking with
Thunder Cloud in the side room with the trap, Wild Bill and the Yelpers
had stolen along the other side of the castle, and gone out into the
valley, their objective point being the cliff home of the Comanches.
How Wild Bill had learned of the departure of the Apaches the king of
scouts could not guess, but he must have known that the Apaches had
deserted the castle, otherwise he would have remained to besiege the
building.
Returning to the rear, he reëntered the castle, and then began a search
for Colonel Hayden. Every room in the castle was investigated, but the
colonel could not be found. Mystified and vexed, the scout returned to
the room where he had left Sybil Hayden and Thunder Cloud.
The situation in the room had not changed. The Indian lay on the floor,
and the girl was sitting by the side of the trap.
“Didn’t you find my father?” she asked, in astonishment, mingled with
alarm.
“No,” replied the scout gravely, “but the chief knows where he is, and
I’ll make him tell me, or I will know the reason why.”
Going over to Thunder Cloud’s side, Buffalo Bill stooped, and said
sternly: “Where did you put Colonel Hayden?”
The Indian, who was in full possession of his senses, promptly answered:
“He should be hanging from the big cottonwood at the lower end of the
valley.”
Sybil Hayden uttered a despairing cry. “No, no,” she wailed, “you
couldn’t have sent him out to die.”
“Of course he couldn’t,” said the scout consolingly. “He is mad, and he
wants to torment you.” Then to the Indian: “Why do you lie? Don’t you
realize that you are in a mighty ticklish position?”
“Thunder Cloud has spoken the truth as it appears to him. The father of
the white maiden went off with Black Wing and the Apache braves, and the
order of Thunder Cloud was that the white man who is responsible for
Thunder Cloud’s disgrace should be hanged like a dog from the cottonwood
tree.”
“The order may not have been carried out.”
The Apache chief smiled grimly. But he said no word in reply.
Buffalo Bill tried to comfort the colonel’s daughter. “From all
accounts,” he said, “Black Wing is a decent sort of an Indian. He was
bossing the Apache outfit when he left for the cliff. He wants peace. Is
it in the line of peace to do an act that would bring the military down
upon him? Hardly. So cheer up. I’ll bet anything that your father is now
alive and in good hands.”
Somewhat reassured by these words, the girl dried her eyes and insisted
upon an immediate departure for the home of the Comanches.
“I’ll go as soon as I have attended to Black-face Ned and have found out
what has become of my friend Alkali Pete. Remain here, and in half an
hour, at latest, I’ll be ready to depart.”
The girl, much as she desired to get out of the castle and run to that
cottonwood tree, did not interpose any objection to Buffalo Bill’s
proposal. She knew he was acting as one true friend would act toward
another, and so, without a protest, saw him leave the room.
The king of scouts reached the mouth of the tunnel, and then looked
about for evidence that would show whether or not Black-face Ned was
inside or had again retreated to the open country.
There were many footprints about; some made by the scout, Thunder Cloud,
and Bat Wason, whose dead body was where the scout had left it, and it
required much perspicacity to arrive at the truth. At last the scout
became convinced that Black-face Ned was either in the tunnel or the
cellar. The most reasonable supposition was that the villain was in the
cellar.
But Buffalo Bill realized that he was undertaking a dangerous piece of
work when he entered the tunnel. Still, he did not hesitate.
Much to his relief, he made the journey through the tunnel without
encountering the leader of the outlaws.
He had moved noiselessly, and when he reached the entrance into the
cellar he stopped and listened intently.
A sound as of muffled breathing reached his ears. “That can’t be
Black-face Ned,” thought the scout. “It must be Alkali Pete.”
The darkness was intense. Buffalo Bill knew the location of the trap,
and, believing that the outlaw leader was under it, he began to glide
cautiously along the side of the wall.
Every ten feet he would stop and listen.
Suddenly his foot struck an obstruction, and he came within an ace of
falling over it.
The obstruction was a human body. No sound had followed the striking of
the scout’s foot against the body, and, agitated by the fear that he had
come upon the lifeless form of Alkali Pete, Buffalo Bill knelt quickly
on the ground and placed his ear to the breast of the unknown. The heart
was not beating. Next the scout passed a trembling hand over the
unknown’s face. Cold, but not icy cold. Death must have taken place but
a short time before the scout’s entrance into the cellar.
Buffalo Bill arose with a feeling of relief. The dead man was not Alkali
Pete. The face was that of an Indian. The scout had felt the high cheek
bones, the sharp nose, the retreating forehead, and the long, coarse
hair of an Apache.
His relief at finding that his fear was unfounded quickly gave way to a
feeling of wonderment. How came the dead Apache in the cellar? And who
had killed him?
A slight noise in front of him made him put a tighter grip upon the
knife he had drawn upon entering the tunnel. The noise was as of some
one stepping softly.
Believing that Black-face Ned was approaching, the king of scouts
crouched by the wall, and waited with tense nerves for the enemy to come
within striking distance.
The steps drew nearer, and then stopped. Suddenly a match flared, and
Buffalo Bill saw the face of the leader of the outlaws. He had come to
the body of the Indian for the purpose of assuring himself that the
savage was dead. Before the match went out the villain saw the king of
scouts. But the sight of his enemy came too late for him to take either
offensive or defensive action. Buffalo Bill sprang forward as the
villain looked up, and struck him a powerful blow between the eyes.
Black-face Ned collided with the hard ground with such force that his
breath left his body.
Not until the victorious scout had removed the villain’s weapons did he
light a match.
The light exhibited a spectacle that brought a cry of joy from his lips.
Ten feet away, with his back against the wall, sat Alkali Pete, rubbing
his eyes.
“Pete? Alive?” the king of scouts exclaimed, and the answer came dryly:
“I shore don’t know. Come over hyer an’ pinch me.”
The match went out just as Black-face Ned’s limbs began to twitch.
Buffalo Bill sat on the villain’s chest, and said roughly: “Are you
going to be quiet, or must I give you a sleeping dose?”
“Oh, I’ll be good,” whined the now thoroughly frightened man. “I missed
the trick, and I am willing to leave the field to you.”
“See that you don’t change your mind.”
Lifting the outlaw in his arms, the king of scouts bore him to the side
of Alkali Pete. “I am shy on cords,” he said to the lanky plainsman.
“Got any about you?”
“Ther one that held my wrists is hyer in my lap, an’ when ye ontie my
ankles ye’ll shore corral another,” was the reply.
“Ah, I am on. You were tied up, and you’ve got your hands loose.”
“Ye’re singin’ on ther right key, Buffler.”
After the villain had been tied up, the king of scouts asked anxiously:
“How are you feeling?”
“Sorter down in ther mouth. Made a fool slip when I kem inter the
cellar. Thar warn’t any Wild Bill down hyer.”
“I know. We were both fooled.”
“An’ I never knowed I’d been played fer a sucker ontil a few minutes
ago. I struck ther ground, an’ a club struck me. Reckon Black-face Ned
opined he’d put me outer business fer good an’ all. Made a big beefsteak
thar, son. He shore didn’t know that my head is some thicker nor a
paper-shell almond. I hev been a’feelin’ uv ther old cabesa, an’,
barrin’ a leetle lump, it’s shore somewhat intact.”
“I am glad to hear you say that, Pete,” responded Buffalo Bill
earnestly. “I thought you were all in when I discovered that Black-face
Ned was here.”
The lanky plainsman stood up and stretched himself. “What all’s happened
since I ca’mly deposited myself inter the lap of ther enemy?”
“I’ll tell you after you have satisfied my curiosity on one point. An
Apache was killed here in this cellar after you were downed. Do you know
anything about the affair?”
“Not a blessed thing, Buffler. I war sleepin’ off my headache when ther
killin’ kem off. Ask ther black devil at yer feet, an’ he’ll tell yer
what ye want ter know.”
“That’s so. Ned”—speaking to the captured outlaw—“what about this
Apache? Did you kill him?”
“Yes,” was the surly answer. “Had to. I took him for you.”
“Then he made a noise coming through the tunnel?”
“Enough to put me on my guard. I suppose he thought there was no one
here.”
“What was his object in coming to the cellar? Do you know, or can you
guess?”
“I don’t know, and I am not good at guessing. But I do know this: The
Indian was Thunder Cloud’s right-hand man, second in command, you
understand.”
“He came back to see Thunder Cloud. Something had occurred on the march
to the stronghold of the Yelping Crew. An important discovery had been
made, or there was a slip of some kind. Maybe he became suspicious of
Black Wing, and came back to urge Thunder Cloud to come to the cliff and
boss operations.”
This speech was directed to Alkali Pete, who at once replied: “Let’s get
ther kunnel an’ light out fer ther cliff. Ef thar’s goin’ ter be a
mix-up, an’ it shore looks thataway, I’m hankerin’ ter take a part.”
Buffalo Bill was seized with a cold fear. He had, for the moment,
forgotten about the colonel.
“I haven’t yet told you,” he said gravely, “that the colonel went with
the Apaches and Black Wing.”
“What fur?” Surprise and dismay were in the tone.
The king of scouts repeated the appalling statement made by Thunder
Cloud.
Alkali Pete groaned. “I shore sees ther p’int, Buffler. Ther ’Pache this
yer Black Face downed moseyed back ter tell Thunder Cloud that ther
order ter hang ther kunnel to ther cottonwood hed been carried out.”
“I won’t believe it,” returned Buffalo Bill, hoping against hope. “Some
other reason brought him back. I’m going down to the cottonwood
immediately. But first I’ll get speech with the girl.”
Black-face Ned had brought his rifle to the tunnel, and the king of
scouts thumped on the trapdoor with the muzzle of the weapon.
“Ye won’t get ther girl ter open ther trap, Buffler,” said Alkali Pete.
“She’ll think ye aire Black-face Ned, fer sure.”
As the door did not open, the king of scouts yelled at the top of his
voice: “Open. It is Cody who speaks.”
If the sound penetrated to the room above, no indication of the fact was
given.
“I’ll have to go around and into the front door of the castle, Pete.
It’s a waste of time, but it can’t be helped.”
“Goin’ ter leave Black-face Ned hyer?” asked the lanky plainsman.
“No, we’ll take him along with us.”
The bound outlaw was conveyed to the outer air, and there set on his
feet and conducted to the front of the castle.
Leaving the prisoner with Alkali Pete, Buffalo Bill entered the
building. As he stepped into the hall he saw that the door of the room
with the trap was open.
The circumstances induced a feeling of uneasiness, for the scout had
closed the door when he went out of it less than half an hour before.
At the threshold he stopped in amazement. Sybil Hayden had gone, and
Thunder Cloud lay as if dead upon the stone floor.
The king of scouts walked to the body, and his amazement was
intensified.
The Apache chief was dead, and there was a bullet hole above the right
temple. His hands, freed from the leathers that Buffalo Bill had used to
secure them, were stretched out and clenched.
No time was wasted in the room. Hastening back to Alkali Pete, the king
of scouts announced his astonishing discovery.
“Ther Injun got shet of the leathers, and was aimin’ ter do up ther gal
when she plugged him. O’ course that’s the way it happened, Buffler.”
“You are probably right. There is no other sensible explanation. But why
did she leave the room? I requested her to stay until I returned. There
is something queer about the affair.”
“Maybe she lit out ter hunt you up. Got tired o’ waitin’.”
Buffalo Bill went to the rear of the castle, and, not finding the girl,
returned to the front, reëntered the building, and searched all the
rooms. No sign of the girl anywhere.
Alkali Pete had to confess that the matter was beyond him. “Gals aire
pecooliar,” he remarked. “Ye never know what they aire plannin’ ter do.”
Buffalo Bill did not hear the last words of his comrade. He was walking
toward the open front gate, his eyes on the sandy ground.
At the edge of the grove of trees he stopped and called to Alkali Pete.
“Come on,” he said. “The girl went off this way. I have found her
tracks.”
The lanky plainsman, his arm in that of Black-face Ned, started for the
grove.
“There are plenty of other tracks, mostly Indian,” the king of scouts
said, “but it was easy to pick out Miss Hayden’s. She has gone down the
valley.”
“To take a look at that cottonwood, I reckon,” was Alkali Pete’s
rejoinder.
“Probably. I hope we will find her there, and also that she has
discovered that her father has not yet been killed.”
The walk to the end of the valley was quickly performed.
The surprise of Buffalo Bill was great when he saw, sitting under the
cottonwood, Sybil Hayden and her father.
Both rose as their eyes fell on the two scouts. With a happy smile the
girl spoke.
“I have been waiting for you,” she said, as she came forward to meet the
king of scouts. Then, as her eyes fell on Black-face Ned, she added:
“You have done well.”
Her next words were addressed to Alkali Pete, and they were spoken with
such warm earnestness that the homely plainsman blushed. “I am so glad
you are here and well. You don’t know how badly I felt when I found you
had fallen into a trap.”
Colonel Hayden, while this talk was going on, was shaking hands with
Buffalo Bill. He was in a joyous mood, and the compliments he paid to
the valiant king of scouts caused the recipient of them to vigorously
shake his head. Sybil relieved his confusion.
“You must be anxious to learn how I came here,” she said. “Didn’t you
guess what occurred in the room? Thunder Cloud got the use of his hands,
and was reaching forward to snatch my pistol when I saw him and fired.
My eyes were on the trapdoor while he was working himself free, for I
thought I heard a noise below.”
“After I had killed the chief I wanted to get away. I was faint, and the
sight of the blood was more than I could stand. I rushed out of doors
and looked around for you, Mr. Cody. Not finding you, I determined to
hurry to the end of the valley and find out whether or not the Apache
chief had lied. I got to the cottonwood, saw, to my delight, that no
human body was hanging from it, and was about to retrace my steps to the
castle when my father appeared. Black Wing had freed him, and he was on
his way to attempt my rescue.”
Colonel Hayden now made other points clear.
“Black Wing is all right,” he averred. “He promised Thunder Cloud that
he would hang me to the cottonwood, but he never meant to keep that
promise. He is an intelligent Indian, and a true friend of the whites.
He knows that you, Mr. Cody, and Wild Bill are friends, and that I am
your comrade. Besides, he had had an understanding with Mr. Hickok, and
the two were acting in accordance with that understanding.”
Buffalo Bill whistled softly. “And Thunder Cloud was fooled, was he?
Thought Black Wing was really working for peace, eh?”
“Yes. He pulled the wool over Thunder Cloud’s eyes, and now Thunder
Cloud’s Apaches are on their way either to a reservation of Uncle Sam or
to bloody death.”
“Wild Bill and Black Wing have fixed up a trap, then?”
“I think you would call it one. The Apaches will come out of the holes
in the cliff, and, instead of marching out into the open to arrange a
treaty of peace, they will be invited to a duel. Wild Bill wouldn’t
stand for an ambush, so that the fight will be a fair one.”
“It hasn’t commenced yet, or we would have heard the firing,” said
Buffalo Bill. The speaker looked at his watch. It was a few minutes
after four.
“Five o’clock is the time set for the scrimmage,” explained the colonel.
“The palavering is going on now.”
“Time enough to get there before the fun begins,” said Buffalo Bill.
“I’ll hear the rest of your story, colonel, and then I’ll start.”
“I’ve told all there is to tell, Cody. I was released by Black Wing
about half a mile up the hill.”
“But you have not said anything about the Apache, Thunder Cloud’s
lieutenant, who left the band and returned to the castle.”
“I didn’t know that he returned. He was walking by the side of Black
Wing when I left the band.”
“How did he take your release? Didn’t he expostulate with Black Wing?”
“Yes, he did, and I remember that he gave me a savage look when I went
away.”
“I think I understand,” declared the scout, after a moment’s thought.
“The Apache imagined that Thunder Cloud would be angry when he learned
that his murderous order had not been carried out, so he deserted the
band soon after you left, colonel, and hurried back to the castle for
the purpose of informing the chief of your release. He selected the
tunnel way for his entrance, because he wanted to avoid being seen by
me. He knew, of course, for Thunder Cloud must have told him, that I was
free, and he was afraid that I would suspect his errand and try to queer
it.”
“I think he suspected more than that,” said Colonel Hayden. “Black
Wing’s noncompliance with Thunder Cloud’s order may have set him to
thinking, and he may have feared that Black Wing meant treachery.”
“We’ll shore never learn ther rights of ther matter,” put in Alkali
Pete, “fer Thunder Cloud an’ his leftenant aire both takin’ it easy in
ther happy huntin’ grounds.”
Colonel Hayden nodded. “I guessed that the Apache never got into the
castle,” he said.
“But you didn’t guess that the Honorable Mr. Frams here gave the Apache
his quietus. Yes, Black-face Ned played into our hands, and I’ll bet
he’s mighty sorry for it.”
The villain scowled, but said nothing. He was in an unenviable state of
mind. He was without resources, and saw ahead of him the gallows.
But he determined to make one strong appeal to the man he had so
grievously injured.
“Let me go, colonel,” he pleaded. “You’ve got your daughter back, and
you’ve cleaned me out of friends. Let me go, and I’ll start for Mexico
and never come back. I have made a mistake, and I am sorry for it.
You’ll sleep better if you turn me loose.”
Colonel Hayden’s face hardened. “You contemptible scoundrel, don’t talk
to me,” he replied, and then turned his back on the villain.
Buffalo Bill’s voice was heard after a short silence. “Colonel,” he said
quietly, “I am going to take this man off your hands and deliver him
into the hands of the Apaches. He has killed the Apache who would have
been chief had he lived, and for his offense he must undergo an Indian
trial. I can assure you it will be short, and that there will be no
appeal from the judgment.”
Colonel Hayden smiled grimly. “As you will, Cody,” was the reply he
made. But Buffalo Bill’s announcement had caused Alkali Pete to raise
his eyebrows.
“Ain’t ye takin’ a losin’ contrack, Buffler?” he inquired. “How on arth
aire ye goin’ ter turn over ther rapscallion ter ther ’Paches when ther
prospecks aire that ther ’Paches will soon be _non est combusticus?_”
“I intend to stop the massacre,” returned the king of scouts quietly.
“Ye do, eh? Well, ye aire takin’ a mighty big job onto yer shoulders.”
“I have taken larger ones, Pete.” This was said in no boasting tone,
rather as a matter-of-fact statement.
A flood of recollections deluged Alkali Pete’s mind. He nodded and
smiled. “I reckon I’ll haul in my horns, Buffler. Ye’ll make it; jest
how I kain’t conceive, but ye’ll make it, or thar’ll be a circus.”
“And to make it I must be moving,” the king of scouts replied. “You must
remain here with the colonel and Miss Hayden, Pete. I’ll be back before
dark.”
With these words he took Black-face Ned by the arm and moved away.
Half an hour later, and ten minutes before the time fixed for the
outcoming of the Apaches, Buffalo Bill and his prisoner reached the edge
of the opening in front of the cliff dwellings.
Wild Bill saw him coming, and rushed forward to meet him.
“I am in time,” said the king of scouts, with a smile as hand met hand.
“If you had come earlier you would have suited me better,” declared Wild
Bill earnestly. “I have been worrying a bit about you. Thunder Cloud
told Black Wing about the rattlesnake business, and I believed you were
on velvet back there in the castle, otherwise I would never have left
the place without trying to find you. But you are here at last, and I’m
mighty glad to see you. You’re just in time to see a sensational
spectacle. The Apaches are up in the cliff rooms now, but in a few
minutes they will come out, and then Beelzebub will proceed to pop.”
“I have heard about the trap you have laid for the Apaches,” said
Buffalo Bill disapprovingly, “and I have hurried here to have you
withdraw it.”
“Withdraw it. Have you gone daffy, Cody?”
“No, I am as sane as you are. Look here, Hickok”—speaking with serious
earnestness—“you are a white man, aren’t you?”
“I have always passed for one,” was the smiling reply. “What of it?”
“Just this: A white man, the type of the higher civilization, does not
lay traps in order to take a mean advantage of an enemy. He fights fair,
he despises the tactics of the savage.”
Wild Bill’s face flushed with anger. “Do you mean to insinuate that I
have hatched up a low-down scheme to entrap the Apaches?” he said hotly.
“Keep your temper, Hickok,” returned Buffalo Bill quietly. “We have been
friends too long for any serious difference to arise between us. You
have not yet coolly considered the situation. You have, I am sure, acted
on impulse. Don’t you know that, if your plan goes through, the Apaches
will be at the mercy of the Yelping Crew? They will come expecting to
treat for peace. You and your crowd will be all ready for a fight. The
announcement that it is war, not peace, will throw the Apaches into a
state of consternation so that they will not be able to put up any kind
of a fight against you. The scheme is unfair; it is more than unfair, it
is——”
“That will do, Cody,” interrupted Wild Bill, his countenance red with
shame. “I see the point. I was hasty, reckless. I did not take a cold
squint at the matter. The scheme won’t do. Come with me while I do some
responsible haranguing. Time is mighty short, for the Apaches will be
out of the holes in a minute.”
Wild Bill reached the group of Comanches, and began to talk rapidly.
Headshakes and low, fierce mutterings were heard as he urged a change of
plan. After all, he argued, it would be better to have peace. A fight
against the advice of Buffalo Bill, who represented the United States
government, would draw down upon them the wrath of the soldiers. They
would be driven from their home, and, if they did not succeed in
escaping to Mexico, they would either be killed or placed on a
reservation.
Ten minutes went by while the talk went on. When Wild Bill stopped,
satisfied that he won his point, he uttered an exclamation of surprise.
The Apaches had not come out. What had happened?
“There is a screw loose somewhere,” the king of scouts remarked, with a
clouded brow. “Have you seen an Apache since you came here?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Black Wing knew that five o’clock was the time for the confab over the
treaty, did he?”
“Sure.”
“Then something has happened to him. Send one of your Comanches down
close to the cliff and have him call to Black Wing.”
“I’ll go myself.”
Wild Bill ran to the base of the cliff and shouted: “Black Wing! Are you
there?”
No answer. The call was repeated. Still no answer.
Astonished beyond measure, Wild Bill returned to Buffalo Bill and the
waiting Comanches. “I don’t believe there’s a soul up the cliff,” he
said to the king of scouts.
“I am of your opinion. Here, hook onto Black-face Ned for me, and I’ll
soon solve the riddle.”
Without waiting for an answer, Buffalo Bill ran to the mouth of the
cave, entered, and climbed up the rope that depended from the windlass
above. As his head appeared out of the hole in the stone floor, he saw
the dead body of an Indian.
The face was upturned to the ceiling, and was the face of Black Wing,
the Comanche. The king of scouts, with serious mien, stood a moment by
the body.
A glance disclosed the manner of death. The Indian had been tomahawked.
The other rooms were vacant. The Apaches had gone, and with them the two
outlaws, Flag-pole Jack and Shorty Sands. But Black Wing had not been
killed by either of the outlaws. They used pistols or knives, never
tomahawks. The Indian had met his death at the hands of an Apache.
Buffalo Bill went back to the group of fantastically attired Comanches.
His story was received first with amazement, then with savage
indignation. Every face was turned toward Wild Bill.
The white leader of the Yelping Crew faced the Indians with flashing
eyes. “Black Wing shall be avenged,” he said, in a voice that cut like a
knife. “Peace be hanged. We’ll march to the castle, for the Apaches have
gone back, of course, and camp there till we starve them out.”
Buffalo Bill knew that the time for conciliatory talk had passed, so he
uttered no protest, but said quietly: “I think as you do, Hickok. The
Apaches somehow got on to Black Wing’s plan and killed him. Then they
hurried to the castle, taking the cut-off over the ridge that I took
when I went from here this forenoon. But they may not stay there. The
finding of Thunder Cloud’s body, the discovery of the dead Indian in the
cellar, and the escape of the white prisoners will, I think, send them
out again. And if they come back here they will come by the regular
trail. Great Heaven, Hickok, they will come by the cottonwood tree!
Alkali Pete and the Haydens may see them coming, but the chances to
escape observation are poor. Come on, we must meet the fiends before
they reach our friends, if it is possible to do so.”
The words were scarcely out of the scout’s mouth before the Apaches
appeared.