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.”