Rixton Holmes regarded the king of scouts in contemptuous surprise. “Do you take me for a blanked idiot?” he said. “If you want me tied, you’ll have to do the tying yourself.” A bullet scraped the villain’s ear. “You must take another look at your hand,” remarked the shooter sharply. “You spoke without taking stock of your situation.” With an angry expletive, Holmes took the cords and began to follow the scout’s directions. He was thus occupied when a noise in the bushes outside made him cease operations and look queerly at Buffalo Bill. The king of scouts walked quickly to the door and looked out with one eye. The other he kept glued to the face of Rixton Holmes. He had the forethought not to expose his body, but stood upon one side of the opening. A peculiar, hissing sound from the bushes brought a similar sibilant exhibition from within the cabin. Buffalo Bill, instantly alive to the new danger that menaced him, leaped across the room and dealt Holmes a crushing blow behind the ear. As the villain collapsed in a heap on the floor, the king of scouts started for the door for the purpose of closing it, when a series of bloodcurdling yells broke upon his ears. The yells were followed by the appearance of a score of painted savages. They were in full view from the door before Buffalo Bill could reach it. Instantly his revolvers cracked, and howls and screams announced the result of his shots. Having fired several times with the effect of driving the redskins back to the bushes, he closed the door and shot the bolt. This done, he turned his attention to the villain on the floor. Before Holmes’ senses returned, he was bound hand and foot. No gag was applied. The king of scouts desired a little further information from his victim. It would probably be some time before the Indians made a new demonstration, and the scout had a faint hope that the lull might furnish something that would take the edge off the grave danger that confronted him. “You know these savages,” he said harshly to Holmes. “Their coming was not unexpected. Do they play a part in this villainous scheme of yours?” “It can do me no harm to answer that question,” replied the villain, with a malicious grin. “They are friends of mine, and I knew they were coming.” “Why have they come? You did not need them to aid you in the murder of Matt Holmes, nor in the abduction of Myra Wilton.” “No”—the grin broadening—“but I need them to assist me in taking care of the girl. She is to be the bride of Raven Feather, the chief.” “Then I reckon she is with them now.” “If she isn’t she ought to be. I left her with them when I made my sneak to prospect this cabin.” “Did the Indians know that I was here?” “No, neither did I know you were here when I started for the cabin. I knew some man, wounded, was here, but my notion was that the man was my Uncle Matt.” A voice from without caused Buffalo Bill to look up quickly.