Every one else slept soundly, except Little Cayuse, who stood guard the first half of the night, and Chappo, who acted as sentry the last half. Neither of them, so they declared afterward, heard nor saw anything, though their superstitious fears, it seemed to the scout, ought to have been enough to keep them wide-eyed until morning. But in the morning came a startling discovery, which showed, also, that at some time in the night one of them, at least, had been asleep. Tom Conover was gone from the camp! And no one had known when he went. The fact of his disappearance was announced by Nomad, who awoke early, and, looking round for him, did not find him, and had hardly expected that he would find him. “Whoop!” he shouted, and sprang to his feet; he had lain down with all his clothing on. “Waugh! Me no cumtax this. Onless, mebbe, it’s ther whiskizoos workin’!” What whiskizoos were was a thing old Nomad had never been able to say to the satisfaction of Buffalo Bill or any one else. But whenever the old trapper came company front with what struck him as much out of the ordinary, or supernatural, or inexplicable, then the whiskizoos had been at work. He never tried to explain beyond that. His whooping exclamations brought Buffalo Bill and Wild Bill out of their blankets and roused the sleeping Indians, starting also to his feet Chappo, who was on guard, but at the moment was squatting in a growth of sagebrush by the camp fire, hugging his rifle between his brown knees. “What’s up?” demanded Wild Bill, pulling out his revolver and staring round. “Lookee thar!” said Nomad, pointing to the spot where all had seen Tom Conover lie down for his night’s sleep. “What is it yer sees thar, anyhow?” “Nothing.” “That’s jest what I see, too—nothing; and Scar-face Conover ought ter be layin’ thar, hadn’t he? Whar is he? Call ther roll, Buffler.” Buffalo Bill looked about, and off over the surrounding country. The sun had not yet risen, and a gray haze, of early dawn, hid much of the rugged landscape from his view. “Cayuse?” he called, a strange quaver in his voice. “Ai, Pa-e-has-ka.” “Yuppah!” “Huh!” “Chappo!” “Wuh!” “Pedro!” “All same here, Pa-e-has-ka!” Little Cayuse and his Apache scouts lined up. “The white man who was here is gone,” said the scout shortly. “Find his trail.” “Ai, Pa-e-has-ka.” They began to circle the camp, with heads down, black eyes scanning the earth and rocks. At once they were puzzled, if not baffled; there was no trail of a white man’s boots leading out from the camp. Wider and wider grew the circle in which they swung, closer and nearer they bent their heads to the ground. At last, more than a hundred yards out from the camp, Chappo uttered a low, triumphant whoop. He stopped, staring at the ground, and the other Indians hastened to him. Buffalo Bill and his white companions walked out to where the Indians were grouped. “Me find um, Pa-e-has-ka,” said Chappo proudly. He pointed to the ground.