The Indians, instead of hanging back, now kept close to the heels of the horses, with frightened glances cast now and then behind. Old Nomad was as silent as the Indians themselves. Even Buffalo Bill and Wild Bill did not talk much; the rainbowed avenue, pinching in about them, had a depressing effect. “Waugh!” said Nomad, when daylight was seen shining like a white star ahead. “I’m glad ter git outer this hyar, anyhow. I’ll sing praises an’ shout halleluyers, when I hears water runnin’ ag’in and sees grass growin’.” But there was no water and no grass, apparently, in the region beyond this red notch. A flat basin lay there, like the dried-up bottom of some old lake; except that near the middle of it the bottom seemed to have dropped out, and showed a ragged rent or hole, with precipice edges on the nearer side and sheer cliff walls, rainbowed, on the farther. Smoke ascended in thin columns out of that deep hole, and though from where they were the hole seemed small, Buffalo Bill saw that really it was very large, covering a space of a mile or more in its widest diameter. He drew rein involuntarily in the mouth of the notch, and sat looking off at that hole and the smoke columns mounting out of it into the turquoise-blue sky. One of the columns was like mist, and much larger than the others. “Waugh!” ejaculated Nomad, drawing Hide-rack back by a jerk on the rein. “I been lookin’ fer ther Pit, and thar she is.” Buffalo Bill took out his field glasses, screwed them into focus, took a long look, and passed them silently to Wild Bill. The Indians stood wide-eyed and staring. Little Cayuse swung his hand through the air, making that egg-shaped circle; it was his prayer to the Indian spirits to give him “life,” in this dire emergency, instead of “death.” As they gazed at the queer valley and queer hole a score or more of mounted Indians bobbed into sight and swooped down on an object that had not yet attracted attention. The Indians were so near the end of the notch that their painted bodies and faces, and their singular ornaments, could be seen; likewise the tuft of red feathers which each wore in his hair. And their yells reached the group in the notch. The Indians swung ropes, presumably of rawhide, and cast them at the object, which apparently had been crouching on the ground beside a rock. The object rose into full view, and was seen to be a man. Buffalo Bill, with the glasses again in his hands, turned them full on the man whom the red-feathered Indians lassoed. “The baron!” broke from his lips. “Baron von Schnitzenhauser!” “Thunder, and carry one!” “Waugh! It cain’t be; it jes’ cain’t be, Buffler!” But there was no doubt about it. Buffalo Bill knew the baron too well. There was the round body and the slender legs, like a pippin on a pair of toothpicks; there was the characteristic clothing; even the baron’s frightened face could be seen distinctly with the glasses as the lariats threw him down.