CHAPTER III. BUFFALO BILL FALLS INTO A TRAP. In reaching his position, the king of scouts had covered his trail as far as was possible for him to do so. But he knew that the only effect of his precaution would be to delay the arrival of the four Navahos who had been sent out to run him to earth. At the most, he had half an hour in which to continue his retreat or make an effort to regain the ground he had lost at the cabin. Circumstances had compelled him to relinquish an advantage, but his mind was made up not to leave the flat until he had had another accounting with the murderer of Matt and Jared Holmes. He realized that the odds were against him, but the fact did not alter his determination. “If only Bart Angell had lived,” he said sorrowfully to himself, “the work would be easy. With him for support, I could rush that cabin and have Rixton Holmes by the heels in a twinkling.” A rifle shot from the direction of the ravine brought an expression of amazement to his fine face. Upon the sound of the report, Raven Feather, who a moment before had stepped into the cabin, came out accompanied by Rixton Holmes. Their eyes met, and one thought was in the mind of each. The Indian trailers had come upon Buffalo Bill and shot him. No other theory was permissible, for, if the shot had been fired by the king of scouts, there would assuredly have come an answering report. The chief and his white employer stood a moment, listening, and then, hearing nothing, Raven Feather spoke rapidly to the braves who had remained with him at the cabin. As they made for the bushes, Buffalo Bill saw to his relief and satisfaction that Holmes and Raven Feather were moving toward the door of the cabin. He waited until they had entered, and then stole quickly across the space that separated him from the little building. His movement was not observed, for the one window of the cabin was on the other side. A slight noise in his rear caused him to turn his head just as he was about to step in front of the doorway and cover the enemies within. What he saw brought a light of joy to his eyes. Bart Angell, in the flesh, stood on the spot the king of scouts had left but a few moments before. His rifle was in his hand, and, though his face was bloody, he held himself erect, and seemed ready for any emergency. Buffalo Bill put his finger to his lips, pointed toward the cabin door, and then wheeled, took a few steps, and brought his revolvers to bear upon the Indian chief and Rixton Holmes. The white villain and his savage ally were taken completely by surprise. Holmes was sitting on the bunk, and Raven Feather squatted on the floor in front of him. “One yell from either of you,” the king of scouts hissed, “and I shoot. Hands up!”