As he spoke, Bart Angell appeared by his side. The chief’s copper countenance twitched once, and then became stolid. With the stoicism of his race, he had quickly accepted the situation. But Rixton Holmes was of different metal. He groaned, and then began to curse. While the king of scouts held the pistols, the stalwart backwoodsman quickly and deftly bound the limbs of the two victims. The operation over, Buffalo Bill asked: “How many foes have we got to face? Half an hour ago there were eight Navahos. Four went out on hunt for me, and afterward three left to see what had become of the four.” “I reckon that three will be erbout ther number,” replied Angell, with a slight smile. “I thought so, Bart. You met the four, and——” “Wiped ’em out. Yes, that war ther ticket. I had ter, Cody.” “Of course”—with a look of appreciation. “But the story will have to be deferred. We must settle with the three who are out.” “I don’t berleeve they’ll mosey back hyer,” was Angell’s comment. “They’ll shorely find ther four dead bodies, an’ they’ll naterally conclude that you hev made tracks fer ther cabin, fer, in course, they’ll think as how you war ther slayer.” “Maybe you are right, Bart.” “You stay hyer a spell an’ I’ll prove I’m right. Ef ther three aire hot-footin’ it fer ther plains I’ll soon know, an’ waltz back an’ tell ye.” Angell went off, following the route taken by the savage trio. He was out of hearing when it occurred to Buffalo Bill that the three Indians might retreat to the cave spoken of by Raven Feather where Myra Wilton was hidden a prisoner, with the chief’s brother Crow-killer as guard. If this should prove to be the case, Angell might not be able to return as soon as he had hoped when he set out. It was probable that he knew nothing about the cave, for if he had, he would assuredly have spoken of it. Somewhat uneasy in mind, the scout lit a pipe and began to smoke. Observing his sober face, Rixton Holmes said maliciously: “You are not feeling very well, in spite of the fact that you have turned the tables on me. I’ll bet a hat your pard doesn’t come back. He has played in luck twice, but he’ll miss it on the third trial.” “His coming here in the nick of time showed you up as the champion liar,” returned the king of scouts sharply. “You said you had killed him.” “And I thought I had,” was the calm reply. “He was lying on the ground up the ravine, looking at something below, when I stole up, used my knife, and tumbled him over the bank. I saw him go plunging down a hundred feet or more, landing in a clump of bushes.” “He’s a hard man to kill,” said Buffalo Bill, as he blew a cloud of smoke into the air, “and he won’t miss this last trick. When he returns, the girl will be with him.” “Do you care to make a small bet on that proposition?” asked Holmes, a queer look on his face.