The head disappeared, and it was apparent that Crow-killer and his braves had retreated farther into the bushes. It might be that they intended to go around the flat and approach the cabin from the other side. Or the delay in coming to the cabin might be attributed to caution. Crow-killer did not know where the scout was. He might be in the cabin, and he might be out searching for Bart Angell. “I reckon I know what is bothering Crow-killer,” said the king of scouts to himself. “He wants to know the layout in the cabin before making a move to help his brother and that villain, Holmes. Maybe the program is to make a sneak, get to the window, and look in.” He was looking across the flat when there came the report of a rifle, and a bullet struck a log a foot above his head. This action on the part of the savages filled the king of scouts with surprise and uneasiness. His body could not have been seen, for he was crouched behind the tall pile of wood, and he had not exposed his head during his stay there. How, then, could the Navahos know where he was? He was endeavoring to answer this question, when a tomahawk, thrown with murderous force, whizzed by his head. The attack had come from behind, and his skull would have been cleft in twain if the wielder had not slipped on the smooth, damp ground just as the arm shot out. The king of scouts sprang to his feet and met the giant Crow-killer advancing on him with drawn knife. Buffalo Bill had his rifle in his hand. Quick as lightning he clubbed it, and brought the stock down on the hand that held the knife. The weapon dropped to the ground, and instantly Crow-killer leaped upon his enemy. Buffalo Bill had not time to again make use of the rifle. It left his hand, and he met the rush by lowering his head and driving it like a battering-ram against the weakest part of the giant’s anatomy. Struck squarely in the pit of the stomach, Crow-killer doubled up, and was in the act of falling, when Buffalo Bill, converting his right hand into a sledge hammer, caused it to carom on the savage’s chin. The result was what might have been expected: Crow-killer struck the ground with a thud. In an instant the victor regained his rifle and turned to glance at the flat. The Navahos were running toward the cabin. They saw him, and three reports rang out. They were not simultaneous. Buffalo Bill, the quickest on the trigger, fired first, and then sprang to one side, only to fire again and again. When the smoke cleared away there were two dead Indians on the flat. With a hard smile the king of scouts turned to see Crow-killer making strenuous efforts to get to his feet. A couple of well-directed blows had the result desired. The brother of the Navaho chief sought again a horizontal position, and lay quite still.