He was bound and gagged and dragged into the cabin. Taking a stool, the victor of the recent combat wiped his perspiring face. He had reason for exultation, but his brow was sad. The nonappearance of Bart Angell was disquieting. He must have fallen into a trap and been conveyed to the mysterious cave; and to find that cave, rescue Myra Wilton and possibly the missing scout, was now Buffalo Bill’s fixed intention. It was near the hour of noon. The king of scouts prepared a meal, ate of it, and, removing the gags of his prisoners, gave each a supply of the food. The two Indians partook sparingly of what was offered them, but Rixton Holmes ate like a famished wolf. “I went off this morning without my breakfast,” he explained to Buffalo Bill, with a nervous smile. “I am in for it, maybe, but I’m not going to make a fool of myself. Food imparts strength, and I may need my strength before I leave this neck o’ woods.” “Yes, I think you will,” responded the king of scouts dryly. “Until I find horses, there’s quite a long walk ahead of you.” There was one horse outside. It belonged to Bart Angell. Affixed to the pommel of the saddle was a reata. It was a long one, and Buffalo Bill nodded approvingly as he removed it. With the reata in his hand he reëntered the cabin, and thus addressed his prisoners: “I am going to find that cave. You three will go with me, for it would be the height of folly to leave you here. I shall give you the use of your feet, but your hands will remain tied, and this reata will serve as a bond to hold you together. The free end will be in my hand, and I shall drive you much as I might drive so many fractious ponies. Of course, it goes without saying that it won’t be healthy for any one of you to disobey any order that I may give.” None of the prisoners had anything to say. The ankle cords were cut, the reata placed as explained, and then Buffalo Bill pointed to the door. “March!” he commanded, and with Rixton Holmes in the lead, a sheepish expression on his evil face, Buffalo Bill and his strange tandem left the cabin. Every order was obeyed as the party went along the trail that led to the ravine. The two Indians wore scowling faces, but Holmes was cheerful. The king of scouts wondered at the villain’s apparent state of mind. Was he playing a part, affecting a joyousness that he was far from feeling, or had he some card up his sleeve that he expected soon to play? The scout determined to get at the truth if he could. “Holmes,” said he, when they were near the ravine, “you are a slippery cuss, and you are counting on getting out of the hole in which I have placed you. That’s right, isn’t it?” A cunning look came into the villain’s face. “I’d be a fool not to live in hopes, when I am alive and well, wouldn’t I?” was the somewhat evasive reply. “Suppose I take you straight to Taos and not try to find this cave? Would you still have hopes?”