“Then they shore ain’t anything ter brag erbout. We war two innercent, mush-headed flies, an’ that thar Injun, who insinivated his pesky cabesa outer ther hole, war ther foxy spider. Waugh! Gimme a smoke, Cody. I wanter to take ther taste outer my mouth.” Buffalo Bill laughed. It was not a mirthful laugh. “As my hands are tied, and as you are in the same fix, Bart, I don’t see how I can accommodate you.” “Ye’ve got ter,” persisted Angell. “Ef ye refuse ter whack up with ther terback—ther measly Injun who worked ther spider game swiped mine—I’ll shore hev ter take it away from yer by main force an’ awkwardness.” The king of scouts looked queerly at his friend. The big backwoodsman was more than half in earnest. As his eyes met those of Buffalo Bill, a big grin overspread his homely face. “It’s your play,” quietly remarked the king of scouts. “Bring out your cold deck and proceed to do me up.” For answer, Bart Angell spread his legs. The cords that had secured his ankles had been cut, and there between them lay the knife which had performed the operation. Bending forward and downward, not without a painful effort, Angell took the knife between his teeth. Then he lifted his hands and quickly severed the cords that bound his wrists. A minute later Buffalo Bill, like his comrade, was free of his bonds. “It war ther girl,” said Angell, his voice in a whisper. “She did ther trick while that ornery hound of a Holmes war unwinding his rotten yarn off onto you.” The scouts searched the chamber for weapons, but found none. Disappointed, but not daunted, Buffalo Bill stole to the narrow corridor through which Holmes and the girl had departed, and listened intently. The faint sound of voices in the outer and main apartment of the cave told him that his enemies were still underground. He went forward into the corridor until he was able to both see and hear. The corridor had many projections, the walls nowhere were even, and he quickly found a hiding place. Rixton Holmes was speaking in the Navaho tongue when the king of scouts reached his shelter. “Raven Feather shall have his revenge,” he said, in a cold, even tone. “After I have gone, the cave and all that is in it is yours.” “My brother will depart alone?” There was savage eagerness in the question. “No,” was the firm answer. “The white maiden will go with me.” “My white brother forgets,” returned the chief, with equal firmness. “He promised that the maiden should become the squaw of Raven Feather.” “‘Circumstances alter cases,’” said the villain coolly. “I had not seen the girl when I made the promise. She will become the wife of Rixton Holmes.” There was silence for a few moments. Buffalo Bill, his interest at fever heat by the unexpected development, waited for the next words of the chief of the Navahos. But it was Crow-killer, the chief’s brother, who was the next speaker.