A number of shots from down the flat stifled the reply on Buffalo Bill’s lips. He jumped to his feet and ran out into the open. Between the ruins of Matt Holmes’ cabin and the ravine two horsemen could be seen. The horses were standing still, and the backs of the riders were turned toward the two scouts. Buffalo Bill used his field glasses, and saw that the horsemen were whites. Before he lowered the glasses the horsemen turned and rode up the flat. They waved their hands when they caught sight of the king of scouts and his comrade. Buffalo Bill’s face blushed with joyous excitement. “Bart,” said he, as he slapped his brave comrade on the back, “do you recognize the tall one? It’s Wild Bill.” Angell gave a whoop and threw his sombrero high in air. The riders came up. One was a young, handsome, honest-eyed man; the other was Wild Bill, the noted Indian fighter and old comrade of the king of scouts. If Buffalo Bill was delighted at the meeting, what must be said of the emotions of Hickok? Usually cool, self-contained, slow in speech and rarely demonstrative, he now exhibited the exuberance of an impressionable youth. “Drat my skin,” he exclaimed, after he wrung Buffalo Bill’s hand and pulled him roughly but affectionately about, “if I ain’t feeling too good for any use. I expected to assist in a funeral, though I ought to have known that you are too big a man to allow a measly mob of Indians to down you.” “What did you hear? And how did you happen to come here?” “Let me introduce my friend, and then I’ll saddle the explaining racket onto him. This is Carl Henson, only half a tenderfoot and wholly a thoroughbred. He came from Denver to find you and somebody else.” Wild Bill, with these words, moved toward the cabin. “Hold on a bit,” said the king of scouts, his right hand in that of the young man. “Before we go inside, I want some information. What did that shooting down the flat mean?” “Oh,” replied Wild Bill indifferently, “we just stopped a little spying. A couple of Navahos were sneaking toward this cabin when we spotted them.” He said no more, and his head disappeared in the cabin. The king of scouts winked at Bart Angell. Carl Henson saw the wink, and said, with a smile: “Our mutual friend Mr. Hickok is too modest. I had no hand in the killing of the two Indians. But two shots were fired, and both came from Mr. Hickok’s rifle.” “Wild Bill shore shoots ter kill,” was Bart Angell’s emphatic comment. “I’m a fair hand at their trigger myself, but I lays down ter Wild Bill an’ Cody.” In the cabin, Carl Henson told the story of his coming to the flat. “My home is in Pennsylvania,” he began, “and I am engaged to be married to the nicest girl in America.” He sighed deeply, but went on before Buffalo Bill could speak. “You have probably guessed her name, Mr. Cody. It is Myra Wilton.” “She is a prisoner in the hands of the Navahos,” said the king of scouts sadly.