Carl Henson smiled indulgently. “All right,” he replied. “If I have given offense, I am glad of it.” Bart Angell roared, and Wild Bill glared fiercely at the young man. But presently he smiled, and began rolling a cigarette. “We exchanged confidences,” proceeded Henson, “and from that time on have been comrades. In the hills two days later we came upon a wounded Mexican. He had been shot by Raven Feather’s Indians and left for dead. Why they did not scalp him is a mystery.” “No mystery at all,” grunted Wild Bill. “He was bald-headed.” “So he was,” admitted Henson soberly, while the others laughed. “That makes a difference, I suppose?” “I should say it did,” declared Buffalo Bill. “It’s the hair the savages want.” “Well, I am glad the Mexican was not scalped, for the operation might have ended his life, and we would not have learned then what the Navahos were up to. “The Mexican was able to talk, and he told us that he had overheard a conversation between Raven Feather and a white man, who answered the description of Rixton Holmes. A girl was to be abducted, and her protector, Buffalo Bill, was to be killed. The girl and you, Mr. Cody, had gone to a ranch in the hills, a day’s journey from the spot. While the conversation was going on another white man appeared, and presently the two whites went off together. They were mounted and rode westward. The second man was Tom Darke, for the Mexican heard him called by that name. “Afterward, while crawling away from the Indian camp, the Mexican was seen and fired upon. He lay as if dead, and had been there on the ground for two days. Death came while he was talking to us. We rode on, and—and here we are.” “Now, Hickok, what have you to say?” asked Buffalo Bill, as Henson finished his explanation. “Mighty little, old man. After we left the Mexican we struck an Indian trail, and I parted company with Mr. Henson to do a little scouting. I followed the trail to the Indian village, and learned that there had been a fight, and that Raven Feather had captured a white girl. The chief was not in the village, but was chasing a white man who had played traitor. “I returned to my friend here, and we concluded to ride on to the flat and learn how things were there before undertaking a campaign against the reds. You see, Cody, I was a little anxious about you. I did not know what had actually happened up here; and again, there was that matter of Tom Darke.” “Darke is dead, Hickok.” “I know. I saw the body. Must have been some doing on and near this flat.” Buffalo Bill told what had occurred, and Wild Bill opened his eyes in astonishment and admiration. “Great Scott! But why wasn’t I here?” he exclaimed. The king of scouts eyed him coolly. “The fight has but just begun,” he quietly remarked. “There is a chance for you yet. There is a girl to be rescued and a villain to catch and punish.” The tall scout arose, the flame of battle in his eyes. “Come on,” he said. “I am ready.”