“So am I,” returned the king of scouts, “though I would feel better if I had a horse.” “You’ll have one, so will Bart here,” said Wild Bill. “The Indian scouts came here mounted. I saw them when they left their plugs to make the sneak on the flat.” Buffalo Bill’s eye kindled. He got up, and Bart Angell and Carl Henson followed suit. The food wallets were filled, and then the quartet went down the flat, all walking, Wild Bill and the young lawyer leading their animals. At the mouth of the ravine the bodies of the two Indians slain by Wild Bill were found. The king of scouts was surprised to discover that one of the Indians was the giant Crow-killer. As he looked at the motionless form of his late antagonist, a daring scheme formulated in his mind. “You have done a big thing, Hickok,” he said soberly to Wild Bill. “You have given me the chance to get into the Navaho camp.” “As how?” inquired the other. “As Crow-killer, the brother of Raven Feather. Hold on, no expostulation until I have finished. The dead Indian is of my height. He is a trifle heavier, but that matter can be remedied by a little judicious padding. You see that his face is one crisscross mass of paint marks. I am never without Indian paint, and it will be easy for me to make up my face so that it will pass for Crow-killer’s, especially as I shall select the nighttime for my entrance into the village.” “You may fool the mob, but you can’t pull the wool over Raven Feather’s eyes,” said Wild Bill. “I won’t have to. Leave that detail to me.” Wild Bill knew that it would be useless to protest. He said no more, but gave earnest attention to the bold scheme that Buffalo Bill outlined. A mile from the flat the ponies of the slain Navahos were found. The king of scouts took one and Bart Angell appropriated the other. The trail to the village was a plain one, and the four whites followed it until they arrived at the top of a hill where there was a dense growth of trees. Below them, and not more than two miles away, was the home of Raven Feather and his Navahos. “We must not ride any farther,” commanded Buffalo Bill. “There is probably a sentinel at the foot of this hill, and there are others between the hill and the village.” “I can see the fellow at the foot of the hill now,” said Wild Bill, who had borrowed the king of scout’s field glasses. “He is lying down under a tree and smoking.” It was late afternoon. The horses were tethered, and then the four friends sat down and waited for the coming of dark. Each had a part to play, and each was anxious for the time of action to come. Just before dark they had a cold meal, and when night came Buffalo Bill arose, and, after shaking hands with his three friends, strode boldly down the hill, leading the larger of the two ponies, the one he had selected, and which he believed to be the one that had belonged to Crow-killer.