“Rixton Holmes,” replied Buffalo Bill promptly. “He knew the ponies. His own, this fellow, is a decent sort of a plug, but Crow-killer’s is stronger and fleeter.” “That’s it, sure, Cody.” Then Wild Bill added: “Of course, you know the crook the Navahos have about the horses of the whites.” “Oh, yes. They will never ride one. All that are found are led away and killed.” “Then don’t you see what a mistake you made in riding this pony?” “I do, but it is only just now that the mistake has been called to my notice. Confound it, I have got to walk to the Indian village.” “You needn’t walk. The other pony is right here in the bushes. It is a pinto, and if it did not belong to Crow-killer, you can explain, if you have to, that your pony was killed.” “Hickok, you are a friend, indeed. You have saved me a lot of trouble and worry.” The king of scouts, on his new mount, parted from Wild Bill and rode into the little valley of the Navahos. But his spirits were not buoyant. The mishap at the beginning of his desperate venture had brought many misgivings. But there was no hesitation as to the program he had mapped out. He would carry out his part no matter what the result might be. He was approaching the village, wondering, as he rode, why he had not met another sentinel, when an Indian arose from the deep grass along one side of the trail and grasped the pony by the bridle, saying as he did so: “Crow-killer must go back. It is the order of his brother, the great chief, Raven Feather.” The disguised scout heard the statement with amazement and disappointment. “What has Crow-killer done that he should be treated in this way?” he indignantly demanded. “He has offended Raven Feather. He has allowed the white traitor to steal his pony.” “Is the white traitor in the village?” asked the false Crow-killer eagerly, forgetting his indignation for the moment. “No. But,” the Indian added, “he was seen before the moon came, riding the pony of the chief’s brother.” Buffalo Bill’s head sank to his breast. Nothing was said for a minute. The scout broke the silence. “Where must I go?” he asked. “Back to the flat of the white man who was killed. There you must stay for two moons.” “Do all the braves know that Crow-killer has fallen from his high place?” The Indian shook his head. “But two know that the pony of Crow-killer was stolen—Raven Feather, the chief, and Red Antelope, who saw the white traitor and the pony.” As he spoke, the Indian placed his hand gravely over his heart. The king of scouts heaved a sigh of relief. The situation was not so bad, after all.