“He had said,” solemnly announced the disguised scout, “that the presence and assistance of Crow-killer would be more potent than even the presence and assistance of Raven Feather and the squaws. Why? Because Crow-killer had just returned from an expedition which had resulted in the killing of that dreaded enemy of the Navahos, Buffalo Bill. The scalp of the great white warrior was now reposing under the head of Raven Feather, and when the chief awoke he would find all his troubles gone.” The medicine man was deeply impressed. He turned, issued a curt order, and the three squaws arose and toddled out of the tepee. When they had gone from sight, Buffalo Bill entered the tepee and let down the door flap. He had resolved upon a course that was not in his mind when he entered the Indian village. If he could not rescue Myra Wilton alive, he would carry her away dead. The poor girl should not become the victim of an Indian burial. He walked slowly to the side of Black Bison, and then suddenly gripped the dwarf by the throat and forced him to the floor. The head of the medicine man struck the torch that he had brought, and which had been stuck in a hole in the ground, and it fell over, sputtered, and went out. The quick change from light to darkness caused the king of scouts to slightly relax his hold on the throat of his victim. The action was instantly taken advantage of, and Buffalo Bill, strong as he was, soon discovered that he was opposing a very giant in strength. There ensued a long and terrific struggle, in which not a word was uttered. While it was progressing, the king of scouts thought he heard a movement from the direction of the couch of skins upon which lay the body of Myra Wilton. Ten minutes elapsed before the end of the contest came. Sore and out of breath, Buffalo Bill got to his feet and relighted the torch. As its light shone upon the bed of skins, he gave vent to a cry of amazement. The body had disappeared. A large slit in the skin wall back of the couch disclosed the avenue of escape. With a strange light in his eyes the king of scouts stepped quickly to the wall and examined the slit. It had been made by one strong stroke. No weak woman could have made it. Myra Wilton had not come to life, but her body had been stolen by some enemy of the Navahos. Out of the hole in the wall went the wondering scout, and with his sharp eyes endeavored to pierce the darkness that surrounded him. There were no lights in any of the other tepees. The nearest was about twenty feet away, and standing in front of it was an Indian. The false Crow-killer went over to the Navaho, and was pleased to find that it was one who had spoken to him concerning the medicine man and the incantation. The Indian did not respond when asked if any one had preceded the questioner out of the slit in the tepee of the dead white maiden.