The question was repeated. Now there was movement instead of oral answer. Clutching the disguised scout by the arms, the Navaho let out a yell that was sufficient to arouse the whole village. A series of yells came in response, and as the king of scouts flung the Indian to the ground he found himself in the midst of an excited mob. He dodged a tomahawk, caught sight of the vengeful face of Raven Feather, fired point-blank at the chief’s head, and, as the chief fell, struck right and left with weapon and fist, and had succeeded in forcing his way out of the crowd, when his legs were seized by the released medicine man, who had crawled under the skin of the tepee. As Buffalo Bill felt himself falling, a shout that was as fine wine to a thirsty throat saluted his ears. Then ensued a fusillade that sent all the Indians who could use their legs to a place of security. The medicine man lay dead with a bullet in his brain as the grateful king of scouts shook hands with Wild Bill, Bart Angell, and Carl Henson. They had been awaiting the signal from Buffalo Bill, and the delay in giving it had caused them to think that there had been a miscue. Consequently they had entered the village on their own motion. On the ground where the shooting had taken place lay seven Indians, among them Raven Feather, the chief. “There are not more than a dozen Navahos left,” said the king of scouts as he looked at the slain, “and I don’t think we need anticipate any trouble from them. They know their chief is dead, and if we give them opportunity they will leave the village before morning.” “I shan’t object,” remarked Wild Bill. “I have no use for them. Have you, Cody?” “No. We have won out in the Navaho matter. But——” He paused, and gazed thoughtfully at the ground. “But what?” anxiously inquired Carl Henson. “Is not Myra Wilton in the village? Haven’t you seen her?” The questions cost the sympathetic king of scouts a painful effort to answer. But the truth must be told. Slowly and gravely he narrated the story of his adventures and discoveries since his arrival in the village. Carl Henson uttered a groan of anguish. His form shook with emotion. “Brace up,” said Wild Bill sullenly. “I have got an idea, and if it doesn’t change your tune, then I don’t know hardtack from chile con carne. Listen to me: Myra Wilton is not dead.” Carl Henson looked up with a start of joy. “Explain,” he demanded. “What do you know that Mr. Cody does not know?” “Mighty little in regard to most things, young man, but a trifle more than he does in the matter of a certain Rixton Holmes.” “You think he stole the body, eh?” put in Buffalo Bill. “So do I.” “Of course he is the thief. And I’ll bet a hat I know how he worked the snap. When I was in Taos gathering the facts about the murder of Jared Holmes, I learned that Holmes—he went under another name then—had been seen colleaguing with Tom Darke, the man who did the actual killing.”