At the expiration of ten minutes, the silence having continued unbroken, Buffalo Bill stooped, picked up a three-foot section of the dead branch of a tree, and then removed his sombrero. Placing the hat at an end of the stick, he thrust it a few inches beyond the cottonwood in the direction of camp. No shot followed. Either the ruse was guessed, or the enemy had changed his position. The situation was a ticklish one. If the scout stepped out into the open space he might become a target for a murderous bullet, while if he crawled into the brush he might encounter a similar danger. Where had the enemy gone? Buffalo Bill tried to put himself in the unknown’s place. After a few moments’ thought, he said to himself: “He has probably sneaked noiselessly to a point nearer the camp. He has seen the rifle, and he believes that I will, after a time, return there. I will return, but not in the way he expects.” There was but the space of a few yards between the tree and the creek, which carried a deep and swiftly running body of water. Buffalo Bill flattened himself, crawled in safety to the water, and then softly entered it. Keeping his head as low as was possible, he allowed the strong current to carry him a quarter of a mile. Then he swam to shore, mounted the bank, and halted at the trail. Full daylight had come, and the scout could almost see the camp from where he stood. The way thither was along a rock-bordered path, with here and there a tree. Buffalo Bill looked at the trail, shook his head, and then turned his eyes up the bank of the cañon. Here the trees were more numerous, and there were many bowlders, and a few flat places where the mesquite flourished. The king of scouts, without hesitation, went up the bank, and by stooping and crawling managed to reach a spot above and not twenty yards from the camp without having been seen. He could see the rifles, and knew by this that the enemy had not as yet entered the camp. But the scout did not move from his place of concealment. He had a shrewd idea of the situation, and was not surprised when, after a short time, he heard a noise in the brush below him and close to the camp. Presently a tall, muscular Indian stepped into the open and moved toward the rifles. Buffalo Bill, who had expected to see Black-face Ned, was astonished and puzzled when the redskin, an Apache, stepped into view. A bullet from the scout’s pistol would have laid the Indian low, but Buffalo Bill did not desire to fire the shot if the action could with safety be avoided. “I’ll capture him, if I can, and make him tell me what brought him here, and why he killed the Hualapi.” With this thought in his mind, Buffalo Bill watched the Apache until he saw the Indian stoop to gather up the rifles. Then he rushed down the bank with such speed that he was close to the Apache when that astonished aborigine raised his head.