Buffalo Bill knew the Indian was coming, and smiled, for before taking his position between the bowlders he had been shrewd enough to cover his trail. He had left the prints of hands and feet in the sand up to a point of a few yards to the right of the two bowlders. The prints terminated at the side of a single bowlder that stood in front of a stunted tree. The tree was provided with a few live limbs, one of which hung over the hollow between the two bowlders. Buffalo Bill had used this limb to reach the hollow, and he was well satisfied with the ruse when he saw the Apache halt near the bowlders by the tree and look curiously at the plain trail in the sand. A moment he stood in full view, and then walked straight for the hollow that concealed the enemy. The king of scouts had not been expecting a move of this kind, but he made no attempt to retreat. He believed that the Indian was unaware of his presence in the hollow, and, therefore, resolved to give the foe the surprise of his life. The Apache, a tall, fine specimen of his tribe, was within a few feet of the hollow when Buffalo Bill jumped up, gave a spring, and had the redskin by the throat before that surprised aborigine had time to realize what had happened. And now ensued a struggle that called into play all of Buffalo Bill’s resources of mind and muscle. The Apache was powerful, supple, and as slippery as an eel. He had his adversary about the waist, and, in spite of the terrible pressure about his windpipe, his grasp tightened until the king of scouts thought that his ribs would collapse. But the end came in a manner that neither combatant had anticipated. In moving about, the Apache’s foot struck a stone, and in tumbling his hold on Buffalo Bill was relaxed. In an instant he was lying on the ground, and the scout was sitting on his chest. The fall had partly stunned the Indian, and he was soon placed so that further resistance was impossible. When ready for a renewal of hostilities, he discovered to his rage and disgust that his hands were tied. “If you raise your voice to call your fellows,” whispered the king of scouts, in the Apache tongue, “I’ll kill you. Understand?” “Heap understand,” was the hoarse reply. “Where are your comrades?” asked the victor, with a menacing expression. “No know.” “Where were they when you set out to scout the summit?” “In the cañon of the Hualapis.” “That’s down below where I had my camp, isn’t it?” The Apache nodded. “Are your fellow braves and Black-face Ned’s outlaws going to attack the Yelping Crew?” “Maybe.” “I see. You wish first to learn how large a force the Wolf Faces are able to muster.” “Thunder Cloud desires no fight with the Yelping Crew. If the chief of the Yelpers will release the white men he has captured, Thunder Cloud will withdraw from these hills.” “Meaning Flag-pole Jack and Shorty Sands, eh?” “Yes.” “Were you on your way to the cliff dwellings when you ran afoul of me?”