The way was not obstructed, and, after five minutes’ progress, he reached the mouth, which was screened by bushes. Voices not far away made him pause. “He’ll shore strike ther tunnel, an’ we’ll get him when he projecks his snoot outer ther mouth,” said Bat Wason. “Then go at once and take a position so you can plug him when he appears,” was the reply of Black-face Ned. Now it was that Buffalo Bill acted with celerity. He was out of the tunnel, and hidden behind a bowlder a few feet away from the brush when Bat Wason showed his face. The diminutive outlaw squatted on the ground within a rod of the brush, his body concealed by a rock, and waited, revolver in lap, for the king of scouts to appear. CHAPTER XIII. A VENGEFUL INDIAN. A line of brush extended from the mouth of the tunnel to the base of the mountain. The distance was about fifty feet, and in the brush somewhere Black-face Ned and his prisoners were concealed. Were there three prisoners or two? Buffalo Bill believed that both Colonel Hayden and his daughter were with the leader of the outlaws, and he feared that Alkali Pete was also a prisoner. The lanky plainsman had not been killed, that was certain, for if he had been shot to death, his body would have been found either in the tunnel or the cellar of the castle. The king of scouts was about to give Bat Wason an unwelcome surprise, when he saw the little outlaw drop to his knees and begin to crawl toward the brush by the tunnel’s mouth. Before the movement was made, a noise resembling the chirping of a cricket had issued from the brush. Occupied with thoughts of the probable situation of his friends the captives, the king of scouts had not at the moment placed sinister construction upon the chirping. But when Wason started for the tunnel the scout scented danger. It was time to act. With a heavy stone in his hand, he sprang from behind the bowlder and threw the stone at Wason’s head. The aim was true, and the outlaw, flattened on the ground, gave a few convulsive twitches, and then lay still. At the mouth of the tunnel, trying to peer through the brush, crouched Thunder Cloud, the chief of the Apaches. The fall of the outlaw had been attended with little noise, and Wason had died without a groan. But the chirp of the cricket had not been answered, and Thunder Cloud was in doubt as to the situation outside the tunnel. While the Indian waited for developments, Buffalo Bill, who had possessed himself of the victim’s weapons, was once more behind the bowlder, his countenance expressive of perplexity and indecision. He dared not chirp in answer, for it was probable that a chirp was not the proper response to the signal. The foe was too wily to adopt a mode of communication that under any circumstances could be turned to advantage by an enemy. Soon was heard a second chirp. Quickly following the noise came the warning, sibilant rattle of a snake.