“I don’t believe they expect you to come back,” replied Buffalo Bill. “Why should they? You were a prisoner, and you escaped. Is it the usual caper for a prisoner to voluntarily return to the room of imprisonment?” “Ye talk mighty fine, Buffler, but all ther same, I’m plumb leery of that aire room.” “If you are afraid,” began the king of scouts, when his old comrade quickly and roughly interrupted: “Afraid nothin’,” and upon the words he crawled into the room. No bullet came to put an end to his existence. He listened a moment, and then stretched himself by the hole and assisted Buffalo Bill in getting through the trap. On his feet, the king of scouts made for the window. The yard, or, rather, that portion within his range of vision, was clear of Indians. Where had Wild Bill and the Yelping Crew gone? And everywhere was silence. Within the house there were no sounds. “Pete,” whispered the scout, “are we living in a land of enchantment? Fifteen minutes ago the air was filled with yells and gun reports. Now all is as still as the grave.” “But ther Injuns kain’t hev left ther castle?” said Alkali Pete, as he vigorously worked his tobacco-filled jaws. “Mebbe they aire all in ther front room. This aire castle is stone, an’ sound don’t travel wuth a cent.” “I am going to find out what the silence means,” returned Buffalo Bill resolutely. So saying, he went to the door and tried to open it. The effort was vain. The door was barred from the outside. “Better work back through the tunnel, hedn’t we?” suggested the lanky plainsman. The king of scouts nodded. The trapdoor was open, and Buffalo Bill was kneeling by it, preparing to descend when the door of the room opened, and Thunder Cloud walked in. His countenance was grave, and he was shaking his head as he came forward and held out his hand to Buffalo Bill, who, upon the opening of the door, had quickly arisen to his feet. “I expected to find you here,” the chief said, in the Apache tongue. “I believed you would come when you found that I was placed so I could not immediately keep my promise.” “Where are your braves?” asked the king of scouts. “They have gone to the cliff where the Comanches have their home.” “What?”—regarding the Indian in amazement. “Gone where the Comanches are not?” Thunder Cloud gravely inclined his head. “Say,” put in Alkali Pete. “Ye aire shore puzzlin’ us, chief. Ye kain’t ram that aire nonsense down our throats. What aire yer leetle game?” Thunder Cloud scowled at the speaker. He was not in a mood for pleasantry, and he was offended at Alkali Pete’s tone. “The chief is all right,” said Buffalo Bill, with a warning glance at his comrade. “He will explain why the braves have left the castle.” Thunder Cloud bowed slightly, and the scowl departed.