“He ain’t my bear!” yelled Tootsie, who was having fun enough with the animal as it was. “Ef yer ever wants ter kill er grizzly now’s yer chanst, boy--take ’im in ther front when ’e throws ’is head back ter holler.” “Oh! I’d rather let ’im go. Perhaps he’ll ketch an Injun some day, an’ that’s excuse enough for livin’.” The bear had started on again, but when Tootsie dashed up beside and blew a long blast at him the animal again sat up and howled mournfully. Whenever he stopped Tootsie again blew at him and the bear gave vent to that mournful sound. Again and again the laughable performance was repeated, when suddenly the bear tipped over backward, kicked a few times, and died. One of Skibo’s bullets had done its work, after all. While watching the sport the keen eyes of Buffalo Bill had discovered a side show. His eye had suddenly caught a flash from the top of a bluff five hundred yards away, and he had kept watch of that point while apparently giving his whole attention to the fun in hand. Falling back until he was in the rear of his pards, the scout quietly pulled his glass and studied the bluff. His suspicions were confirmed. Peering out from various hiding places were a score or more of Indians, who had been attracted by the hubbub. They watched the performance with apparently increasing curiosity and amazement, even crawling out from their hiding places in order to acquire a better view. When the bear sat up and howled so disconsolately they exchanged excited remarks and gestures, and repeated these every time the act occurred. The climax came when the bear fell over dead. The Indians seemed dumb for a moment and then fled. Five minutes later the scout saw them darting around a bluff that sat out into the plain, and then disappear as fast as their ponies could carry them. The Indians believed the boy had killed the enormous grizzly in some mysterious manner. They probably linked this with recent incidents in which the sound of a bugle had invariably spelled disaster for them. CHAPTER XLI. WONDERS OF THE SACRED MOUNTAIN. On the appointed day Buffalo Bill and the pards who accompanied him on the previous trip rode northward to visit the “Daughter of the Moon.” On the way out the pards wondered if the “Queen of the Stars” would be there to greet them, or were they going on a fool’s errand? No one was in sight as they approached the butte which the Indians called “Sacred Mountain.” They rode entirely around the cone and scanned the plain in all directions. Not a living thing was to be seen besides the birds and a solitary antelope a mile away. “What d’ye say ter thet, Buffler?” asked Nomad. “I think we had better put our horses down in the crevasse, where they can’t be seen from the plain, and then hang out here and smoke and wait.”