“I won’t stand any more o’ yer sass, ye b’iled apology fer a decent heathen. Take off this rawhide, an’ gi’ me a chance at both o’ ye, an’ I’ll knock ye inter sixteen kinds o’ cocked hats in jest erbout ’leven shakes ov er little lamb’s last piece o’ mutton.” Other Indians came, and the trapper at least realized that he was a prisoner, and that in spite of his taunting he could not draw from them why he had been thus treated or who had ordered these indignities. The trapper was placed under guard, and passed a weary day, while all the Indians but the one who sat smoking with a rifle across his knees departed. “Don’t that beat ole split-huff hisself?” mourned Nomad, as he saw the redskins depart. “Only that pesky cigar sign stuck up thar on er rock ter ’muse myself with. Hey, Indian! Why don’t yer say suthin’ er do suthin’ ter keep comp’ny from gittin’ homesick? Say, yer red-skinned mummy, I’ll give yer the fust shot if you’ll come inter a game ov take turns as er target.” No answer. “What yer say, red, do ut? Aw! Ye wooden head, why don’t ye grunt?” Nomad subsided again. He was disgusted with himself and everybody else. He had started out to hunt excitement, and here he was with nothing to do and no prospect of anything happening right away. It was worse than watching over Hickok and the prisoner--then he could smoke. But early in the evening the Indians returned and with them a white man. The latter kept beyond the range of Nomad’s vision in the bushes, except for occasional glimpses as the party moved about. After a long confab with the Indians, the white man, with a handkerchief tied over the lower part of his face, came for a look at the prisoner. “Uv all ther white-faced heifercats! I’d give er nine-dollar bill ter git er paw on ye, ye white-livered coyote. Yer too low ter ’sociate with ther meanest redskin this side ther river Styx. Say, if you’ll cut this hyar rope I’ll fix yer in er minyit so’s you wouldn’t know yerself--’thout any rag tied over yer face.” The fellow made no reply, but said loud enough so that Nomad could hear: “No, it isn’t Buffalo Bill, but he’s one of the gang; dispose of him.” Nomad laughed uproariously. “Haw! haw! haw! Ther reds took me fer Buffler! Waal, thet sets me up some ’f not more. Guess Buffler’d feel complermented. I suttinly hopes I live long ernough ter tell that to ’im.” CHAPTER X. LITTLE CAYUSE CAPTURED. Ominously the words sounded in the hush that followed the pronunciation of the death sentence on Buffalo Bill--“One, two, three!” The scout had been dazed by the long flight through the air and impact with the water. He scarcely realized the import of the words. “Four, five, six!” the counting continued slowly, while the arms of four men settled into rigidity, holding four frowning rifle muzzles on the human target. “Seven, eight, nine!” the counting went on relentlessly, while four checks settled more firmly on the rifle stocks and four eyes gleamed along the shining steel.