The scout began to have hopes that somehow his fears had been groundless. “See here, Cayuse,” he began, with a little laugh, “what are you driving at? Hasn’t Nick met with an accident?” And the scout advanced around the corner far enough to view the grewsome relic lying against the opposite wall. “Wuh; him fall down hole, git ears full sand; sand in hair; sand in eyes; sand in nose--mebbeso eat um bushel sand.” “What is that?” asked Buffalo Bill, pointing at what he had taken to be an arm of the trapper. “Nomad call it ‘ketchumnappin’,’ me call um ‘fool war club.’” The scout’s spirits rose. “Where is Nick?” he asked. “Over by Hide-rack. Him snore keep Navi ’wake.” “Well, now where are the bad men?” Cayuse shook his head dubiously. “Me go ketch um, find Pa-e-has-ka.” “I guess they have slipped us somehow, unless Hickok has done better than we have. But let us arouse Nomad and see what he has to say about his ‘ketchumnappin’.’” The scout and Cayuse approached the sleeping trapper, who had rolled up against the wall near Hide-rack. The horse was in no pleasant temper. He wanted grass and water, and he had been hitched to a bare rock all night. His head hung low, but he turned to look menacingly with ears laid close, as his friends came near. Buffalo Bill began throwing sand at the ill-tempered horse’s heels, and the latter responded with vicious kicks and squeals as he danced about, aiming his steel-shod battery at the scout and Cayuse. Old Nomad reared up wildly from sound slumber, waving his arms and shouting: “Whoa, thar! Consarn ye! Whut ye doin’ ov, ye old gander? Tryin’ ter kick up er rumpus an’ make me think I’m bein’ ’tacked by thirty-leven Comanches an’ fourteen greasers all in er bunch? Quit it, ye ole heifercat, ’fore I fall on ye, tooth an’ nail, an’ smite ye, hip an’ thigh.” The scout laughed, and the trapper crawled out, cautiously watching the light heels of Hide-rack the while, and muttering: “’Pears ter me thet hee-haw soun’s nachal. Hah! Buffler! I might a-knowed ’twas yore work, a-stirrin’ up ther varmint.” “The first thing I want to know,” began the scout, “is what that stuffed sleeve is for.” The trapper blushed behind his whiskers and the grime of perspiration and alkali dust. But he recovered quickly. “Thet thar is er surpriser. I planned ter creep up on this side ther rock an’ throw ther ketchumnappin’ ercross on t’other side, so’s ther vilyuns c’d hyar et. I reckoned they’d fire at ther fust thing they heard move in the dark, an’ then, ’fore they had er chanst ter think er git their ears open, I jes’ cal’lated ter jump round ther corner an’ nab um.” “How did it work?” “Didn’t work,” grunted the trapper disgustedly. “Did you throw it?” “Uh-huh.” “What did they do?”