“They are fresh,” declared Avery, “for we rested five hours since dark and came to investigate this firelight. I expected ’twas Indians, but I hoped it might be you.” “How did you happen to come?” asked the scout. “Why, the negro came along, desperately anxious to connect with you, and wouldn’t give me no peace till I agreed to try to follow your trail. Then the lad wouldn’t give me no peace till I agreed to let him come along--so here we are, an’ I’ve done my part in findin’ ye.” “It’s one chance in ten thousand that you ever found us. But time flies, and our plans are to be carried out, anyway.” He briefly explained the situation and the plan of rescue. “Can’t I help?” asked the boy eagerly, “I brought my bugle.” “Can you blow the call?” asked the scout, seized with a new idea. “Yes, sir; uncle says I can do it as well as an army bugler.” “Good! my boy, you shall perform the lion’s share. I will revise my plan. Hickok shall proceed as arranged before. I will creep down the brook to the edge of the encampment. The bugler shall be posted out from the northeast side, Avery to remain with the bugler and give off commands in a loud voice. Nomad and Skibo are to go to the southeast side near the river, and when the bugle sounds they must shout loud commands to imaginary soldiers and gallop along the front with all the clatter possible. While this is going on Hickok will start the horses, and I will rush into camp and release Cayuse. In the excitement of expectant attack the ruse will work without a shot.” The scout now felt so certain of victory that he was almost jubilant. Over it all was the glamour of the gamble with death, which the war horse feels in battle. Every man of the party was on the raw edge of foolhardy daring. They would rescue the faithful little Indian pard if they had to fight Sitting Bull’s entire force of braves. The critical moment came at last, and to the boy from Avery’s ranch had been allotted the honor of opening the ball. “Could this youngster perform his part?” that was the question the scout asked himself. Most lads would have been unable to blow out a candle at such a tense moment, and Buffalo Bill realized the tremendous nervous strain upon one so young, but he knew the metal of this lad was of far different quality from that of the average boy. The scout had crept down until barely thirty feet separated him from the dying embers of the nearest fire. About it were grouped a score of braves, some smoking and wearing out the hours of darkness, others asleep with heads curled on crooked arm. Near the tepee of the chief the fire also had sunk to a few glowing coals, but the scout could make out the form of Little Cayuse, and a couple of guards near him. On the lower side of the field, braves were setting a post and bringing fuel for the torture pyre. The scout tightened his belt, and looked to his revolvers. He was ready.