Cayuse was already on his feet, having caught the drift of Patterson’s remarks relative to a hurried descent upon Bonita. With Dell’s aid, the boy succeeded in getting Patterson back into his saddle and again roping him there. After that he and Dell mounted, and the journey was continued. Steadily onward rode the three through the night and into the coming dawn. No Apaches appeared to bother them, although the ominous silences of rock niche and chaparral were on every side as they rode. At last they entered Bonita Cañon. “We’re gettin’ clost now,” Patterson roused to remark just as the sun, like a golden pip snapped by the fingers of a Mighty Hand, leaped upward over the rim of the cañon. His words were taken up by the notes of a bugle, coming from around a turn in the gorge. The sergeant’s face brightened. “That sound never rang in my ears so fine as it does now!” he remarked. Dell rode alongside of him and pulled the packet from her waist. In the daylight she could see that it was stained redly. “What ye goin’ to do with that?” inquired Patterson. “You started with the despatches,” answered Dell, “and you’re going to deliver them.” “That’s your right,” expostulated the sergeant. “It’s _your_ right, Sergeant Patterson! You’re a brave man, and delivering the despatches is your duty.” Leaning sidewise in her saddle, Dell thrust the packet into the front of the trooper’s red-stained blouse. Patterson tried to thank her for her thoughtfulness and generosity, but the words died on his lips and he drooped forward, again fainting from sheer weariness and loss of blood. Dell supported him as she had done before, and thus they rounded the bend in the cañon and came within sight of the military headquarters in the field. CHAPTER XXIII. BUFFALO BILL’S VOW. In a log cabin in Bonita, the king of scouts sat in consultation with Captain Markham. Outside the cabin, in the shade, a reserve force of Pima scouts were lolling and smoking cigarettes. A stir of activity filled the camp. Couriers were coming and going between Bonita and Bowie, and scouting-parties and squads of troopers were departing and arriving. Buffalo Bill’s face wore a heavy frown. News had come from Fort Bowie the evening before relative to the escape of Geronimo and his bucks from the reservation at Apache, and also of the annihilation of Bascomb’s escort and the rescue of Bascomb. The scout, in charge of a picked party, had at once taken the saddle. The entire night had been spent in the hills, but in spite of every effort not one of the renegades had been apprehended, and not a “sign” had been picked up. “Of course,” said Captain Markham, as he and the scout sat in the cabin that morning, “Geronimo will head this way, killing and stealing and burning a trail toward Mexico. It’s his old game. Once he gets across the border, Heaven only knows when we’ll catch him.”