“Wait, Nick!” he cautioned. “Why ever d’ye want ter wait?” demanded Nomad. “Et’s er wonder ther pizen whelps hevn’t shot us down afore this.” “Watch them! If I’m any judge, the entire outfit is locoed.” The Indians were on foot, and in full war-paint. The appearance of the three whites, against whom they had taken the war-path, did not appear to cause them the least surprise, or to arouse the slightest sign of hostility. The Apaches began chanting some song of their own, and eleven of them clasped hands and started dancing around the twelfth, who stood in the center of the circle. “Sort of er ring-eround-a-rosy,” muttered Nomad. When they had danced around the central Indian for a minute, there came a gap in the outer cordon, and the buck who had been in the center stepped to the edge of the precipice, and hurled first his rifle, then his bows and arrows, then his scalping-knife and hatchet, into the chasm. Having thus relieved himself of his arms, the buck returned, took his place among those who were clasping hands in a circle, and another armed buck got in the center. After chanting and circling around the armed buck, the cordon broke again, and _he_ stepped to the brink and relieved himself of his weapons. This strange proceeding must have been going on for some time, for the second buck, as the pards could see, was the last one with weapons. When the second buck had stripped himself, he started on a lope up the trail. The scout, the trapper, and the girl, weapons in hand, backed against the cliff and waited. All the other Apaches fell in behind the one recently disarmed, and trotted after him in single file. Arriving opposite the whites, not an Indian paid the slightest attention to them. With eyes glittering and head-feathers bobbing, they kept on up the trail until the last one had vanished behind the jutting rocks. Old Nomad almost collapsed. “Wouldn’t thet jest nacherly rattle yer spurs?” he said, in an awed voice. “Whoever heerd of ’Paches actin’ like thet?” “They have had a drink from that pool in the valley,” said Buffalo Bill. “That lot of reds hasn’t the least idea of what’s going on.” Nomad flung back his head and gave vent to a roaring laugh. “This hyar is plumb comical!” he choked. “How long will ther spell last, Buffler?” “It lasted Dell and me all night,” replied the scout. “How much longer it will hold the reds depends altogether on how much of the water they drank, and when they drank it.” “Reckon we better hike fer Tonio Pass afore they comes out from under ther influence,” suggested the trapper; “although I ain’t skeered none of er passel o’ unarmed reds, so long as I’ve got Saucy Susan an’ Scoldin’ Sairy in my hands.” “Queer, isn’t it, Buffalo Bill?” observed Dell, as she and the scout trailed after Nomad. “It is that,” said the scout. “If Geronimo doctored that pool, he certainly overplayed his hand.”