“’Pon my soul if it isn’t Cody!” cried Doyle, as he and his dusty troopers pulled to a halt. “But how’s this?” the lieutenant added, with a look at Nomad and Dell. “You left camp with a girl pard and a Piute pard, Buffalo Bill. You still have your girl pard, but where’s the Piute? And who’s this other warrior, that’s new to us?” “The other warrior,” smiled the scout, “is my old trapper pard, Nick Nomad.” “The deuce you say! Then he wasn’t killed in that ambush that played havoc with Bascomb’s escort?” “Not as anybody knows on,” spoke up Nomad. “I’m feelin’ quite chipper jest at present.” “So I observe,” grinned Doyle. “Where’s the boy, Cody?” “We don’t know, Doyle,” said the scout, “but we’re going to ask you and your men to help us find him. By the way, though, how do you happen to be here?” “Orders,” answered Doyle. “From whom?” “Captain Markham. He picked up Geronimo’s trail over in that blind gully in Tres Alamos Gulch, and sent a runner back with a note that I was to take six men, hike for Tonio Pass and look for Buffalo Bill. When I found Buffalo Bill I was to report to him that Geronimo and a part of his Chiricahua renegades are hustling for Mexico, and that Bascomb, the deserter, is supposed to be with him. A captured Apache told Captain Markham that the renegades who jumped the reservation have divided into two parties--one party deserting from Geronimo and rounding up in Pool Spring Valley. After coming here and looking for you, we’re to make for Pool Spring and see how the land lies.” Several parts of the lieutenant’s communication caught the scout’s attention. The first thing concerned the deserter. “Captain Markham is wrong about Bascomb, Doyle,” averred Buffalo Bill. “I learn that Markham got his information pretty straight.” “It may seem straight, but it’s mightily tangled, for all that. Bascomb is in that cave there”--the scout waved a hand toward the cavern entrance--“and he lies on the floor with his boots on.” “Another surprise!” muttered Doyle. “Sure it’s Bascomb?” “Yes.” Doyle rose in his stirrups and looked back at his handful of troopers. “Any of you lads know Bascomb, otherwise Slocum, the deserter from Fort Apache, by sight?” he demanded. “I do,” replied a grizzled trooper. “Go into that cave, Smith,” ordered Doyle, “and report whether the fellow you find there is Bascomb.” Smith threw his reins to a comrade, slid down from his saddle, and rattled into the cave. A minute later he rattled out: “It’s him, all right, leftenant,” said Smith. “I could pick him out from among a thousand.” “Dead, is he?” “As a smelt.” Smith lurched back into his saddle. “That’s a job the government has been saved, at all events,” remarked Doyle. “What can we do for you, Buffalo Bill?” he added. “Help us recover our horses,” said the scout. “That’s one thing. After that, we’d like to have you help us find the Piute.” “Where are your horses?” “First off, Doyle, let me ask you if you know such a place as this.”