“I have had,” interrupted the scout, “but I never allowed them to make me uncomfortable. Life’s too short to spend it borrowing trouble, or in crossing bridges before you get to them. If I were you----” The scout himself was interrupted. Something hummed through the air with a shrill _swish-h-h_ that made itself plain in spite of the throbbing of the mill-stamps; and the swishing sound was finished with a quick _spat_ against the door of the office. Both the scout and the mine-owner turned their eyes quickly to the door. A long, thin arrow was quivering in the wood, a bit of white paper, compactly folded, bound to it midway of its length. “Ugh! Him Apache arrow!” The speaker was Little Cayuse. He had appeared from around the office as suddenly as had the arrow. Buffalo Bill’s quick eye discerned the scrap of paper, and his quick wit immediately inferred that the arrow had been launched by some one who was afraid to appear in person in the camp and bring a message. “Cayuse!” said he. “Wuh!” said Little Cayuse. “See if you can locate the Apache who fired that arrow.” The boy leaped back, studied the inclination of the shaft, whirled and swept his eyes over the hills, using the inclination as a clue, and then started off at a rapid pace. “Why do you send him to look for the Apache?” asked McGowan. “Because any Apache now loose in the hills is a renegade,” was the answer, “and may have had a hand in the dastardly work engineered by Bascomb and Bernritter. That arrow brings a message.” “We might first have examined the message, Buffalo Bill, before you sent Little Cayuse after the Indian.” “It would then have been too late. It may be too late now. The Apache who launched the arrow is undoubtedly making the best use of his legs to get out of the vicinity.” The scout stepped to the arrow and, with an exertion of considerable strength, pulled its steel point from the wood. Next he untied the folded paper, dropped the arrow, and began opening out the paper so he could read it. Before he read a word he looked toward McGowan. The mine-owner, drooping limply in his chair, was shaking like a man in an ague fit. “Why, McGowan,” cried the scout, “what ails you?” “Nothing but--premonitions,” returned McGowan huskily, making an attempt to straighten up. “Go on, Buffalo Bill. Read that message. Something tells me that the lightning is going to strike.” The scout read the message first to himself. It ran as follows: