He retreated to where his horse was tied to an aspen; and then, taking a blanket from his roll, he made mufflers like those used by Nomad. He looked anxiously at the trail his horse had made in coming to this little grove--some of the hoofmarks deeply scored the soil. But there was no help for that now. In a few minutes he joined Nomad, mounted, and asked: “Were you making for the cañon down there?” “Anywhar, Buffler, ter fool ther Blackfeet. If yer knows this kentry some I’ll let you p’int ther way, fer bur durned ef I’m any too well acquainted with it.” Buffalo Bill took the lead. As the two men rode along, they discussed the pursuit of the Blackfeet, and each learned the story of the other. “I came here from the fort on a scouting trip,” said Buffalo Bill, “because the Blackfeet have killed some men and have been threatening trouble. Since I arrived, a miner was murdered and scalped on the Baldface trail, and a sheep-herder was treated the same way over in Los Cerillos Valley. Both were slain by Blackfeet; yet I didn’t know whether it was simply some single Blackfoot murderer, or was the work of Blackfeet bands of rovers. I rode out here to-day, hoping to find out something more about it.” “And now y’ve found, Buffler! The red devils aire risin’, and they’re killin’ and scalpin’. Ole Crazy Snake’s bloody arrer will be on the breasts of a good many dead men, ef ther thing continners, I’m tellin’ ye. I thought it war time fer me ter cut sticks, and so I did. I’m glad I met ye, Buffler.” The scout recounted many of the things that had happened during the past three days, especially the departure of young Clayton, and Nomad told of his trapping experiences. “I cached what furs I’d got tergether,” he said, “when I was ready to slide out o’ the hills. If ther Blackfeet don’t find ’em, I’ll git ’em some time. Ther thing jes’ now is ter take keer o’ my scalp, which is a good deal more important than a beaver skin, handsome as a beaver skin looks.” He pushed back his cap and scratched at his head, as if it itched in anticipation of a scalping knife. They sought lower ground as they talked, and they talked in low tones. “Nomad, it’s providential that I met you,” the scout told his old friend. “I dunno about it, Buffler,” said Nomad, with a grin. “If I’d gone straight ahead ’thout tryin’ to break my trail, ole Crazy Snake’s band would have follered me hot-footed. And so they wouldn’t never had a chance ter see you hyar an’ put you in danger. Now they may; fer they’ll pick up thet trail o’ mine, if mortual man kin do it.” With the scout in the lead, they entered the cañon. On the rocks just by the water they removed the mufflers from the hoofs of the horses. The animals were then ridden into the water, the rocky bank there holding no trail; and down the stream they rode, keeping in the water. They went on in this way nearly a mile, and then began to follow up a tributary stream.