The scout and the trapper now rode their muffled horses into the thick grove, where they were completely hidden from view of any one passing along the cañon stream, or on either of its banks. “Buffler,” said Nomad, filled with delight at the cleverness of his old pard, “ef I’d had head enough I might have thought o’ thet myself; but I didn’t. But I allow thet it’s ther cutest trick I ever saw played ter try ter fool Injuns. Whar’d yer learn it?” “I thought of it myself just now. I don’t know that any one ever tried it before. And that’s what makes it valuable. If we used some trick that is familiar the Blackfeet would probably be expecting it, and so would not be fooled by it. They’ll not be expecting this trick, I hope.” CHAPTER XVIII. THE BLACKFOOT TRAILERS. Under cover of the screening trees, Buffalo Bill and old Nomad watched the cañon and stream, while they talked of the threatened Blackfoot war, and of their individual experiences since they had last been together. “It warn’t Blackfeet we war up ag’inst last time together, Buffler, but road agents. Pool Clayton was with us then, you recomember? D’yer think he’ll be in this hyar neighborhood soon?” “I’m not expecting him this time.” Buffalo Bill told his old mountain pard, however, that Pawnee Bill, the famous dead shot, was to have joined him in the town below, but had missed him there, and would no doubt follow. “It’s just possible,” he had stated, “that he went round by way of the Ferguson Trail, and, if so, he may have gained these hills in advance of my coming; yet I think he is behind me.” As the two friends talked thus, Buffalo Bill laid his hand with a quick, firm motion on Nomad’s arm. Reaching out with the other hand, he took his horse by the nose. “Hist!” came from his lips. Nomad understood, glanced at the stream, and patted the nose of old Nebuchadnezzar to keep him still. A Blackfoot warrior had come in sight on the other side of the little cañon river. He was naked, save for a breechclout, and his copper-colored body was smeared and striped with paint. He carried a long rifle, and a knife, and hatchet. In his raven hair eagle feathers fluttered, proclaiming him not only a warrior, but, with the abundant paint, announcing that he was on the warpath. He had come downstream, and he was scanning the river and its shores, and the cañon walls, together with the wider expanses where the little groves of trees were. But most he gave his attention to the banks of the stream at the water’s edge. It was plain to the experienced bordermen that if he had not tracked the white men to the cañon and the river, he at least suspected they had gone there, and he was looking for the point where they had emerged. His presence was proof that other Blackfeet were near, and no doubt a strong war party. They had chased old Nomad, and were ready for scalps and plunder.