Buffalo Bill turned and walked away, watching the Indian, whom he could not trust. When he had gone some distance he saw that the redskin was stripping the trappings from the dead mustang. Having secured them, the Indian slung them across his shoulders and hurried away, and soon was running for the shelter of the nearest hills. He had been badly worsted, and he knew it; yet he could not understand one thing--why Cody had not killed him when he had so good a chance. Had the case been reversed, he would have killed the scout. “Now, what does this mean?” Buffalo Bill was asking himself, as he returned to the house. “John Latimer talked with that Indian by the gate; yet he denies it. And when I suggested to the Indian that he had talked with Latimer, the fact that my question showed I had witnessed the meeting threw the redskin into a rage and he attacked me. What is the meaning of it?” CHAPTER VII. THE ATTACK OF THE MEXICAN. When he entered the big house Buffalo Bill did not meet Latimer. It seemed useless to search for him, to question him again, after his positive denial. Nevertheless, the feeling had grown within the scout that for some inexplicable reason Latimer was not “playing fair.” Not finding Latimer readily, he departed from the house and strolled about the grounds. He had much to turn over in his mind. He had not, for one thing, given up solving the mysterious disappearance of Nick Nomad. As he thus strolled about, he entered the stables where his horse was kept, and as he did so, a form dropped on him from somewhere above, knocking him to the earth; and then a brown hand clutched at his throat, and a knife flashed before his eyes. It took him but an instant to discover that the would-be knife wielder was the Mexican servant; the only servant on the place, in addition to Nomad. The Mexican in making his drop had evidently intended to land on the scout’s head, and thus strike him down unconscious; but his heels struck the scout’s broad shoulders; and, though Buffalo Bill went down, he was not knocked out. He writhed about as the Mexican tried to knife him, and then he set his firm fingers in the brown, lean throat, making the Mexican gasp. However, the Mexican was strong, and he was lively and lithe as a captured snake. The fight that followed was of brief duration, for the scout’s choking fingers subdued the little brown man in short order. Buffalo Bill threw the Mexican against the wall. For a time the rascal lay in a heap, limp as a rag. In the meantime, the scout secured the long knife, which had fallen from the lean, brown hand. He was standing before the Mexican, when the latter tried to sit up. The Mexican was clutching at his bruised throat with a motion of pain. “See here!” said Buffalo Bill sternly. “You would have no right to complain if I should shoot you, for on your part you tried to kill me.” “No, no!” the fellow pleaded, his black eyes showing fright.