He dropped to the ground and opened the package carefully. Meanwhile, the old horse stood with bowed head and heaving sides. But for those heaving sides he seemed to be asleep. When the flat package lay open in Nomad’s hands, its contents shone with a dull gleam of fire, like the sulphur light seen when, in the dark, the head of a match is rubbed on the damp palm of a hand. “Nebby, they didn’t find this hyar truck!” Nomad chuckled. “Do you ’member ther time, Nebby, when we skeered them t’other Injuns outer one fit inter fifty with truck like this hyar? It was phosphorus pizen fer kyotes. Waal, mebbe it’s a trick thet we kin play ag’in.” Having made sure that the fiery stuff, which was a phosphorous paste, was all there and in good condition, old Nomad led the horse down into a low swale between hills, that he might be out of view of the Redskin Rovers. There, removing his shirt, he carefully painted on his body and face certain stripes, in imitation of the bones of a skeleton. The paste was not enough in quantity to use all over his body, so he left his legs minus this weird decoration; but the upper part of his body, and particularly the ribs, seemed to stand out in lines of fire. He also painted his face with it, to give it as nearly as he could the semblance of a fiery skull. “Skeers yer, does it, Nebby?” he chuckled, when the old horse showed a dislike of it and tried to back away. “Waal, ef I kin skeer you with it, mebbe I kin some frighten them redskins, dod-rot ’em! Somethin’s got ter be done, Nebby.” He replaced his coat, tied his shirt behind the saddle, made a mask of his old handkerchief to hide his face; and then, with his battered old hat pulled well down over his eyes, he mounted, and was ready for his desperate venture. He now rode cautiously toward the Indian encampment, keeping as much as possible in low ground, that a premature revelation of his presence might not occur. When he was nigh to the camp he stopped, and from the crest of a low ridge took a look at it. He saw Buffalo Bill sitting with back against the tree, talking with the painted white man; and observed the positions of the other prisoners, and of their captors. Having these things well fixed in his mind, he mounted Nebuchadnezzar again and rode slowly forward. So softly did the old beast pick his way along in obedience to his rider’s commands, that Nomad was near the camp fire in a little while, and still remained undiscovered. Then he stiffened in the saddle, and a series of wild yells pierced the air.