As the sun set, Mestayer caught sight of the hill-range in which he knew the Kiowa chief was awaiting a message from the old man, his “white father.” With bloody heel he urged on the heavily-laboring horse, though the blood-stained froth that dropped in flakes from its mouth, told plainly that the creature’s race was well-nigh run. While yet the western sky was flecked with crimson, the end came, finding Mestayer prepared for it. Well knowing the symptoms, he was ready for the fall, and when the big bay fell forward heavily, the blood bursting from his nostrils, Mestayer alighted nimbly upon his feet, and without a second glance at the poor brute, he started forward with long, swinging strides that spoke well for his powers as a pedestrian. The dark, broken hill-range was near, and at a glance the outlaw recognized the landmarks given him by his uncle, and he knew that his course had been shaped aright. Raising a hand to his mouth, he uttered a long-drawn, vibrating cry—the shrill view-hallo of the Kiowas. A few moments later there came to his ears a similar cry, only more perfectly modulated, and then a single horseman rode forth from a rocky defile that partially intersected the hills. Despite his assurance that Chigilli was friendly, Mestayer twitched his revolver around more convenient to his hand, loosening it in the sheath. More than once he had experienced the treacherous nature of Indians, and the Kiowas were notorious for their proficiency in that respect. The savage drew rein close beside the outlaw, and a brief but keen scrutiny followed, as though each was mentally measuring the other. Mestayer was somewhat surprised at the appearance of Chigilli. Naturally, one takes it for granted that a famous warrior must be an important person in looks as well as reality. Instead, the Kiowa chief was small—almost a dwarf, in fact; of slight, ill-shaped figure, old and wrinkled, with only one eye. But that burned brightly, and the numerous scars, together with the broad saber-slash that had destroyed his left eye, together with a portion of his nose, testified plainly that he had borne his part in more than one desperate affray. “Who are you that sounds the Kiowa cry, yet wear the skin of a pale-face?” demanded Chigilli, in slightly accented English, his half-breed mother having taught him her father’s tongue. For answer Mestayer produced the slip of wampum-enriched deer-skin, and handed it to the chief. Chigilli’s stern countenance instantly relaxed, and he henceforth treated the outlaw with the greatest deference and courtesy. Mestayer quickly made known the purport of his visit, and delivered, word for word, his uncle’s message.