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.
Chigilli seemed a little vexed, but soon explained the cause. While waiting for the message from his white father, which was longer in coming than he had expected, his band had become separated, by far the larger portion being then in pursuit of a drove of buffaloes that had passed by on the run, the day before. Fearing to lose such an opportunity for securing a supply of meat for his lodges in winter, he had dispatched all but twenty of his men after the herd.
Mestayer was positive. There must be no delay; such as could not be avoided were they to send a runner to recall the hunters. He must return at once, whether Chigilli kept his pledge or not.
This decided the chief, and half an hour later he led the twenty warriors out from the rocky defile. Behind him, upon the broad, smooth surface of a rock, were depicted sundry rude signs and symbols, drawn with a finger-point covered with dampened powder. These were directions for the guidance of the buffalo-hunters, bidding them hasten after.
Mestayer found that he would not be able to regain the baranca retreat by daybreak, for the east was showing light streaks when there remained still a dozen or more miles to be covered. Then came an interruption, before another mile was traversed.
Events had occurred much as the old man, Albert Mestayer, had foreseen. Zeb Ruel had rejoined the other party of trail-hunters, informing them of where and how he had left Ned Campbell. In due course of time the young man was missed, searched for, and the trail found. They followed it after the outlaws had taken it up, round the baranca, and out into the prairie. As night fell they went into camp, when they were joined by others of the settlers who had turned out to take part in the hunt.