“My idee is ter separate right hyer. One of us will keep on ther trail, an’ ther t’other will crope up ther hill an’ git round ther camp.”
“All right,” said Sands. “I’ll take ther hill.”
The tall villain smiled contemptuously. “Aimin’ ter hit ther easiest snap, aire ye? Well, take it, I don’t keer. Ther walkin’s better along the trail.”
He might have added: “I’ll go mighty slow until I see how you come out,” but he didn’t.
Shorty Sands was about to start, when a rattlesnake crawled out of a hole in the bank, and, at sight of the outlaw, coiled and rattled.
The snake was between Buffalo Bill’s bowlder and the trail. Shorty Sands uttered a cry, and then drew his revolver to fire. A warning from his companion to desist came too late. The revolver cracked, and the snake, unharmed, leaped its length toward the shooter.
Then it was that Buffalo Bill, excited by the shot, the meaning of which he did not understand, showed his head. He saw the snake, saw Flag-pole Jack taking aim to shoot, and was about to give warning of his presence, so that the fight should be a fair one, when a series of yelps, like those of wolves, made him quickly turn his head.
The snake was dead as the two outlaws, as much amazed as the king of scouts, looked up the bank.
There in two lines, of a dozen each, crouched a curious and startling body of human beings. Each was arrayed in wolfskins, and each face was masked with the face of a wolf.
But the long, black hair, that protruded below each wolfskin cap, told Buffalo Bill that the strange newcomers were Indians.