The king of scouts was about to give Bat Wason an unwelcome surprise, when he saw the little outlaw drop to his knees and begin to crawl toward the brush by the tunnel’s mouth. Before the movement was made, a noise resembling the chirping of a cricket had issued from the brush. Occupied with thoughts of the probable situation of his friends the captives, the king of scouts had not at the moment placed sinister construction upon the chirping. But when Wason started for the tunnel the scout scented danger.
It was time to act. With a heavy stone in his hand, he sprang from behind the bowlder and threw the stone at Wason’s head. The aim was true, and the outlaw, flattened on the ground, gave a few convulsive twitches, and then lay still.
At the mouth of the tunnel, trying to peer through the brush, crouched Thunder Cloud, the chief of the Apaches.
The fall of the outlaw had been attended with little noise, and Wason had died without a groan.
But the chirp of the cricket had not been answered, and Thunder Cloud was in doubt as to the situation outside the tunnel.
While the Indian waited for developments, Buffalo Bill, who had possessed himself of the victim’s weapons, was once more behind the bowlder, his countenance expressive of perplexity and indecision. He dared not chirp in answer, for it was probable that a chirp was not the proper response to the signal. The foe was too wily to adopt a mode of communication that under any circumstances could be turned to advantage by an enemy.
Soon was heard a second chirp. Quickly following the noise came the warning, sibilant rattle of a snake.
The king of scouts turned his head quickly, and saw that the snake was within a few feet of the bowlder. Instead of using a revolver, he retreated and came into the open beside the line of brush.
At that moment Thunder Cloud showed his head beyond the brush that masked the mouth of the tunnel. His eyes fell on Buffalo Bill, and the head would have been withdrawn if something terrible had not occurred. The rattlesnake, crawling swiftly from the bowlder to the brush, struck without warning, and the deadly fangs were embedded in the Indian’s cheek.
With a shriek of wild affright he leaped to his feet, the white foe no longer in his mind, and, flinging the reptile from him, began to chant the death song of his tribe.