“Good, big, brave Buffalo Bill.”
The king of scouts appeared not to have heard the compliment. He was staring hard at the ground. Suddenly he glanced suspiciously toward the mouth of the tunnel. “I am forgetting how I stand,” said he quickly. “Won’t your braves follow you here?”
“If Thunder Cloud does not return inside of an hour they will come.”
“The hour is nearly up. What’s to be done? You are on my side now, and I am willing to receive advice.”
“My braves must not be hurt,” was the grave reply. “Thunder Cloud will keep his word and assist the great white warrior, with the understanding that no more blood is to be shed. Thunder Cloud will go back to the castle, tell his braves that Black-face Ned has forsaken them, that he wants peace with the Comanches, and that the prisoners must be taken through the tunnel and delivered to Thunder Cloud’s friend.”
“That’s the ticket,” cried the king of scouts enthusiastically. “Chief, you have a great head. I am proud to be your friend.”
The Indian’s swarthy face glowed with pleasure. He was rapidly recovering from the effects of the poison and the antidote, and as Buffalo Bill spoke he rose to his feet, and then leaned on the scout for support.
“Think you will be able to get back through the tunnel?” anxiously inquired the scout.
“Yes. The weakness will soon pass, and Thunder Cloud can crawl, if he cannot walk.”
Five minutes later he was out of sight in the underground passage.