“Did I kill him?” she whispered faintly.
“I couldn’t have made a better shot if I had been in your place,” the scout answered. “He’s dead, all right, and a good riddance to bad rubbish.”
They were on their way back to Wild Bill and the Comanches when they heard a groan. It emanated from some person not many feet from them. “Who is it?” whispered Buffalo Bill, while Sybil Hayden clutched his arm tightly.
“Hayden,” was the hoarse reply. “I ran against a root, and fell and hurt my head. Is Sybil safe?”
“Yes, father,” the girl answered, as she ran forward and knelt beside the colonel. “I am without a scratch.”
At this moment a wild commotion arose in the valley, not one hundred yards away. The air was pierced with shots and yells, and it was evident that a fierce fight was in progress.
It was over when the king of scouts reached the open space beyond the grove of trees. The Apaches who had planned to bushwhack the Comanches had themselves met with a surprise.
Of the band that had stolen silently up the valley, but three escaped, and these were never again seen in the Hualapi Mountains.
But one Comanche was killed.
Buffalo Bill was not surprised to hear that Alkali Pete had done his share in the work of extermination. The lanky plainsman had exposed himself more than once, but he seemed to bear a charmed life, and had come out of the fight without a wound.