As he spoke, Bart Angell appeared by his side. The chief’s copper countenance twitched once, and then became stolid. With the stoicism of his race, he had quickly accepted the situation. But Rixton Holmes was of different metal. He groaned, and then began to curse.
While the king of scouts held the pistols, the stalwart backwoodsman quickly and deftly bound the limbs of the two victims.
The operation over, Buffalo Bill asked: “How many foes have we got to face? Half an hour ago there were eight Navahos. Four went out on hunt for me, and afterward three left to see what had become of the four.”
“I reckon that three will be erbout ther number,” replied Angell, with a slight smile.
“I thought so, Bart. You met the four, and——”
“Wiped ’em out. Yes, that war ther ticket. I had ter, Cody.”
“Of course”—with a look of appreciation. “But the story will have to be deferred. We must settle with the three who are out.”
“I don’t berleeve they’ll mosey back hyer,” was Angell’s comment. “They’ll shorely find ther four dead bodies, an’ they’ll naterally conclude that you hev made tracks fer ther cabin, fer, in course, they’ll think as how you war ther slayer.”
“Maybe you are right, Bart.”
“You stay hyer a spell an’ I’ll prove I’m right. Ef ther three aire hot-footin’ it fer ther plains I’ll soon know, an’ waltz back an’ tell ye.”