It was late afternoon. The horses were tethered, and then the four friends sat down and waited for the coming of dark. Each had a part to play, and each was anxious for the time of action to come.
Just before dark they had a cold meal, and when night came Buffalo Bill arose, and, after shaking hands with his three friends, strode boldly down the hill, leading the larger of the two ponies, the one he had selected, and which he believed to be the one that had belonged to Crow-killer.
He could not signal his approach to the sentinel, for he did not know what the signal was. But he had devised a way of surmounting this difficulty. As he came within hearing of the Navaho on guard, he began the utterance of heavy groans, and followed them with the motions of a person in a state of great bodily weakness.
The sentinel heard the groans, and, springing to his feet, cocked his gun and waited for he knew not what.
Soon a staggering form was outlined between the tree shadows.
The sentinel let out a hissing sound, followed by the terrified squeak of a doomed squirrel.
Buffalo Bill, in his disguise, did not answer in kind. He might make a mistake, and the mistake would be a fatal one. Instead, he redoubled his groans, giving to them the deeply guttural tones of the dead Crow-killer.
The sentinel’s suspicions, if he had any, were dispelled. He stepped forward, and said in Navaho: “The great warrior of the Navahos, the brother of the favorite of the Great Spirit, Raven Feather, is in pain. Where is the pain?”
“Here.” The false Crow-killer placed his hand on his heart, and at the same time began to cough violently.
The sentinel was within a few feet of the disguised scout when his eyes fell on the horse. He started back, and his gun was raised in the twinkling of an eye.