“I do, but it is only just now that the mistake has been called to my notice. Confound it, I have got to walk to the Indian village.”
“You needn’t walk. The other pony is right here in the bushes. It is a pinto, and if it did not belong to Crow-killer, you can explain, if you have to, that your pony was killed.”
“Hickok, you are a friend, indeed. You have saved me a lot of trouble and worry.”
The king of scouts, on his new mount, parted from Wild Bill and rode into the little valley of the Navahos.
But his spirits were not buoyant. The mishap at the beginning of his desperate venture had brought many misgivings. But there was no hesitation as to the program he had mapped out. He would carry out his part no matter what the result might be.
He was approaching the village, wondering, as he rode, why he had not met another sentinel, when an Indian arose from the deep grass along one side of the trail and grasped the pony by the bridle, saying as he did so: “Crow-killer must go back. It is the order of his brother, the great chief, Raven Feather.”
The disguised scout heard the statement with amazement and disappointment. “What has Crow-killer done that he should be treated in this way?” he indignantly demanded.
“He has offended Raven Feather. He has allowed the white traitor to steal his pony.”
“Is the white traitor in the village?” asked the false Crow-killer eagerly, forgetting his indignation for the moment.
“No. But,” the Indian added, “he was seen before the moon came, riding the pony of the chief’s brother.”