Buffalo Bill’s head sank to his breast. Nothing was said for a minute. The scout broke the silence. “Where must I go?” he asked.
“Back to the flat of the white man who was killed. There you must stay for two moons.”
“Do all the braves know that Crow-killer has fallen from his high place?”
The Indian shook his head. “But two know that the pony of Crow-killer was stolen—Raven Feather, the chief, and Red Antelope, who saw the white traitor and the pony.” As he spoke, the Indian placed his hand gravely over his heart. The king of scouts heaved a sigh of relief. The situation was not so bad, after all.
“Red Antelope,” he said, in the deep guttural of the chief’s brother, “is a wise brave, a courageous brave. He will do justice to Crow-killer. He will listen to Crow-killer’s story, and he will not sustain the position that Raven Feather has taken. Crow-killer was wounded and unconscious when the pony was stolen. The wound was not inflicted by the white traitor, Holmes, but by the great white warrior, Buffalo Bill.”
The Indian shook his head. “The chief has given his orders,” he said, “and Red Antelope must obey them. Crow-killer must go back to the white man’s flat.”
Buffalo Bill dismounted. The time for talk had passed. “Approach,” he commanded sternly, “and gaze upon the wound that Crow-killer carries in his breast.”
The Navaho approached. He would look, he would express his sympathy, and then he would see that the chief’s order was carried out.
When within arm’s length of the disguised scout, his wrists were seized and he was hurled violently to the ground. His cries were stifled, and he was soon bound and gagged. The victory was an easy one, for the Navaho was no match for his powerful and determined antagonist.
Half an hour later Raven Feather, alone in his tepee, was surprised by the entrance of one whom at first glance he took for his brother.