On the ground where the shooting had taken place lay seven Indians, among them Raven Feather, the chief.
“There are not more than a dozen Navahos left,” said the king of scouts as he looked at the slain, “and I don’t think we need anticipate any trouble from them. They know their chief is dead, and if we give them opportunity they will leave the village before morning.”
“I shan’t object,” remarked Wild Bill. “I have no use for them. Have you, Cody?”
“No. We have won out in the Navaho matter. But——” He paused, and gazed thoughtfully at the ground.
“But what?” anxiously inquired Carl Henson. “Is not Myra Wilton in the village? Haven’t you seen her?”
The questions cost the sympathetic king of scouts a painful effort to answer. But the truth must be told. Slowly and gravely he narrated the story of his adventures and discoveries since his arrival in the village.
Carl Henson uttered a groan of anguish. His form shook with emotion.
“Brace up,” said Wild Bill sullenly. “I have got an idea, and if it doesn’t change your tune, then I don’t know hardtack from chile con carne. Listen to me: Myra Wilton is not dead.”
Carl Henson looked up with a start of joy. “Explain,” he demanded. “What do you know that Mr. Cody does not know?”
“Mighty little in regard to most things, young man, but a trifle more than he does in the matter of a certain Rixton Holmes.”