“He must have crawled off noiselessly, so as not to disturb us,” replied Bill irritably. “I shall have to give him a sharp lecture when he comes back.”
“Him heap fool, may spoil game,” said the Indian.
The words had scarcely left the Hualapi’s mouth before there came a sharp report, and a rifle bullet ended the speaker’s career.
Quick upon the shot Buffalo Bill dropped to the ground. The move saved the scout’s life, for a second report had followed the first.
Buffalo Bill had dropped near the trunk of a large cottonwood. He was behind it in a twinkling, and with pistol in hand—he had left his rifle at the camp—awaited the next move of the assassin.
Five minutes passed and not a sound broke the stillness. The enemy must be still on the spot whence the shots had been fired. If he had moved, the king of scouts must have assuredly have heard him.
“He is waiting for full daylight,” was the scout’s conclusion. “Well, so am I.”
Back of Buffalo Bill was the creek, and across the creek was a wall of rock that rose sheer to a height of one hundred feet. There was, therefore, no danger of an attack from behind.
But one side of the scout’s place of shelter was exposed, that which looked toward the camp. The other side was a mass of high, thick brush.
At the expiration of ten minutes, the silence having continued unbroken, Buffalo Bill stooped, picked up a three-foot section of the dead branch of a tree, and then removed his sombrero. Placing the hat at an end of the stick, he thrust it a few inches beyond the cottonwood in the direction of camp. No shot followed. Either the ruse was guessed, or the enemy had changed his position.