He knew then that he had an old and deadly foe to deal with. His discovery, however, brought the scout to himself. He recovered his presence of mind, and in a tone that was reckless in its defiance, he cried:
“So we meet again, do we, Bennett? And you think you hold the trumps once more?”
“I do—and likewise a revolver at your head, Cody!” declared the bandit. “Drop your rifle!”
The scout obeyed. The pistol in Bennett’s hand was a well-timed argument. To all appearances the man was an Indian chief, for he was bedecked with feathers, his face was hideously painted, and he wore the full attire of a redskin, from moccasins to war-bonnet.
At his back, with rifles and arrows likewise covering the scout, were a score of braves who had, with the stealthy tread of panthers, followed their leader to the spot where Buffalo Bill had mourned over the bodies of the slain white men. Cody knew well that he was at the mercy of a merciless foe.
“You know me, do you, Cody?” said the bandit.
“Oh, I know you—even if you’ve turned squaw-man,” said Cody bitterly. “I recognize your black heart under the paint and feathers.”
“Have a care, scout, for every word of insult you heap upon me shall increase your torture at the stake.”
“I see you’ve got it all mapped out for my finish,” said Cody.
“You will not escape me this time, Buffalo Bill!” declared the bandit chief exultingly.