It was Don Miller, a gold hunter the scout knew well.
“Ah, Miller, I am glad indeed to see you, and I have found it hard to believe you dead,” said the chief, “as I heard you were.”
“Only half dead, Cody; but you have saved me.”
“And glad we are to do so.”
“All the rest were killed—I am the last of my band of hunters.”
“Yes, and the man I would have risked much to save, for I have not forgotten what I owe you, Miller. Scouts, this is my friend, a gold-boomer captain, Don Miller.”
The men pressed about him and grasped his swollen hands, which Black Bill had released.
Turning to the negro guide, Buffalo Bill said:
“Well, Bill, you have kept your word and frightened the redskins into fits, so I know now surely that there is virtue in what you have asserted about black spirits being a terror to the Indians of this Big Horn country.”
“Yes, sah, dey runs like de debbil when dey sees a nigger. I done tell dis gemman here so. But, Massa Bill, we must git out of here right quick, for dem Injuns will come right back after dere prisoner in a short time.”