The Utes were supposed to be peaceably inclined. At any rate, they had shown no hostile intentions since Iron Bow had led them on the warpath, five years before, and had been badly worsted. But they were still blanket Indians, much given to powwowing and strange dances, to feathered headdresses and variegated paints.
For some time Buffalo Bill had been half convinced that the tracks he and his pards had followed would lead, by and by, to this Ute village.
Yet, when the tracks separated, this did not seem so likely.
Buffalo Bill, pressing ahead on the trail he had chosen, soon lost sight of Nomad and the baron.
He had gone nearly a mile, through a very rough country, when he became aware of the fact that the Indians were near him; he saw a few, and heard others. They had apparently been deer hunting. Their tracks, here and there, covered over those he was pursuing; so that twice he had to stop and spend valuable time in puzzling out the trail.
“If this fellow is a friend of the Utes, it’s likely he will join the deer hunters,” thought the scout.
A little later a shot rang out.
Thereupon, a man sprang out of bushes a hundred yards away, leaping up as if he thought the bullet had been sent at him, and ran with big jumps across the rocks, through the rough ground.
At a glance, Buffalo Bill saw that the man was Juniper Joe.
“Our guess is right, so far,” he muttered.