The sounds of yelling and shooting had ceased; the fire had burned itself down to glowing brands, and the lowing of frightened cattle echoed here and there when Buffalo Bill, Hickok, and Cayuse for the second time approached the back side of the mound in which the dugout had been made.
Leaving Hickok and the Piute with the horses in a dip of the hill where they were safe from surprise, the scout made his way noiselessly over the hilltop, approached the door of the dugout, and spoke:
“Hello, there, within!”
A boy’s voice answered:
“Who is it?”
“A white friend; the Indians are gone.”
“’Tain’t no Injun trick to git us out?”
“No,” answered the scout in his kindliest voice; “a party of us have come to save you from the Indians, but if you are all right and comfortable perhaps you had better stay there till morning. Was anybody hurt?”
“No, not that we knows of—ye see, there’s only Nellie, an’ Kittie, an’ me; dad an’ mom has gone to a weddin’ up to Jenkinses’ ranch, an’ we’s afeared that mebbe the Injuns got ’em.”
“How did you happen to be in the dugout?”