“Easy, Avery,” said the scout, moving up to the side of the latter’s horse. “It’s a big war party of Indians and they are all alive. Who have you here?”
“‘Little Buffalo Bill’ and a big coon, who calls himself Skibo, and says he is your pard.”
“Good!” exclaimed the scout. “I am glad to see you all. He shook hands with the delighted colored man, and the no less pleased boy, William F. Corey.
“I am heartily glad to see all of you, but you have arrived at a time when you ought to be miles away, especially if your horses are tired.”
“They are fresh,” declared Avery, “for we rested five hours since dark and came to investigate this firelight. I expected ’twas Indians, but I hoped it might be you.”
“How did you happen to come?” asked the scout.
“Why, the negro came along, desperately anxious to connect with you, and wouldn’t give me no peace till I agreed to try to follow your trail. Then the lad wouldn’t give me no peace till I agreed to let him come along—so here we are, an’ I’ve done my part in findin’ ye.”
“It’s one chance in ten thousand that you ever found us. But time flies, and our plans are to be carried out, anyway.”
He briefly explained the situation and the plan of rescue.
“Can’t I help?” asked the boy eagerly, “I brought my bugle.”