The scout readily found the place where old Nomad had met the enemy and guessed that the trapper had been ambushed and overpowered there. But he saw no blood, and decided that Nick had been made a prisoner and was perhaps somewhere in the vicinity now, under guard.
As he studied his surroundings he heard the shrill neigh of a horse. Bear Paw threw up his head, and would have answered, but the scout clapped a hand over his horse’s nose. He then slipped on a muzzle he had used before, and, leading Bear Paw into a dense thicket, hitched him there, and began further investigation on foot.
Once more the whinny of a horse reached him, and the scout had no doubt it must be Hide-rack. He knew it was not the call of an Indian pony.
At last he gently pushed aside the thick foliage and peered into a little clearing where Hide-rack was alternately feeding and sniffing the air in the direction of the place where Bear Paw was tethered.
Carefully scanning the little opening, the scout saw that a few rods beyond was another, farther in among the rocks. Keeping to the thickest part of the growth, he skirted the first opening, and approached the other. And then Cody heard:
“Say, ye pizen red helgominian heifercat, why don’t ye do suthin’? Ye set thar an’ smok’ yerself black in ther face an’ never offer me er pipe.”
The scout peeped out and saw his pard trussed up like a pig for market, while near him sat a solitary guard, pulling at a red clay pipe.
The Indian was as motionless and silent as a statue as Nomad kept up his tirade of abuse. Buffalo Bill noiselessly left the cover and approached the Indian’s back.
Old Nomad saw and understood. He increased his torrent of invective to cover the noise of a possible slip of Pa-e-has-ka’s moccasin.
But there was no discovery until the scout’s sinewy hand slipped around the Indian’s throat, and the silent struggle was soon ended.