Of course he could not hear the low voice of the white man, calling from within the lateral defile.
One of the Apaches, leaving the rest, spurred into the smaller gash. And again it was impossible for Cayuse to see that the white man had appeared and beckoned to the Apache.
“Fools!” said the white man to the Apache, partly in Spanish and partly with the hand-talk; “don’t you know that you are being trailed by the little Piute, Buffalo Bill’s pard? He is behind you, in the gulch. He must be captured, and this is the way you are to do it:
“You will ride back to the rest of the Apaches. Then, taking care not to turn and look down the gulch, you will all ride into this cut. When well within the cut, four of you will dismount and hide behind the boulders; the other one will ride forward, leading the four horses, and get beyond that turn.
“The Piute will come in. The four who are behind the boulders will spring out and capture him—capture him, mind, for I want to talk with the rascally imp before anything else is done with him.”
The white man hid himself, and the Apache rode back.
Little Cayuse, his black eyes glimmering like a snake’s, watched the Apaches trail into the smaller defile. He made after them.
At the entrance to the defile he listened. From around a turn he could hear the pattering hoofs of the ponies.
Swiftly he passed into the smaller defile—and then, almost before he could realize what had happened—he was set upon from every side, flung down, and bound at the wrists.
He struggled, but what availed the struggles of one Piute boy against four brawny, full-grown Apaches?