CHAPTER XXIII.
BUFFALO BILL’S VOW.
In a log cabin in Bonita, the king of scouts sat in consultation with Captain Markham. Outside the cabin, in the shade, a reserve force of Pima scouts were lolling and smoking cigarettes.
A stir of activity filled the camp. Couriers were coming and going between Bonita and Bowie, and scouting-parties and squads of troopers were departing and arriving.
Buffalo Bill’s face wore a heavy frown. News had come from Fort Bowie the evening before relative to the escape of Geronimo and his bucks from the reservation at Apache, and also of the annihilation of Bascomb’s escort and the rescue of Bascomb.
The scout, in charge of a picked party, had at once taken the saddle. The entire night had been spent in the hills, but in spite of every effort not one of the renegades had been apprehended, and not a “sign” had been picked up.
“Of course,” said Captain Markham, as he and the scout sat in the cabin that morning, “Geronimo will head this way, killing and stealing and burning a trail toward Mexico. It’s his old game. Once he gets across the border, Heaven only knows when we’ll catch him.”
“I’m less concerned about Geronimo,” returned the scout, “than I am about my two pards, old Nomad and Little Cayuse. Bascomb”—the scout’s eyes glittered—“has made us plenty of trouble. I’ll have him back. You hear that, Markham? I’ll never rest until I lay hands on the scoundrel and land him in the strong room at Fort Apache.”
“You’ll have a job of it, Cody. Bascomb seems to have curried favor with the Apaches, and it’s ten to one that he’s with Geronimo this minute. You know Geronimo—a regular firebrand, and wily as a side-winder. He’ll crow-hop on every reservation but his own, and all the while he’s here, there, and everywhere, like the Irishman’s flea. Now you see him and now you don’t. Next time he’s captured he ought to be shot.”