CHAPTER I.
THE VOICE FROM THE TREE.
Buffalo Bill drew rein and looked around. He was in a narrow and lonely trail that ran close by the Cinnabar River.
The country was gullied and cut by small cañons. Several hundred feet below him the river roared in its narrow, rock-bound bed. On the sloping side of this cañon was a number of trees, some of them of large size; and trees of the same kind bordered the trail.
The scout, having drawn rein, sat quite still in his saddle, listening. All he heard now was the roar of the stream, the soughing of the wind in the trees, and the restless champing of his spirited horse.
“Help!”
A sudden cry of distress sounded near him, and once more Buffalo Bill stared around.
The call seemed to have come out of the sky, or to have floated from the mist that rose above the tumbling water of the river.
“Can my ears have fooled me?” was his thought.
“Hello!” he called. “What is it?”
A faint mumbling seemed to come in answer to this, but he could not locate the sound nor distinguish the words.