Soon he remounted, and began to follow that trail.
Two horses, or Indian ponies, had passed along. They were unshod, and the scout was certain they were Cheyenne ponies. Soon other trails joined these two.
“Ah, here is where they first saw him!”
Other hoof marks had come in there; after which there were evidences that all of the ponies had started in a sudden burst of speed.
To the experienced eye of Buffalo Bill this was as plain as the print in a primer. The Cheyennes had here seen Wild Bill and had charged on him.
A few hundred yards beyond, the scout came to the scene of the fight—the scene he had seen pictured so clearly in the sky mirror. He looked the ground over.
“Here is where he made his stand,” he said, “for here are the empty cartridge shells from his revolver; and here is where they rushed on him, and captured or killed him. It was hot work; for here are bloodstains, and indications that somebody was killed, and perhaps more than one. Of course, the Cheyennes would carry away their dead and wounded. And it will go hard with Hickok, for I guess he wiped out one or more of them.”
He followed along, reading the signs, plain as print to one as skilled as he.
“Here I think they set him on a horse, for the hoof marks of this pony begin right here to sink deeper into the ground, showing that an extra weight was put on its back. Yes, they tied him here, for here are the ends of rawhide cut from the thongs they put on him.”
The great scout and trailer stood up, his face brighter and more hopeful. He had feared that soon he would behold Wild Bill’s dead body.