A number of young Cheyennes streamed out from the camp, and began to get their ponies and lead them toward the fires.
The time for which the scout had waited so long had come. He, too, led his pony along; and with his Indian disguise and blanket he seemed but one of the Cheyennes leading in his pony.
When the Cheyennes mounted and were ready to move on with their prisoners, the scout was mounted and in their midst, and they did not know that a rider had been added to their number; they could not have told that without making a count, and they did not think to do that; in truth, they did not once suspect that an enemy was in their midst, or near.
As the Cheyennes thus rode forth again in the darkness, heading still toward the Southwest, Buffalo Bill rode with them, silent and watchful.
He understood the Cheyenne tongue, as he did most of the Indian languages and dialects of the border, and he was ready with answers, if questioned by any one. But he was not questioned.
By careful work he located the prisoners, and by work as careful he edged his pony by degrees toward them, nearer and nearer.
Wild Bill did not dream that his old border pard was within miles, and he was rather startled when a gruff Indian voice ordered him in Cheyenne to sit up straighter, and then the Indian who gave the order bent toward him and whispered, in the voice of Buffalo Bill:
“It is I, Cody; I’m one of them, you know! But mum’s the word. I’ll get you and the young lady out of this. Stevens is outside, keeping shady, but hanging to the flanks of this party, and stands ready to help me when I summon him.”
Wild Bill gulped with astonishment. His heart jumped into his throat, he was so amazed. He was familiar with the daring and cleverness of Buffalo Bill, but he had not expected this. It came almost as a shock.
“Can I tell the girl?” he whispered.