The boy’s hand dropped, but Pete was quick to catch the descending arm, hang to it, and wrench the knife from the hand.
“Darn!” whooped Pete, “the leetle red was goin’ ter knife hisself! It was his own death-song he was singin’. He thinks his pard, Buffler Bill, has hit the long trail, an’ he’s pinin’ ter foller. Whoever heerd o’ sich doin’s? Stop yer squirmin’, Cayuse,” Pete added to the boy, who was fighting to free himself. “We ain’t goin’ ter let ye kick the bucket, now thet we went ter all thet trouble ter snake ye in out o’ the wet.”
With a tremendous effort, Cayuse jerked free of Pete’s hands, whirled about, and suddenly grew calm. Pete, Tenny, and Blake started toward him.
Cayuse turned on them, his eyes glittering like a catamount’s in the dark, laid a finger on his lips, and pointed.
The eyes of the white men, following the boy’s finger, rested on a point of the cañon wall, fifty feet below, and to the right of them.
At this place there was a sort of shelf on the wall, a small level, covered with an undergrowth of bushes. Horsemen were riding out of the bushes, and striking into a path that mounted upward toward the top of the wall.
Lawless, a look of gloating triumph on his face, was in the lead. At his heels rode three Cheyenne bucks, and two of the bucks carried each a white prisoner, bound hand and foot, across his pony behind him.
One of the prisoners, as those above could see, was old Nomad.
And the other was Wild Bill!