“I can’t understand why the scoundrels are holding their fire,” mused Buffalo Bill, “unless it is because they can’t locate us, and don’t want to waste their ammunition. Hold my horse, Dell.”
The scout flung the girl his reins and slipped quietly down from his saddle.
“What are you going to do, pard?” whispered the girl anxiously.
“A little scouting,” he replied, “in order to determine what we’re up against. That shot came from the wall, across the valley. Can I climb the wall over there, Tenny?”
“It’ll be a hard scramble,” was the reply, “but I reckon Buffler Bill kin do whatever he sets out ter try. Leastways, thet’s how it seems from the fashion ye’ve been doin’ things sence ye hit Sun Dance.”
“Wait for me here,” said the scout, moving slowly away through the gloom. “If you hear me whistle, Tenny, leave your horse with Dell and come over, for it’s barely possible I shall need you.”
Emerging cautiously from the heavy shadow of the bank, the scout dropped to his knees and crawled across the valley. The bottom of the valley was fairly light, and had the scout not taken advantage of the boulders and depressions, he could easily have been seen by the marksman on the wall, and almost as easily have been snuffed out by a bullet.
But he was a master of the sort of work that now engaged his attention, and he gained the opposite wall without being seen.
The wall was steep and covered with sharp rocks. The rocks, while making the scout’s climb more difficult, at the same time served to shield him from the view of any one above.
To make such a hard ascent without loosening a stone, or sending a spurt of sand down the wall, was the task the scout had set for himself; and that he accomplished it, in the semidarkness, was an added proof of the powers that had made him what he was—king of scouts and prince of Indian-fighters.