“What can we do against even a small camp?”
“The miners, I reckon, have heard of Buffalo Bill,” said the scout, with a flash of the eyes; “they know he is in Uncle Sam’s service, and they’ll think twice before they invite a company of regulars over here to drive them out and wind up their layout.”
“The very name of Buffalo Bill,” said Dell, her face lighting with admiration, “has a power everywhere. See how it stampeded the Cheyennes and caused them to break away from Lawless! And see, too, how fearful Tex was, and how ready to save his own neck when he found you had captured him.”
“It isn’t so much the name, pard,” laughed the scout, “as the fact that the United States army is behind it.”
A few miles of twilight brought the scout and the girl to a point where the walls of the gorge began to open out. More daylight entered the depths and dispelled the gloom. The walls were as high and as rugged as ever, but they continued to swerve away from each other.
An abrupt turn in the gorge brought the riders suddenly within sight of the camp.
Knowing that there was no flood to be feared, the founders of Pima had built the camp in the very bottom of the defile. Timber was plentiful on the ridge, and logs had been lowered from the top of the walls and used in the construction of cabins.
Perhaps there were a dozen buildings, all told, in the camp. They were disreputable structures, entirely in keeping with the character of those who occupied them.
The scout halted Bear Paw while he scanned the camp critically. A few horses were feeding out behind one of the buildings, but there was not a human being in sight. Among the feeding horses was one that was equipped with riding-gear.
“Where are the miners?” queried Dell. “Are they up the gorge somewhere, prying their nuggets out of the rocks? This camp is even quieter than Sun Dance during the day.”