Cayuse flattened out and, scarcely breathing, lay like a stone. The shadows of the gully deceived the man, and he turned away again without seeing Cayuse.
A minute later the boy was under the ledge and safe in the deep gloom. On hands and knees he crawled about, groping to find a bound form. If the white woman was there, he reasoned, she would, no doubt, be bound and gagged, so that she could not move or speak.
In his blind search, his fingers encountered a form, but the flesh was cold and lifeless, and the boy recoiled. Dead! Had the scoundrels, then, slain the white squaw? Cayuse believed so, for palefaces, like the supposed Lawless and his gang have evil hearts and are equal to anything.
Grievously disappointed, the boy crawled from under the ledge, and attempted to pass the white men once more. The luck that had been with him the first time, however, failed him now. In the midst of his reckless work, one of the men got up and started to go under the ledge. As fate would have it, the man stumbled over Cayuse, who was lying squarely in his path.
“A spy!” yelped the man.
The other two bounded to their feet. Revolvers exploded, and one of the weapons was Cayuse’s. One of the three men dropped to his knees, and the Piute, with a flying leap, sprang clear over his head and dropped into the bushes.
Cayuse did not lift himself erect, but flattened along the ground. Bullets spattered above him, among the bushes, and, while he listened to them, the echoes were suddenly taken up by a crashing of the undergrowth toward the mouth of the gully.
“Whoop-ya! This way, fellers, ter ther scene o’ trouble! Ef them pizen outlaws hev anythin’ ter do with et, we’ll rout ’em out in reg’lar Buffler Bill style. Straight up ther gully, Hickok! Ef ye see er bullet comin’ to’ard ye in ther night, jest dodge, an’ keep on goin’.”
A quiver of excitement ran pulsing through Cayuse’s body. It was the voice of Nomad!
The next moment there was a change in the situation. The outlaws were now resisting attack, and the fight was at close quarters.