Undaunted by his failure to strike the girl, Big Thunder was alert on the instant and ready to balk the scout’s attempt to get his revolver.
Between him and the scout yawned the hole in the platform. The Ponca sprang across it, but his moccasined feet tripped on the ox-hide bucket, and his leap fell short.
The toes of his moccasins caught the edge of the opening, he reeled there for a fraction of a second, seeking to recover his balance, then lurched backward, striking his spine and head against the opposite side of the opening.
For the space of a breath the scout saw him, doubled up in the square hole, every muscle gone limp, and arms and hands helpless to save him; then the form disappeared downward, and could be heard striking and bounding against the rocky walls of the shaft. Finally there came a sudden crash from far below, then death-like silence.
Buffalo Bill sank down on the platform, limp and breathless. Wah-coo-tah stole upward to him, knelt at his side, and peered curiously down into the shaft.
“Him dead,” she breathed; “Ponca him killed. Pa-e-has-ka save Wah-coo-tah again.”
“It’s about a stand-off, Wah-coo-tah,” said the scout. “If it hadn’t been for you the Ponca would have sunk that pick into my back. But I hadn’t much to do with his falling into that hole. That was more of a happenchance than anything else. He stumbled against the bucket.”
“Him bad Ponca,” said the girl, with visible satisfaction. “Heap good thing he fall into hole. He no fall into hole, then he ketch Wah-coo-tah, mebbyso, and some time kill Pa-e-has-ka. Me heap glad.”
“You saw him riding up the cañon?”
“Ai. Me know he come. Him pass rocks trailing Pa-e-has-ka’s horse. Then me follow.”