Buffalo Bill, the Border King; Or, Redskin and Cowboy
Date: 2020-07-14T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Indians of North America -- Fiction; Dime novels; Buffalo Bill; 1846-1917 -- Fiction; Scouts (Reconnaissance) -- Fiction

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Title: Buffalo Bill, the Border King; Or, Redskin and Cowboy

Author: Prentiss Ingraham

Release date: July 14, 2020 [eBook #62638]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by David Edwards, Craig Kirkwood, and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BUFFALO BILL, THE BORDER KING; OR, REDSKIN AND COWBOY ***

Transcriber’s Notes:

The Table of Contents was created by the transcriber and placed in the public domain.

Additional Transcriber’s Notes are at the end.

CONTENTS

In Appreciation of William F. Cody (Buffalo Bill).

Chapter I. Running the Death-gantlet.

Chapter II. The Border King.

Chapter III. The King of the Sioux.

Chapter IV. Buffalo Bill’s Plot.

Chapter V. The Desperate Venture.

Chapter VI. The Dash of the Scouts.

Chapter VII. The Ace of Clubs.

Chapter VIII. Facing Death.

Chapter IX. Breaking Through the Red Circle.

Chapter X. The Ride to the Rescue.

Chapter XI. A Busy Half-hour.

Chapter XII. A Flying Fight.

Chapter XIII. The Chase of the White Antelope.

Chapter XIV. A Startling Discovery.

Chapter XV. The Treasure Chest.

Chapter XVI. The Bandits of the Overland Trail.

Chapter XVII. A Friend in Need.

Chapter XVIII. The Race With Death.

Chapter XIX. Danforth’s Hand Is Stayed Again.

Chapter XX. A Double Capture.

Chapter XXI. The Cave in the Mountain.

Chapter XXII. The Night Prowlers.

Chapter XXIII. More Than They Bargained For.

Chapter XXIV. Chased by the Flames.

Chapter XXV. The Telltale Crow.

Chapter XXVI. The Massacre.

Chapter XXVII. “The Death Killer.”

Chapter XXVIII. The White Antelope Interferes.

Chapter XXIX. A Girl’s Word.

Chapter XXX. The Mad Hunter.

Chapter XXXI. Buffalo Bill’s Great Shot.

Chapter XXXII. The Border King’s Pledge.

Chapter XXXIII. Tracking the Mad Hunter.

Chapter XXXIV. Red Knife Loses His “Medicine.”

Chapter XXXV. The Search For New Medicine.

Chapter XXXVI. The Magic Cup.

Chapter XXXVII. The Traitor.

Chapter XXXVIII. White Antelope’s Peril.

Chapter XXXIX. A Cry For Help.

Chapter XL. The Freight-train.

Chapter XLI. “On Guard!”

Chapter XLII. The Avenger.

Chapter XLIII. Man to Man at Last.

Chapter XLIV. The Fight to Gain the Island.

Chapter XLV. War to the Knife.

Chapter XLVI. And the Knife to the Hilt.

Chapter XLVII. The Conqueror.

Chapter XLVIII. The Pledge Kept.

Chapter XLIX. Conclusion.

Buffalo Bill, the Border King

OR,
REDSKIN AND COWBOY

BY
Col. Prentiss Ingraham

Author of “Buffalo Bill”

STREET & SMITH CORPORATION
PUBLISHERS
79-89 Seventh Avenue, New York

Copyright, 1907
By STREET & SMITH

Buffalo Bill, the Border King

(Printed in the United States of America)

All rights reserved including that of translation into foreign languages, including the Scandinavian.

IN APPRECIATION OF WILLIAM F. CODY
(BUFFALO BILL).

It is now some generations since Josh Billings, Ned Buntline, and Colonel Prentiss Ingraham, intimate friends of Colonel William F. Cody, used to forgather in the office of Francis S. Smith, then proprietor of the New York Weekly. It was a dingy little office on Rose Street, New York, but the breath of the great outdoors stirred there when these old-timers got together. As a result of these conversations, Colonel Ingraham and Ned Buntline began to write of the adventures of Buffalo Bill for Street & Smith.

Colonel Cody was born in Scott County, Iowa, February 26, 1846. Before he had reached his teens, his father, Isaac Cody, with his mother and two sisters, migrated to Kansas, which at that time was little more than a wilderness.

When the elder Cody was killed shortly afterward in the Kansas “Border War,” young Bill assumed the difficult role of family breadwinner. During 1860, and until the outbreak of the Civil War, Cody lived the arduous life of a pony-express rider. Cody volunteered his services as government scout and guide and served throughout the Civil War with Generals McNeil and A. J. Smith. He was a distinguished member of the Seventh Kansas Cavalry.

During the Civil War, while riding through the streets of St. Louis, Cody rescued a frightened schoolgirl from a band of annoyers. In true romantic style, Cody and Louisa Federci, the girl, were married March 6, 1866.

In 1867 Cody was employed to furnish a specified amount of buffalo meat to the construction men at work on the Kansas Pacific Railroad. It was in this period that he received the sobriquet “Buffalo Bill.”

In 1868 and for four years thereafter Colonel Cody served as scout and guide in campaigns against the Sioux and Cheyenne Indians. It was General Sheridan who conferred on Cody the honor of chief of scouts of the command.

After completing a period of service in the Nebraska legislature, Cody joined the Fifth Cavalry in 1876, and was again appointed chief of scouts.

Colonel Cody’s fame had reached the East long before, and a great many New Yorkers went out to see him and join in his buffalo hunts, including such men as August Belmont, James Gordon Bennett, Anson Stager, and J. G. Heckscher. In entertaining these visitors at Fort McPherson, Cody was accustomed to arrange wild-West exhibitions. In return his friends invited him to visit New York. It was upon seeing his first play in the metropolis that Cody conceived the idea of going into the show business.

Assisted by Ned Buntline, novelist, and Colonel Ingraham, he started his “Wild West” show, which later developed and expanded into “A Congress of the Roughriders of the World,” first presented at Omaha, Nebraska. In time it became a familiar yearly entertainment in the great cities of this country and Europe. Many famous personages attended the performances, and became his warm friends, including Mr. Gladstone, the Marquis of Lorne, King Edward, Queen Victoria, and the Prince of Wales, now King of England.

At the outbreak of the Sioux, in 1890 and 1891, Colonel Cody served at the head of the Nebraska National Guard. In 1895 Cody took up the development of Wyoming Valley by introducing irrigation. Not long afterward he became judge advocate general of the Wyoming National Guard.

Colonel Cody (Buffalo Bill) died in Denver, Colorado, on January 10, 1917. His legacy to a grateful world was a large share in the development of the West, and a multitude of achievements in horsemanship, marksmanship, and endurance that will live for ages. His life will continue to be a leading example of the manliness, courage, and devotion to duty that belonged to a picturesque phase of American life now passed, like the great patriot whose career it typified, into the Great Beyond.

BUFFALO BILL, THE BORDER KING.

CHAPTER I.
RUNNING THE DEATH-GANTLET.

Fort Advance, a structure built of heavy, squared timbers and some masonry, with towers at the four corners, commanding the deep ditches which had been dug around the walls, stood in the heart of the then untracked Territory of Utah. It was the central figure of a beautiful valley—when in repose—and commanded one of the important passes and wagon trails of the Rockies.

A mountain torrent flowed through the valley, and a supply of pure water from this stream had been diverted into the armed square which, commanded by Major Frank Baldwin, was a veritable City of Refuge to all the whites who chanced to be in the country at this time.

For the valley of Fort Advance offered no peaceful scene. The savage denizens of the mountain and plain had risen, and, in a raging, vengeful flood, had poured into the valley and besieged the unfortunate occupants of the fort. These were a branch of the great Sioux tribe, and, under their leading chief, Oak Heart, fought with the desperation and blind fanaticism of Berserkers.

A belt of red warriors surrounded Fort Advance, cutting off all escape, or the approach of any assistance to the inmates of the stockade, outnumbering the able-bodied men under Major Baldwin’s command five to one! Among them rode the famous Oak Heart, inspiring his children to greater deeds of daring. By his side rode a graceful, beautiful girl of some seventeen years, whose face bore the unmistakable stamp of having other than Indian blood flowing in her veins. Long, luxurious hair, every strand of golden hue, contrasted strangely with her bronze complexion, while her eyes were sloe-black, and brilliant with every changing expression.

This was White Antelope, a daughter of Oak Heart, and she held almost as much influence in the tribe as the grim old chief himself. Because of her beauty, indeed, she was almost worshiped as a goddess. At least, there was not a young buck in all the Utah Sioux who would not have attempted any deed of daring for the sake of calling the White Antelope his squaw.

But while the red warriors were so inspired without the walls of the fortress, within was a much different scene. Major Baldwin’s resources were at an end. Many of his men were wounded, or ill; food was low; the wily redskins had cut off their water-supply; and there were but a few rounds of ammunition remaining. Fort Advance and its people were at a desperate pass, indeed!

After a conference with his subordinate officers, Major Baldwin stood up in the midst of his haggard, powder-begrimed men. They were faithful fellows—many of them bore the scars of old Indian fights. But human endurance has its limit, and there is an end to man’s courage.

“Will no man in this fort dare run the death-gantlet and bring aid to us?” cried the major.

It was an appeal from the lips of a fearless man, one who had won a record as a soldier in the Civil War, and had made it good later upon the field as an Indian fighter. The demand was for one who would risk almost certain death to save a couple of hundred of his fellow beings, among them a score of women and children.

The nearest military post where help might be obtained was forty miles away. Several brave men had already attempted to run the deadly gantlet, and had died before the horrified eyes of the fort’s inmates. It seemed like flinging one’s life away to venture into the open where, just beyond rifle-shot, the red warriors ringed the fort about.

Such was the situation, and another attack was about due. The riding of the big chief and his daughter through the mass of Indians, was for the purpose of giving instructions regarding the coming charge. Ammunition in the fort might run out this time. Then over the barrier would swarm the redskins, and the thought of the massacre that would follow made even Major Baldwin’s cheek blanch.

So the gallant commander’s appeal had been made—and had it been made in vain? So it would seem, for not a man spoke for several moments. They shifted their guns, or changed weight from one foot to the other, or adjusted a bandage which already marked the redskin’s devilish work.

They were brave men; but death seemed too sure a result of the attempt called for; it meant—to their minds—but another life flung away!

“Was it not better that all should die here together, fighting desperately till the last man fell?” That was the question these old scarred veterans asked in their own minds. The venture would be utterly and completely hopeless.

“Look there!”

The trumpet-call was uttered by an officer on one of the towers of the stockade. His arm pointed westward, toward a ridge of rock which—barren and forbidding—sloped down into the valley facing the main gateway of Fort Advance.

At the officer’s cry a score of men leaped to positions from which could be seen the object that occasioned it. Even Major Baldwin, knowing that the cry had been uttered because of some momentous happening, hurriedly mounted to the platform above the gate. He feared that already his demand for another volunteer was too late. He believed the redskins were massing for another charge.

All eyes were strained in the direction the officer on the watch-tower pointed. A gasp of amazement was chorused by those who saw and understood the meaning of the cry.

A horseman was seen riding like the wind toward the fort—and he was a white man!

The Indians who had already beheld this rash adventurer were dumb with amazement. They were as much surprised by his appearance as were the inmates of the fort.

The unknown rider was leading a packhorse. The horse he bestrode was a magnificent animal, and the packhorse flying along by its side was a racer as well, for both came on, down the long tongue of barren rock, at a spanking pace.

From whence had the man come? Who was he? How had he gotten almost through the Indian lines undiscovered?

He certainly had all but run the gantlet of the red warriors, for no shot, or no arrow, had been fired at him until he was discovered by the officer on the watch-tower of the fort.

Then it was that he spurred forward like the wind, and floating to the ears of the whites who watched him so fearfully came the long, tremolo yell of the Sioux warriors as they started in pursuit of the daredevil rider. He was heading directly for the large gates of the fort.

That he had chosen well his place to break through the Indian death-circle was evident, for there were few braves near him as he fled along the sloping ridge into the valley. His rifle he turned to right, or to left, firing with the same ease from either shoulder, while his mount, and the packhorse tied to its bridle, guided their own feet over the rocky way.

When he pulled trigger the bullet did not miss its mark. The rifle rang out a death-knell, or sent a wounded brave out of action.

The ponies of the Indians were feeding in the valley, with only a guard here and there, and there were no mounted warriors near to close in on the reckless rider, or to head him off. Hark! Their vengeful yells, as they observed the possibility of the daring man’s escape, were awful to hear. They were in a frenzy of rage at the desperate act of the horseman.

Rifles and bows sent bullets and shafts at him, but at long range. If he was hit he did not show it. The horses still thundered on, down into the valley, as recklessly as frenzied buffalo.

Oak Heart, the great war chief, heard the commotion and saw the speeding white man. The chief was mounted, and he lashed his horse into a dead run for the point where the reckless paleface was descending into the valley. With him rode the White Antelope, and their coming spurred the braves to more strenuous attempts to reach, or capture, or kill, the daredevil rider.

The occupants of the fort—those who beheld this wonderful race—were on the qui vive. Their exclamations displayed the anxiety and uncertainty they felt.

“He can never make it!”

“The Indian guard are driving in the ponies to bar his way!”

“Who is he?”

“How he rides!”

“God guard the brave fellow!” cried a woman’s voice.

One of the gentler sex had climbed to the platform over the gate, and this was her prayer.

Other women had dropped to their knees, and were fervently praying God to spare the splendid fellow who was daring the gantlet of death. A cheer rose from the soldiery. This unknown was showing them the way that they had not dared to go.

“That packhorse is wounded. Why doesn’t he leave it?” cried one of the officers. “It is delaying him—can’t the fellow see it?”

At that moment the commander shouted:

“Captain Keyes, take your troop to the rescue of that brave fellow!”

“With pleasure, sir! I was about to ask your permission to do just that,” declared the junior officer.

The bugle sounded, but its notes were drowned in a sudden wild shout of joy that rose from the two hundred inmates of the fort. Another officer, with a field-glass at his eye, had suddenly turned and shouted:

“It is Buffalo Bill, the Border King!”

CHAPTER II.
THE BORDER KING.

The wild cheers that greeted the recognition of the daring gantlet runner came in frenzied roars, the piping voices of children, the treble notes of women, and the deep bass of the men mingling in a swelling chorus that rose higher and higher.

The Border King, as he had been called, heard the sound. He understood that it was in his welcome, and he fairly stood up in his stirrups and waved his sombrero, while the horses dashed on at the same mad pace.

Buffalo Bill, or William F. Cody, as was his real name, was the chief of scouts at this very fort, and he was a hero—almost a god—in the eyes of the soldiers and his brother scouts.

A week before he had started for Denver with important despatches, but had returned in a few hours to report signs of a large band of Indians on the move. He had warned Major Baldwin that Oak Heart and his braves might be intending a concerted attack upon Fort Advance; but duty called Buffalo Bill to the trail again, and he had hurried away on his Denver mission.

That the danger he had dreaded was real, the surrounding of the fort several days later by the Sioux proved. Scouts had been sent for aid, but too late. None had gotten through the belt of redskins, and that belt was tightening each hour. The ammunition was low, and the awful end was not far off if help from some quarter did not appear.

Even the appearance of Buffalo Bill inspired the beleaguered whites with hope. It seemed an almost hopeless attempt to reach the fort, for the red warriors were closing in upon him. Yet he rode on unshakenly.

Down the ridge he sped, and out upon the plain. He was seemingly coming from the sunshine of life into the valley of death’s shadow!

Why did he do it? Why did he risk his life so recklessly when only forty miles away he could have obtained help from the military post? There was some reason behind his daring act, and some cause for his delaying his effort by dragging the packhorse, now wounded, with him.

All in the fort knew what this hero of the border had done to win fame among the mighty men of the frontier. He was chief and king among them. Yet what could he do now to help the besieged in the fortress, even did he reach the gate? That was the question!

But hope revived, nevertheless, in every heart. Even the commandant, Major Frank Baldwin, began to look more hopeful as the scout drew closer to the fort. He had known Buffalo Bill long and well, and he knew of what marvels he was capable!

Buffalo Bill had been born in a cabin home on the banks of the Mississippi River in the State of Iowa, and from his eighth year he had been a pioneer—an advance agent of civilization. At that age his father had removed to Kansas, and as a boy Billie Cody saw and took part in the bloody struggles in Kansas between the supporters of slavery and those who believed that the soil of Kansas should be unsmirched by that terrible traffic in human lives.

Cody’s father, indeed, lost his life because of his belief in freedom, and the boy was obliged to help support the family at a tender age. He went to Leavenworth, and there hired out to Alex Majors, who of that day was the chief of the overland freighters into the far West.

The boy was eleven years old—an age when most youngsters think only of their play and of their stomachs. But Billie Cody had seen his father shot down; he had nursed him and hidden him from his foes, and from the dying pioneer had received a sacred charge. That was the care of his mother and sister. It was necessary for him to earn a man’s wage, not a boy’s. And to get it he must do a man’s work. He was a splendid rider, even then—one of those horsemen who seem a part of the animal he bestrode, like the Centaurs of which Greek mythology tells us. Alex Majors needed a messenger to ride from train to train along the wagon-trail, and he entrusted young Cody with the job.

It was one that might have put to the test the bravery of a seasoned plainsman. Indians and wild beasts were both very plentiful. There were hundreds of dangers to threaten the lone boy as he rode swiftly over the trails. Yet even then he began to make his mark. He had several encounters with the Indians during his first season. As he says himself, the first redskin he ever saw stole from him, and he had to force the scoundrel—boy though he was—to give up the property at the point of the rifle. This incident, perhaps, gave the youth a certain daring in approaching the reds which often stood him well in after adventures. And the reds learned to respect and fear Billie Cody. He allowed his hair to grow long, to show the Indians that he was not afraid to wear a “scalp-lock”—practically daring any of his red foes to come and take it!

So from that early day he had been active on the border. All knew him—red as well as white. He had been an Indian fighter from his eleventh year, the hero of hundreds of daring deeds, thrilling adventures, and narrow escapes. He was as gentle as a woman with the weak, the feeble, or with those who claimed his protection; but he was as savage in battle as a mountain lion, and had well earned the title bestowed upon him by his admiring friends—the Border King. His coming to the fort now—if he could make it safely—was worth in itself a company of reenforcements, for it put heart into all the besieged.

“Never mind, Keyes! it is Cody, and he will get through,” called out Major Baldwin to Captain Keyes, as the men were mounting.

Captain Edward L. Keyes was a splendid type of cavalry officer, and he was anxious for another brush with the redskins at close quarters. He was disappointed, but as the man making the attempt to reach Fort Advance was Buffalo Bill, the captain agreed with Major Baldwin that “he would get through.”

The Border King had turned his rifle now upon the Indian guards who were trying to head him off by blocking his way with the large herd of half-wild ponies which had been feeding in the valley. Indian ponies are not broken like those used by white men. They are pretty nearly wild all their days. The red man merely teaches his mount to answer to the pressure of his knees, and to the jerk of the single rawhide thong that is slipped around the brute’s lower jaw. And these lessons are further enforced by cruelty.

The odor of a white person is offensive to an Indian pony. A white man has been known frequently to stampede a band of Indian mounts; and not infrequently the mob of wild creatures has turned upon the unfortunate paleface and trampled him to death under their unshod feet.

Therefore, this opposition of the ponies was no small matter. They were a formidable barrier to Buffalo Bill’s successful arrival at the gate of the stockade fort.

His rifle rattled forth lively, yet deadly, music, and his aim was wonderfully true for that of a man riding at full speed. Emptying the gun, he swung it quickly over his shoulder, and drawing the big cavalry pistols from their holsters the daring scout began to fairly mow a path through the herd of ponies. The slugs carried by the large-caliber pistols were as effective as the balls from his rifle. The mob of squealing, kicking, biting ponies broke before his charge, and swept on ahead of him. Another cheer from the watchers in the fort signaled this fact. The ponies were stampeding directly toward Fort Advance.

“Out and line ’em up!”

“We’ll corral the ponies if we kyan’t th’ Injuns!”

“Throw open the gates!” commanded Major Baldwin, his voice heard above the tumult.

The command was obeyed, and Captain Keyes and his men galloped out to meet the mob.

In vain did the Indian guards try to head off the stampede. By having left their ponies in the valley where the grass was sweet and long, they had been caught in this trap. Instead of capturing Buffalo Bill it looked as though he and the other whites would capture the bulk of the Indian ponies!

Oak Heart and the White Antelope, with a few mounted reds at their back, thundered across the level plain and up the rise toward the fort. But the pony herd and Buffalo Bill were well in the lead.

The king of the border turned in his saddle, and waved his sombrero in mockery at the Indian chief. Then the ponies dashed into the gateway and were corraled, while the scout, still leading his packhorse, swept in behind them.

“On guard, all! The redskins will charge on foot to try and get their ponies!” shouted the scout, as he came through the gate.

His voice rose above the turmoil and brought the delighted men to their duty. Major Baldwin echoed Buffalo Bill’s advice, ordering everybody to their posts.

“Be careful of the expenditure of powder and lead, men!” warned the major, from his stand on the platform. “Remember we are running short.”

“Don’t you believe it, major!” cried the voice of the scout, as he dismounted in the middle of the enthusiastic throng.

“What’s that, Cody?”

“Strip the packhorse. I have brought you a-plenty of ammunition until reenforcements can be had.”

“God bless you, Cody, for those words! You have saved us,” cried Major Baldwin, and there was a tremor in his voice as he glanced toward the group of women and children.

He came down from the platform, and wrung the scout’s hand, as he asked:

“In the name of Heaven, Cody, where did you get ammunition? Surely, you did not bring it all the way from Denver?”

“No, indeed. I cached this over a year ago, major,” the scout replied cheerfully. “It will hold those red devils off until help arrives. You’ve sent to Fort Resistence, I presume?”

“Sent, alas! But five men have died in the attempt.”

“And not one got through?” cried Buffalo Bill.

“Not one, Cody.”

Buffalo Bill’s face assumed a look of anxiety—an expression not often seen there.

“I had called for another volunteer when you were discovered coming. It was a splendid dash you made, Cody, and a desperate one as well.”

“Aye,” said the scout gravely. “Desperate it was, indeed. But it must be made again. This ammunition I have brought you may last till morning; but the reds must be taken on the flank or they’ll hold you here till kingdom come!

“I’ll try to get through again, Major Baldwin. You must have help,” declared the Border King sternly.

CHAPTER III.
THE KING OF THE SIOUX.

Scarcely had Buffalo Bill uttered these cheering words when a babble of cries arose from the watchers on the towers and the platform over the gate. The redskins were gathering for a concerted charge, maddened by his escape and the loss of their ponies.

Saving a few chiefs, beside Oak Heart and the White Antelope none of the reds were mounted. However, they were so enraged now that they ignored the whites’ accuracy of aim and came on within rifle-shot of the stockade.

The ammunition brought on the packhorse led by the scout was hastily distributed among the defendants of the fort, with orders to throw no shot away. They were to shoot to kill, and Major Baldwin advised as did “Old Put” at the first great battle in United States history—the Battle of Bunker Hill—“to wait till they saw the whites of the enemies’ eyes!”

Powder was as precious to that devoted band as gold-dust, and bullets were as valuable as diamonds.

Major Baldwin took his position on the observation platform above the gate, Buffalo Bill by his side, repeating rifle in hand, and near them stood a couple of young officers as aids, and the bugler. All were armed with rifles, and every weapon for which there was no immediate need in the fort was loaded and ready. The women were in two groups—one ready to reload the weapons tossed them by the men, and the other to assist the surgeon with the wounded.

The Indians came swarming across the valley in a red tidal wave. They were decreasing their circle, and expected to rush the stockade walls in a cyclonic charge.

They quickened their pace as they came, and the weird war-whoop deafened the beleaguered garrison. They came with a rush at last, showering the walls with arrows and bullets, some of which found their way into the loopholes.

It was a grand charge to look upon; it was a desperate one to check.

The whites had their orders and obeyed them. Not a rifle cracked until the Indians were under the stockade walls, scrambling through the ditch. Then the four six-pounders roared from the block-towers, their scattering lead and iron mowing down the yelling redskins in the ditches.

Then volley upon volley of carbines, repeating rifles, and muskets echoed the rolling thunder of the big guns.

Not a few of the bullets and arrows entered the loopholes, and many dead and wounded were numbered among the whites; but the carnage among the redskins was awful to contemplate.

The thunder of the big guns, the popping of the smaller firearms, the screaming of the wild ponies corraled in the fort, and the demoralized shrieks of the Indians themselves made a veritable hell upon earth!

Above all rose the notes of the bugle sending forth orders at Major Baldwin’s command. Now and then that piercing, weird war-cry of the Border King was heard—a sound well known and feared by the Indians. They recognized it as the voice of he whom they called Pa-e-has-ka—“The Long Hair.”

Indian nature was not equal to facing the deadly hail of iron and lead, and the red wave broke against the stockade and receded, leaving many still and writhing bodies in the ditches which surrounded the fort, and scattered upon the plain. Slowly at first the redskins surged backward under the galling fire of the whites but finally the retreat became a stampede.

The rout was complete. All but the dead and badly wounded escaped swiftly out of rifle-shot, save one mounted chief. He was left alone, struggling with his mount, trying to force the animal to leave the vicinity of the fort gate.

This was Oak Heart himself, the king of the Sioux, and his mount was a great white cavalry charger that he had captured months before. This was no half-wild Indian pony; yet the Indian chief, without spurs and a proper bridle, could not control the beast. The horse had heard the bugle to which he had been so long used. He was determined in his equine mind to rejoin the white men who had been his friends, instead of these cruel red masters, and he made a dash for the gate of the fortress.

In vain did Chief Oak Heart try to check him. He would have flung himself from the horse’s back, but the creature was so swift of foot and the ground was so broken here, that such an act would have assured Oak Heart’s instant death. Besides, being the great chief of his tribe, Oak Heart had bound himself to the horse that, if wounded or killed, he would not be lost to his people which—according to Indian belief—would be shame.

Oak Heart had lost his scalping-knife, and could not cut the rawhide lariat that held him fast. He writhed, yelling maledictions in Sioux upon the horse; but he could neither check the brute nor unfasten the lariat.

His warriors soon saw Chief Oak Heart’s predicament, and they charged back to his rescue. The White Antelope led them on, for she was as brave as her father.

Buffalo Bill had been first to see the difficulty into which the chief had gotten himself, and springing down from the platform he threw himself into the saddle, shouted for the gates to be opened, and spurred his horse out of the fort.

“Don’t shoot the girl!” the scout yelled to the soldiers lining the walls above him. “Have a care for the girl!”

But there was scarcely chance for the whites to fire at all at the oncoming White Antelope and her party, before Buffalo Bill was beside the big white charger and the struggling king of the Sioux.

Out flashed the scout’s pistol, and he presented it to the red man’s head.

“Oak Heart, you are my prisoner! Yield yourself!” he cried, in the Sioux tongue.

At the same moment he seized the thong by which the Indian was wrenching at the jaw of the white horse, snatched it from Oak Heart’s grasp, and gave the big charger his head. The white horse sprang forward for the open gate of the fort, and Buffalo Bill’s mount kept abreast of him. The redskins dared not fire at the scout for fear of killing Oak Heart.

A volley from the soldiery sent the would-be rescuers of the chief back to cover. Only the beautiful girl, White Antelope, was left boldly in the open, shaking her befeathered spear and trying to rally her people to the charge. The white men honored Buffalo Bill’s request and did not shoot at her, or the Sioux would have lost their mascot as well as their great chieftain.

In a moment the scout with his prisoner dashed through the open gates, which were slammed shut and barred amid the deafening acclamations of the garrison. Major Baldwin was on hand to grasp Buffalo Bill’s hand again, and as he wrung it he cried:

“Another brave deed to your credit, Cody! It was cleverly done.”

He turned to the chief whom the scout was freeing from the lariat that had been the cause of his capture. The redskin king had accepted his fate philosophically. His look and bearing was of fearlessness and savage dignity. He had been captured by the palefaces, and so humbled in the eyes of a thousand braves; but he was defiant still, and his features would not reveal his heart-anguish to those foes that now surrounded him with flushed faces.

The stoical traits of the Indian character cannot but arouse admiration in the white man’s breast. From babyhood the redskin is taught—both by precept and instinct—to utter no cry of pain, to reveal no emotion which should cause a foe pleasure. When captured by other savages, the Indian will go to the fire, or stand to be hacked to pieces by his enemies, with no sound issuing from his lips but the death-chant.

And this Spartan fortitude is present in the very papooses themselves. A traveler once told how, in walking through an Indian village, he came upon a little baby tied in the Indian fashion to a board, the board leaning against the outside of a wigwam. The mother had left it there and the white man came upon it suddenly. Undoubtedly his appearance, and his standing to look at the small savage, frightened it as such an experience would a white child. But his voice was not raised. Not a sound did the poor little savage utter; but the tears formed in his beady eyes and ran down his fat cheeks. Infant that he was, and filled with fright of the white man, he would not weep aloud.

Oak Heart, the savage king, looked abroad upon his enemies, and his haughty face gave no expression of fear. He was a captive, but his spirit was unconquered.

“This is a good job, Cody,” whispered Baldwin, glancing again at the chieftain. “We can make use of him, eh?”

“We can, indeed, major,” returned the scout.

“But that crowd out yonder will be watching us all the closer now. How under the sun anybody can get through them after this——”

“Leave it to me, major,” interrupted Buffalo Bill firmly. “I am ready to make the trial—and make it now!”

CHAPTER IV.
BUFFALO BILL’S PLOT.

There was a look on Buffalo Bill’s face as he spoke that informed Major Baldwin that the scout had already formed some plan which he wished to make known to him. So the officer said:

“Come to my quarters, Cody, and we will talk it over. Captain Keyes, kindly take charge of the chief and see that he is neither ill-treated or disturbed. Some of these boys feel pretty ugly, I am sure. We have lost a number of good men, and two of the children have been frightfully wounded by arrows coming through the lower loopholes.”

When the major and the scout reached the former’s office, Baldwin said:

“Are you in earnest in this attempt, Cody?”

“Never more so, Major Baldwin. Help we must have.”

“No man knows the danger better than you do. I need not warn you.”

“Quite needless, sir. I know the game from A to Z.”

“Very true. But there are great odds against you.”

“No man, I believe, sir, stands a better chance of getting through than myself.”

“That is so; yet, while many good men might be spared to make the attempt, you are the one who cannot be replaced.”

“Thank you, sir; but my life is no more to me than another man’s is to him. If I’d been thinking of the chances of getting shot up all these years, I reckon I’d turned up my toes long ago. I never think of death if I can help it.”

“It’s true, Cody!” exclaimed the major. “You act as though the bullet wasn’t molded that could kill you.”

“So the redskins say, I believe,” responded the scout grimly.

“Yet your place cannot easily be filled,” the major said again. “If you can get some other volunteer I wish you would. I don’t want to lose you, Bill.”

“Captain Keyes is anxious to go, sir, but——”

“Oh, yes; Keyes is a daredevil whom nothing will daunt; but I refused his request and those of my few other officers.”

“Then I must go, sir.”

“First, tell me about your mission,” said the major abruptly.

“I delivered your despatches, sir,” said Cody, “and here are others for you. On coming within a few miles of the fort I saw that several large parties of Indians had passed, all seemingly making in this direction. I knew what was up at once. I suspected that unless you had been lucky enough to get a supply of ammunition before the reds closed in on you, you’d run short; but there was that horse load we had to bury last year when I was on the expedition with Captain Ames. So I went over there and found it all in good shape.

“I came mighty near losing it all, however,” added the scout, smiling, “for in the very act of uncovering the stuff I was come upon by a redskin on a good horse. It was kill or be killed, and before he could either shoot me or knife me I had laid him out.

“His war-bonnet and rigging made a pretty good disguise for me. And certainly his horse came in handy. The animal was not a wild pony, but had Uncle Sam’s brand on him. Where the red got him, Heaven only knows. Some poor white man probably lost his life before he lost his horse.

“However, I dressed up as near like an Injun as I could, and packed the ammunition on the dead man’s mount. I made a détour so as to come up from the west, and be opposite the main gate; for I knew about how the red devils would swarm about you here. And I was not interfered with until, coming out on that ridge, I had to throw aside my disguise, or run the risk of being made a target of by some of your fellows in the stockade here. I knew they could shoot better than the redskins,” and Cody laughed.

“So here I am,” the scout added, “little the worse for wear, major.”

“And a more gallant ride I never saw. You have done nobly, Cody. The ammunition will keep us going for some hours.”

“Unless the redskins rush you too hard.”

“You think they will try to charge again—and without their horses?”

“Sure thing. Our capture of Oak Heart will stir ’em up worse than ever.”

“They won’t wait until dark, then?”

“I don’t believe so. That half-wild girl, White Antelope, will give them no peace until they try to rescue her father.”

“But you warned my men not to shoot her.”

“That’s right. She’s Injun now,” said Buffalo Bill sadly. “But her mother wasn’t a redskin, and perhaps some day, when old Oak Heart passes in his chips, she may be gotten away from the savages.”

“You knew her mother, then, Cody?”

“Yes. And a noble woman she was.”

“Yet she went to the wigwam of a dirty redskin?”

“Ah! you don’t know the circumstances. It is a sad story, Major Baldwin, and some day I’ll tell it to you. But don’t blame the mother—or the unfortunate child of this strange union. She would make a beautiful woman if she were civilized, cross-blood though she be.”

“Well, well! It’s a sad case, as you say. I’ll pass the word to the officers to instruct their men to spare the White Antelope wherever they may meet her.”

“Thank you,” said Buffalo Bill simply. “My scouts already know my wishes on the subject. And now, major, I must get ready for my dash through that mob again.”

“It seems a wicked shame to let you go, Cody! Yet—we can’t beat off many more charges even with this access of ammunition.”

“You surely can’t. I must go.”

“You have devised a plan, I can see.”

“I have, sir.”

“Well, sit here and tell me. The mess cook is preparing a hearty meal for you. You can talk while you eat, Cody.”

“Thanks for your thoughtfulness, major. I am a little slim-waisted, not daring to build a fire since yesterday.”

“Just like you to neglect your own needs when others demand your services.”

“Ha, ha!” laughed the scout. “I had some desire to keep my scalp, as well. The reds are too thick hereabout to make fire-building a safe occupation.”

“Well, sir, your plan?” queried the officer.

“Why, it came to me when I saw old Oak Heart mixed up with that blessed old white horse, you know. That old fellow is an ancient friend of mine. I recognized him at once. And he never did love an Injun. I wonder how Oak Heart managed to ride him at all.”

“The horse, you mean?”

“Sure. Well, as for the chief, we have him; but we never can make terms with his tribe for his release.”

“You think not?”

“I know so. The chief is a true Sioux. He would never allow his people to make terms for his life. You could hack him to pieces on that scaffolding yonder, where all the reds could see, and it would not change the attitude of the crew a mite, excepting to make them more bloodthirsty.”

“Yes?”

“So we can’t make terms with him.”

“What do you advise, then?”

“That you have a talk with Oak Heart. He understands English very well, and what he doesn’t understand I’ll interpret for him.”

“Go ahead, Cody,” said the major, laughing. “What are my further instructions?”

“Why, sir——”

“You know very well, scout, that you are bossing your superior officer. But it isn’t the first time. What shall I say to this red rascal?”

Cody’s smile widened and his eyes twinkled.

“Just tell him that he has proved himself too brave an enemy to be either kept in captivity, or punished.”

“And set him free!”

“Sure.”

“But why?”

“Because I can use him in just that way, sir.”

“How?”

“Let me explain. I’ll mount his horse—or the one he rode. I know the splendid fellow well, as I told you. He belonged to Colonel Miles, and a faster or better enduring animal is not now on the frontier.

“I’ll put Oak Heart on my old black. The poor fellow is foundered and will never again be of much value. We will ride out side by side.”

“You will!”

“Somebody must return Oak Heart to his people, you know. And I crave permission to do that.”

“All very well, Cody; but I don’t see your plan.”

Cody laughed again.

“I’ll make it plainer then, sir, by saying that I propose to paint and rig up as old Oak Heart himself, and put him in my togs.”

“Jove, scout! That is a perilous scheme.”

“It’s a good one.”

“But you’ll be shot when they find you out.”

“When they do I’ll be a mile away. I’m going to ride on ahead toward the mouth of the cañon. It’s the nearest road to Fort Resistence. I’ll wave back the tribe as I advance, and they’ll think it is Oak Heart ordering them. They’ll obey him, all right. Then I’ll make a break for it, and you can wager I’ll get through all right, and with that white hoss under me nothing in that outfit can head me off or catch me!”

“And the chief?”

“Hold him back a bit at the stockade. When my horse begins to run, let him go. If the beggars shoot him, it will serve the old scoundrel right. At least, it will confuse the reds.”

“A good idea!” exclaimed Baldwin. “And I really believe it is feasible.”

“Sure it is.”

“There doesn’t seem any better way to break through their lines.”

“That’s right! Strategy must aid pluck in this game.”

“Aye, and you’re the one to make the effort. But may I suggest an amendment, scout?”

“Just put it up to me, Major Baldwin. You haven’t been chasing Injuns all this time without having learned a trick or two yourself.”

“Thank you, Cody. Here’s my idea: Oak Heart will see through your scheme and possibly signal his people the truth before you can reach the cañon.”

“I’ll have to run that risk.”

“No use running any more risk than necessary. Why not take a second man with you?”

“Ah!”

“Yes. One of you represent Oak Heart and the other be yourself. We’ll hold the real chief back until you and your mate get to the cañon. Then, by turning Oak Heart loose, we will add to the reds’ confusion, as you say.”

“Glorious! Fine, major! And I’ll take Texas Jack with me and let him play Oak Heart’s part. He makes a better Injun than I should. And then—I know Jack. One of us will be sure to get through and reach Resistence.”

“Jack has been on duty night and day, Cody,” objected Major Baldwin. “He volunteered to make the attempt before, but I vetoed it. I needed his presence and advice. To let you both go is like putting all my eggs in one basket and sending them to a dangerous market.”

“He’s the man I want,” said Buffalo Bill firmly.

“All right! Let Omohondreau be sent for,” the major said, turning to an orderly.

CHAPTER V.
THE DESPERATE VENTURE.

Texas Jack’s real name was Jean Omohondreau, and he came of a wealthy and noble French family, although he was born in America. It is said that he had refused the title of “Marquis of Omohondreau,” although later he was known as “The White King of the Pawnees,” having been adopted into that tribe and completely winning the confidence of the red men.

At this time Jack was smooth shaven, and with his deeply bronzed features and piercing eyes and black hair he did not look unlike an Indian. Besides, he had lived among the savages even more than Buffalo Bill himself, and had that imitative faculty so general in French people. He could “take off” the savage to the life.

When Texas Jack came sleepily enough from his bunk, it took but a few words from Cody to wake his old pard up. The moment Jack understood what was wanted of him, he was in for the plan, heart and soul.

Oak Heart, who had been entertained—possibly to his great surprise, although he had not shown such emotion in his hard old face—by the younger officers with food and drink, and some of the paleface’s real tobacco, instead of dried willow bark, was now given a uniform and slouch hat in place of his war-bonnet and beaded and befeathered buckskin suit and gay blanket.

The natural acquisitiveness of the Indian character, and the childish joy they have in new finery, possibly made the chief ignore what was done with his old garments. Texas Jack made himself look the Indian brave to the life, put on Chief Oak Heart’s abandoned finery, and, mounting the splendid white cavalry charger—but with saddle hidden by his blanket—was ready to accompany Buffalo Bill.

The latter sprang into the saddle of his claybank—“Buckskin”—and led the way through the open gate. Behind them was the surprised Oak Heart upon Buffalo Bill’s old black, and the soldiers were ready to set him free the moment the two scouts had crossed the danger zone.

The Indians had retired sullenly after Oak Heart’s capture, and White Antelope had as yet been unable to rally them to another charge upon the stockade. Their last charge had been disastrous, and they had not only lost their principal chief, but had been unable to bring back to their camping lines many of the dead and injured. But the belt of red humanity still encircled the fort, and it was plain that they proposed to abide there until such time arrived as could compass their revenge.

Those of the less seriously wounded had dragged themselves back toward their companions; but the others had been removed inside the fort and were being cared for by the surgeon, after he had ministered to the wounded whites. The dead redskins were let lie where they had fallen for the time being.

Oak Heart had noted the care taken of his wounded braves by the white medicine-man. If this charity impressed him his immobile face showed no emotion. He sat the horse that had been given him like a graven image.

Now the moment had arrived for the departure of the two scouts from the fort. As the pair dashed through the open gateway many good wishes followed them. But the troops had been warned not to cheer. That might apprise the redskins that some desperate venture was about to be made.

“Good-by, Bill, and may God guard you!” cried Major Baldwin. “And you, too, Texas Jack! I hope to see you both again.”

Cody turned and waved his hand to him; but Jack, in the character of the captured chief, looked straight ahead over his horse’s ears, and he made no gesture.

“We’ll bear toward the left, Jack, for our best plan is to strike for the cañon,” said Buffalo Bill.

“Right you are, pard. But don’t let’s make a dash till we hafter. We’ll gain everything by keeping them red devils guessing.”

“Sure’s you live, Jack! The moment the reds make a move for us, you sign for them to go back. Keep ’em at a distance if you can.”

“I will,” assured Texas Jack.

“Sit up stiff, old man, and play the part right,” admonished Buffalo Bill with a laugh.

These courageous men could laugh in the face of almost certain death!

“What d’ye suppose they think of it, Bill?” asked Jack. “They’re awake, all right. I wonder what they think at seeing you bringing their supposed chief back to them?”

“I’d give a good deal to know just what they are going to think,” said Cody, more gravely. “But we’ll soon know.”

“Betcher we will!”

“It’s unnecessary to ask you, Jack, if you’ve got your shooting irons ready?”

“Ready and loaded, Bill.”

The two scouts were as watchful as antelopes, and as cautious. But they appeared to ride along at an easy lope, and in a most careless fashion. This is the coolness born of long familiarity with peril; they could meet death itself without the quiver of a nerve.

They progressed but slowly, and the eyes of most of the red men were fixed upon them. It was plain that the savages did not understand just what was going forward when they saw he who appeared to be their king riding thus quietly, and armed and caparisoned, with Long Hair, the white scout. They could not understand why he was coming back to them in company with Pa-e-has-ka.

Soon they began to move forward in a body to meet the coming “chief” and his comrade.

“Give ’em the sign language, Jack. It’s time,” muttered Buffalo Bill.

Omohondreau was an adept at this wonderful means of communication, which was really a general language understood by the members of all the red tribes. He raised first one hand, palm outward, and then the other, and motioned the red men back. The warriors hesitated—then obeyed.

But a mounted figure came dashing from another part of the field, and this silent sign manual did not retard it.

“Face of a pig!” ejaculated Texas Jack, in the patois of the French Canadian, and which he sometimes lapsed into in moments of excitement. “Here comes that gal, Bill!”

“The White Antelope!” exclaimed Cody. “I had forgotten her.”

“Shall I warn her away?”

“I’m afraid if you turned to face her she would see that you are not Oak Heart.”

“Quicker, then, Pard Cody!”

“No. They might suspect.”

“Heavens, Bill! What will you do when the girl overtakes us?”

“Whatever comes handiest.”

“I could put a bullet through her without turning,” muttered Jack.

“You wouldn’t be so cruel, old man.”

“Hang it, man!” exclaimed Jack in disgust. “She’s only a ’breed.”

“No. You’ll not injure her. I have your promise, Jack,” said Cody confidently.

“But she’ll finish us if she suspects. I think she has a pistol,” said Jack.

“We’ll see.”

“Hang it, Bill Cody! You’re the coldest proposition I ever came across. I’ll eat this old war-bonnet—and it’s about as digestible as a wreath of prickly pear—if we don’t have trouble with that gal.”

Evidently White Antelope was much amazed by the fact that her father did not even look in her direction, for she called some welcome to him in Sioux. Neither of the scouts made reply, but both kept watch of her out of the corners of their eyes. The girl, puzzled by the mystery, half drew in her pony.

The mob of Indians waited. That they were puzzled was evident; but as long as they remained inactive the scouts’ chances were increased.

“Can we make it, Pard Cody?” muttered Texas Jack.

“If the girl doesn’t suspect too quick.”

“She’ll queer us—sure!”

“I hope not,” and Buffalo Bill looked grave.

“If she comes nearer we’ll have to do something, Bill—as sure as thunder she’s coming!”

It was true. White Antelope had again spoken to her pony, and the animal leaped forward. She came from the left, and Texas Jack rode nearest her.

“Keep on, Jack!” exclaimed Bill under his breath.

He pulled back Buckskin and got around so as to ride between the supposed Indian chief and the girl. Instantly White Antelope seemed to suspect that all was not right. She raised her voice, crying in her native tongue:

“Why does the great chief not speak to his child? Oak Heart, my father, it is I, your daughter, White Antelope, who calls you!”

She was all the time riding nearer. There seemed no way to stop her, and she must soon be near enough to observe that the supposed Oak Heart was a false Indian.

Fortunately the tribesmen were some hundreds of yards away from the two scouts. But they heard something of what White Antelope said, and they began to move forward, murmuring among themselves. They did not for a moment suspect that this was not their great chief, but they believed that something was wrong with him, and that Pa-e-has-ka had Oak Heart in his power.

“They’re coming, Cody!” whispered Texas Jack. “They’ll make a rush in a moment.”

“Sign them again!” commanded Buffalo Bill. “It’s our only chance.”

“Think it will work?”

“It must work. We need a few moments more before we make a dash for the cañon.”

“But that gal——”

“I’ll ’tend to her,” exclaimed Buffalo Bill. “Signal the reds to keep back.”

Again Texas Jack raised his hands and made the well understood sign. But the Indians hesitated. They saw White Antelope still riding toward the supposed chief and the scout, crying to her father to answer her.

“Keep on for the cañon, Jack!” muttered Buffalo Bill beneath his breath.

He jerked his horse to one side, turning to meet the Indian maiden. As she rode down toward the scouts, her golden hair flying in the wind, her lips parted, her eyes shining, she was indeed a beautiful creature. Her beauty alone would have made any old Indian hunter withhold his hand. And Buffalo Bill had a deeper reason for wishing no harm to befall the half-breed daughter of Oak Heart.

“What is the white chief, Pa-e-has-ka, doing with Oak Heart?” the girl cried in Sioux, urging her pony toward the scouts.

Buffalo Bill was riding with the rein of the claybank horse lying upon its neck, and guiding him with his knees. His rifle lay across his saddle, the muzzle pointing in the direction of White Antelope as she rode near. He did not raise his voice, nor change the expression of his face, for the scout knew that he was being closely watched by the crowd of redskins in the background. But into his voice as he spoke he threw all the threatening, venimous tone of a madman thirsting for blood.

“The White Antelope, like her father, Chief Oak Heart, is in my power. Do not make a single motion to show that you are startled, White Antelope, for if you do my first bullet shall be driven through your heart, and my second shall cleave the heart of your father!”

These words, spoken with such wicked emphasis, seemed to come from a veritable fiend instead of the placid-looking white scout. The White Antelope’s great eyes opened wider, and she half stopped her pony.

“None of that!” snapped Buffalo Bill in English, which he knew the girl understood quite well. “Make a false move at your peril—and at your father’s!”

“My father——” began the startled maiden gaspingly.

“Ride closer. Keep beside me, Oak Heart! I forbid you speaking to your child!”

Buffalo Bill’s commanding tone was most brutal. His eyes flashed into the Indian maiden’s own as though he meant every word of his recent threat. But the supposed Oak Heart’s shoulders shook. However, he kept his head turned religiously away from his “daughter.”

The seconds were slipping by, and the scouts were approaching very near to the place where they would be obliged to turn sharply and make their dash for the cañon. Despite their bearing off so far toward the left, their course had been apparently toward the Indian lines.

White Antelope, all the rich color receded from her cheeks, rode beside Buffalo Bill on his left hand. She was not only frightened by the scout’s threat, which he seemed to be able to fulfil, but she was puzzled at her father’s inaction and seeming helplessness. She tried to force her pony forward slyly so as to obtain a look at Oak Heart’s features.

“None o’ that!” commanded Buffalo Bill in quite as brutal and threatening a tone as before.

At the moment a wild yell rose from their rear—from the direction of the fort. The girl turned swiftly to look. And so surprised were the scouts to hear a disturbance in that direction, that they glanced around, too.

Out of the gateway appeared a black horse, and on its back a figure in uniform and wide-brimmed hat. But as the horse dashed on the figure snatched off the uniform hat, displaying the long, flying hair of an Indian, and he broke into a shrill and terrible Indian war-whoop!

On the heels of this another roar burst from the fort, and out of the gateway piled a troop of mounted men—those soldiers that were first to get upon their horses to pursue the wily Oak Heart. The latter saw his daughter and knew her danger. Following his war-whoop, he shrieked a warning to White Antelope. She understood the words he uttered, although the scouts could not.

The girl turned swiftly and saw Texas Jack’s painted face.

“False paleface!” she cried. “You are not Oak Heart. The great chief is there!” and she pointed back at the flying figure on the black horse.

“It’s all up, Cody!” cried Texas Jack.

Buffalo Bill leaned suddenly from his saddle and snatched from the maiden’s belt the revolver which she cherished above most of her possessions. He feared her ability to use this.

“Off with you, Jack!” he cried. “Now’s our time!” and setting spurs to his claybank he raced after Texas Jack toward the opening of the defile which they had been so gradually and cautiously approaching.

CHAPTER VI.
THE DASH OF THE SCOUTS.

So interested had the officers and garrison of Fort Advance become in the attempt of the courageous scouts to reach the cañon entrance, that they had quite neglected to watch the king of the Sioux. That he understood fully the trick that Buffalo Bill and Texas Jack were attempting to play upon his people was proven by the outcome.

The savage chief sat his black horse in motionless gloom, and as though his eyes saw nothing. Captain Edward Keyes had kept his file of men in the saddle ready to make a break from the fort should the scouts fall in need of some attempt at rescue. Otherwise, everybody was crowding forward to look out of the gate, or, from the platform and watch-towers, to view the work of the brave men who had gone from them.

The black horse, on which Buffalo Bill had ridden so many times, but which he had now been obliged to abandon because of its age and the fact that he had been ridden too hard on one or two occasions, missed its master. It had seen Buffalo Bill and his companion ride out of the fort, and it desired to follow. Perhaps the horse did not approve of the Indian that now backed him.

However it was, it danced about a good deal, and champed at the bit, and seemed to give the stoical chief considerable trouble. Twice it started for the gate, and the soldiers headed it off. Likewise Oak Heart drew it in hard with his hand on the bridle. It seemed as though the chief had no expectation of leaving the fort until his white captors were ready.

But that was all the savage cunning of the chief. It was his cunning, too, perhaps, that made the horse so nervous. He doubtless slyly spurred him with his toe or heel, and kept the animal on the qui vive all the time.

Oak Heart could follow Buffalo Bill and Texas Jack with his eyes, and he doubtless understood—now, at least—just what they were about. Suddenly the White Antelope came into view, riding like the wind down upon the two scouts. Oak Heart’s face did not change a muscle, but just then his mount made a sidelong leap, and when he became manageable again the black charger was just within the open gateway.

Several moments passed. The white men’s attention was strained upon the little comedy being enacted by the two scouts and the Indian maiden. They could not hear, of course, but they could imagine that the situation had become mighty “ticklish” for the scouts, knowing Buffalo Bill’s objection to injuring the Sioux maiden.

It was at this minute that the black horse made a final charge through the gateway. Two men were knocked down, and Oak Heart threw himself over to one side of the galloping horse, shielding himself with its body from the guns of the surprised white men in the stockade.

His wild yells had already apprised White Antelope of the deception. Buffalo Bill had disarmed her, and the two scouts spurred on toward the cañon.

The hearts of the watching people at the fort were in their throats. A general cry of dread burst from them as they saw the Border King and Texas Jack turn abruptly toward the cañon. The Indians saw the act, too, but for a few seconds did not comprehend it. They were slower than White Antelope in understanding that the supposed warrior with Pa-e-has-ka was a white man in disguise, and that the person careering across the plain on the black charger was the real Oak Heart.

The signals of Texas Jack in his character of Oak Heart had drawn many of the Indians away from the cañon’s mouth toward the place for which the supposed chief and Buffalo Bill seemed to be aiming. There were very few left in the path of the reckless scouts. Yet those few must be settled with.

There were no mounted warriors near the cañon entrance. The great scout had chosen his place of attack wisely. And there were few ponies in the vicinity, anyway—not over two dozen at the most. The earlier stampeding of the ponies had almost entirely dismounted Oak Heart’s braves. The ponies that might follow, should the scouts get through safely, neither of them feared, mounted as they were on such splendid animals.

“Let ’em out, Jack!” cried Buffalo Bill, as they made directly for the cañon.

“I hear you!” returned Texas Jack, smiling recklessly, and settling himself more firmly in his saddle.

The two were off like frightened deer. For some moments the Indians were almost dumb with amazement. Then the war-whoop of Oak Heart was answered by wild cries from all about the field. The reds knew that the Border King had outwitted them, and as one man the mob of redskins made for the entrance to the cañon, firing as they ran.

The scouts did not return the fire. They kept their bullets for targets nearer the path their horses followed. The nearer Indians were converging swiftly at the mouth of the cañon.

Behind, and nearest to the scouts, came Oak Heart and White Antelope, who had waited to join her father. But neither of them were armed. When Buffalo Bill snatched the revolver from the girl’s belt he had made a good point in the game, for she was an excellent shot with the small gun—for an Indian.

Suddenly The Border King raised his rifle, and shot after shot rang out. He fired at the Indians directly in front of him, gathering to bar the way. There were now a score of them near enough to be dangerous.

The repeating rifle sang deadly music, for several of the braves fell. With the last shot from Buffalo Bill’s weapon, Texas Jack’s gun took up the tune and rattled forth the death notes. They were now close to the group of reds, and the shots forced the Indians to scatter.

Instantly the scouts slung their guns over their shoulders and drew the big pistols from the saddle-holsters. With one of these in each hand, the scouts rode on.

Theirs was indeed a desperate charge, and, although now hidden by the nature of the ground from the bulk of the Indians, the encounter was visible from the fort.

The chorus of wild yells, the rattle of revolvers, the heavier discharges of the old muzzle-loaders of the redskins, and the resonant war-cries of the scouts themselves, were heard by the besieged. The Border King and Texas Jack were having the running fight of their lives. Would they get through alive?

Suddenly a chorused groan arose from the white onlookers, while a shriek of exultation came from those Indians who saw the incident. Buffalo Bill’s horse gave a sudden convulsive leap ahead, then fell to his knees. The scout loosened his feet in the stirrups, and, as the brave Buckskin rolled over upon its side, dead, the scout stood upright, turning his revolvers on his foes. Texas Jack, on the white charger, tore on into the mouth of the cañon.

Buffalo Bill had emptied the pistols which he had carried in his saddle-holsters. Now, he stood beside his dead horse, with the pistols drawn from his belt in either hand. He stood boldly at bay, and the redskins went down before his deadly aim.

The redskins’ triumph was short-lived. Texas Jack, seeing his partner’s peril, turned his great white charger as quickly as might be. Back he rushed to Cody’s side.

“Up with yuh, pard!” he shouted.

He whirled the big horse again. With a leap, Buffalo Bill sprang up behind Texas Jack, his back to that of his partner, and again the horse was headed for the cañon’s mouth. The four revolvers of the scouts spit death into their foes at every jump of the horse.

Those redskins who opposed the way either crumpled up and fell to the rocks or dodged behind the boulders for safety. It seemed as though their numbers were sufficient to make the scouts’ escape impossible; the odds against the white men were all of ten to one!

But the redskins’ shooting was wild, while the accuracy of the white men’s aim was phenomenal. Many a red, just as he had drawn bead upon the scouts, was struck by a pistol ball, and either knocked over completely or his own shot diverted.

The cheering of the garrison as they saw Texas Jack return for his partner inspired the scouts. The last Indian went down before them and was trampled under the hoofs of the charger that bore them both, and as they shot out of sight into the gloom of the cañon’s mouth Buffalo Bill removed his sombrero and waved it to the watchers on the fort stockade, while his well-known war-cry rang over the field of battle!

CHAPTER VII.
THE ACE OF CLUBS.

“We’ve got through, Jack!”

“We sure have, Pard Cody.”

“Anybody hurt?”

“I got a couple of nicks from the pesky arrows,” said Omohondreau. “But, shucks! them Injuns can’t shoot with a white man’s gun worth a hoot in a rainwater barrel.... Yuh lost Buckskin, Cody.”

“And sorry enough I am to lose the poor creature. He’s been a good nag.”

“How about you, Pard Cody?”

“A scratch from a bullet in my left shoulder. It’s bleeding a little, but I won’t stop to fool with it now. And I got four arrows through my clothes. Oh, we were lucky!”

“Betcher life! We’ve been favored mightily.”

“Thank God for it,” said Buffalo Bill devoutly. “I don’t expect often to come through two such circuses in one day—and have nothing worse to show for it.”

“Right. Now, old man, what’s the program?”

“Keep on. I don’t feel safe as long as we’re at the bottom of this hole in the hills.”

“That’s all right. But we haven’t got but one horse——”

“I was thinking of that.”

“And your thoughts?”

“We can’t both ride this horse, good as he is, all the way to Fort Resistence.”

“Right again!”

“One of us must push on for help about as fast as the horse can go.”

“Sure.”

“There isn’t much danger of the reds following us far, for their ponies aren’t to be compared with this fellow—and they all know what he can do.”

“Well?”

“Then you’d better let me go on, as soon as we come to the creek ahead and shape ourselves up a bit, and you can scout around until I return with help from Fort Resistence.”

“Pard Bill!”

“Yes?”

“They need every rifle they can git in the fort, yuh know.”

“They certainly do.”

“Scouting around yere all night, I can’t do much good, and that’s a fact.”

“Very true, Jack! Very true.”

“And I’ve got nothing to eat, while the maje and the folks at Advance will be mighty anxious tuh know if yuh got through all right—ain’t that so?”

“Reckon you’re right, Jack.”

“Then I’m goin’ to take a sneak back and try to git through the lines after dark.”

“No, you won’t, Jack Omohondreau. I veto that.”

“Put the kibosh on it, do yuh?” asked Jack, leering back at his partner over his shoulder.

“I certainly do!”

“Why, pard?”

“There’s no danger going on now for help, so I’ll return to the fort myself, while you strike out for Resistence and help. I got you into this. I’m not going to shoulder the heavy part of the job off onto you.”

“That’s like you, Cody! Always lookin’ for trouble to git into yourself. But I’m going back.”

“I say no,” replied Buffalo Bill firmly.

“Now, see here!” exclaimed Jack, in some heat. “It’s my idea to go back, and I’m going.”

“Well, you needn’t stop here,” laughed Cody, as Jack, in his excitement, brought the horse down to a walk.

“You listen to reason!” exclaimed Texas Jack. “I speak the lingo all O. K.”

“I admit that.”

“And I’m already playing Injun.”

“Pshaw! That may be, but I can soon change my colors.”

“You’re as obstinate as a mule, Cody!”

“See here, Jack, I admit that the folks need us back there at the fort, and one had better return, but I should be the one.”

“Tell you what, pard!” exclaimed Jack, smitten with a sudden thought.

“Well?”

“We’ll draw lots to see who goes.”

“I’ll beat you at that game, Jack!” cried Cody, with a laugh.

“Don’t yuh crow too loud, old man,” said Texas Jack gaily. “When we git to the creek we’ll see who’s who!”

“I’ll go you, for my luck is good.”

“I’m sure a child of fortune myself,” laughed Jack.

They soon reached the creek, which cut across the cañon at its widest part, spurting from under a ledge on one side, and disappearing with a tinkle of falling water through a crack on the other—one of those underground streams often found in the Rockies, which only by chance ever come to the light of day.

The scouts dismounted, making sure that all pursuit had been abandoned by their mounted foes, at least, and washed and dressed their slight wounds. In each man’s pouch was Indian salve, certain valuable herbs, dried, and bandages rolled for them by the women of Fort Advance. Your old frontiersman was no mean surgeon, and many a man to-day, whose early years were spent on the border, owes his life to some rough but prompt bit of surgery on the part of a pard with powder-stained fingers.

“Now, we’ll draw lots to see who goes back,” said Cody. “Wish we had a pack of cards.”

“I got what th’ boys call a Sing Sing Bible,” observed Texas Jack, drawing the pack from his pouch.

“Good! We can’t take the time to play any game, but I’ll shuffle, you cut, and the one who holds the ace of clubs goes back to Advance.”

“Agreed. Shuffle ’em good, old man—though I feel I’m going to win right now.”

“You’re too cock-sure,” laughed Buffalo Bill.

The scouts spoke in a light-hearted way, but each realized the terrible ordeal that might fall to the one who attempted to return to Fort Advance. Major Baldwin needed one of them as an adviser—and his rifle would be an acquisition as well, for both Buffalo Bill and Texas Jack were dead shots.

The uncertainty and impatience of the entire garrison would be relieved, too, if they were informed that one of the scouts had gone on to Resistence and would surely bring help the next day. This knowledge would put heart in the defenders of Fort Advance when the Indians attacked, as they surely would after nightfall.

The cards were shuffled by the chief scout, and then he held them in his open palm. Texas Jack cut at a point about half-way down the pack. One after another the pasteboards were discarded, and Buffalo Bill had already displayed two aces, when suddenly his partner chuckled and slammed down another card, face up. It was the fatal card—the ace of clubs.

“Got yuh that time, Pard Cody!” exclaimed Texas Jack in delight.

Buffalo Bill looked regretful, while his partner was triumphant.

“I told yuh I was a child of fortune,” laughed Texas Jack.

“I yield, old man,” said Cody. “May your luck carry you through in safety.”

“I’ll git there—or the reds will know I tried,” said Jack with emphasis.

“Aye, that they will. Now I must be off, Jack. The horse is rested, and he’s got a hard road to travel this night. I’ll be back with help as soon as possible.”

“You ought to make it by morning with any kind of luck.”

“I’ll do my best,” declared Buffalo Bill. “And now good-by, old pard! If you go under I’ll see that there are plenty of those red devils on the trail to the happy hunting grounds to make up for your loss.”

They wrung each other’s hands, and, although the spoken word was light, the look in each man’s eyes showed a deeper feeling. Buffalo Bill walked quickly to where the great white horse was feeding, and, vaulting into the saddle, the horse, without urging, started into his easy lope.

Once the mounted scout looked back. Texas Jack stood in the middle of the trail looking more like an Indian chief than ever, he was so silent and stern of feature.

They waved their hands briefly—a last farewell. Then the Border King disappeared around a turn in the trail, and Texas Jack prepared for his attempt, night now being not far away.

CHAPTER VIII.
FACING DEATH.

Texas Jack had been a ranchman in Texas since early boyhood. His sentiments and affiliations were Southern, and when the war broke out he joined the Confederate Army as a scout. He was a reckless, daredevil fellow, yet high-minded, honorable to foe as well as friend. The noble blood of the Omohondreaus showed through the rough manner of the hardy frontiersman.

It was Jack Omohondreau who came so near dealing an irreparable blow to the Northern cause by capturing President Lincoln and taking him South as a prisoner. How near the daring scout came to accomplishing this very thing nobody but those few Confederates in the secret—and possibly Lincoln himself—ever knew.

However, when the Civil War was ended, Buffalo Bill, who had scouted for the other side, found Jack in Kansas, and it was through his influence that the young French-American was enlisted in the Federal Army.

He was of cheery nature, fearless to recklessness, strong as a grizzly, and possessed of a handsome presence. Such was the man who had determined to return through the ring of enraged Sioux to give comfort and help to the besieged garrison of Fort Advance.

He knew all that he had to risk, but, in his Indian disguise, and under cover of the early darkness, he hoped to accomplish his purpose. If captured by the redskins he well knew that death by the most frightful torture would be his portion. The Sioux hated him almost as fiercely as they hated Buffalo Bill.

That he could speak their language was in Jack’s favor. And he knew that if he chanced upon any bunch of the reds a word or two might pass him through all right. Oak Heart had gathered several different branches of the tribe together, and many of the braves must be strangers to each other.

The scout had already formed his plan of return to the fort. He had reloaded his rifle and revolvers, seen that his knife was still in its scabbard, and, after another long swig at the clear, running water and a tightening of his belt, Texas Jack climbed one side of the cañon with infinite caution. He could not return through the gorge itself, for he did not know how near pursuit might be. And he wormed his way up the steep ascent like a serpent, that he might not be observed from below.

Night came upon him as he arrived on the summit of the timbered ridge. The forest was a tangled wilderness, but he knew how to pass through it without making the slightest disturbance, and, as he might come upon the Indians at any moment, he was glad of the darkness and the thicket. A few miles along this ridge and he would come out upon a bluff that overlooked the valley in which Fort Advance was situated.

He strode on lightly, yet swiftly—threading his way through the trackless forest with a confidence which brought him straight to his destination. And as yet he had not passed an Indian.

The dash of the scouts into the cañon had drawn all the outposts from the hills, and the redskins were either guarding the lower passes, ringing the fort, or gathered about the camp-fires where the main encampment had been established.

When Texas Jack came out upon the bluff he could see these camp-fires twinkling on the other side of the valley, although it was still light enough for him to see all who moved below him. The encampment was at the base of the southern hills, some two miles from the fort. Some half-hundred ponies were feeding in the valley, with the guards about them doubled. The loss of the bulk of the herd had been a severe blow to the redskins, and Texas Jack knew that the Indians would put forth every effort to retake them, should opportunity arise.

Jack decided that Chief Oak Heart was probably at the encampment, counseling with his old men and the other chiefs regarding the next blow to be struck at Fort Advance. That plans of deviltry and cunning were being hatched the scout was certain.

Then he thought of the Border King flying along the trail to Resistence for help, and he regained his courage.

Awaiting with the stolid patience of a redskin for the night to deepen, the scout finally pursued his march into the valley. He had carefully weighed all chances for and against his success. Now he was ready to take them.

Night spread its wings over the valley. It hid its scars and wounds and the stark bodies of the dead, lying under the fortress walls. In the gloaming it might have been the most peaceful valley in all the Rockies. One coming upon it suddenly, and unwarned, would never have suspected the blood so recently spilled there and the threatening aspect of the situation at that very moment!

Texas Jack stole down the declivity with a step as light as the fall of a leaf. The savage whom he imitated could have moved no more lightly, and as he came into the valley itself he crouched and crept along like a shadow.

He knew that the red men would be moving about, passing and repassing each other, and keeping up a tightening circle about the fort. They would afford the opportunity for no other white man to escape from the fort if they could help it. But they moved about as silently as the scout himself, and as the redskin is notoriously silent, Texas Jack’s ears were of little good to him in this emergency.

An Indian is not troubled by military accouterments to rattle as he walks; his moccasins are soundless, and he has schooled himself to endure all those little discomforts of body or environment that cause the white man to betray himself by either sound or movement. If a red warrior lay in wait for an enemy the flies and other insects might half eat him up without his betraying himself by a movement. He seldom has catarrhal affections of the throat, or if he does stifles the desire to cough or sneeze. He has, indeed, his whole body and mind under perfect control.

Therefore Texas Jack knew that the red men might be near—upon each side of him—in his very path, perhaps, yet they passed and repassed, silent as so many ghosts.

Texas Jack crept but a short way from the base of the hill before he lay flat down in the weeds and brush. There was a big rock on his right hand, and he believed that that obstacle, looming up as it did in the gloom, would keep anybody from walking over him.

His reason for lying there was easily understood. From the dark ground he could look upward and see any form passing between him and the lighter sky-line. He wished to get a line on the pacing to and fro of the sentinels. If there was any regularity regarding their beats, the scout might be able to time his passage so as not to be seen at all.

For if his presence was discovered, although his dress and appearance might carry him through, still there was a grave danger that they would not. There might be some password, for the redskins were shrewd, or he might run against some chief going the rounds of his men to see that all were properly placed.

Suddenly a form seemed to rise out of the ground before the advancing scout. It stood a moment directly between him and the lighter sky-line. Then it passed on—silently as the wind over the grass.

He heard a muffled grunt—a guttural Indian word—dropped by some invisible redskin in the direction the figure had disappeared. Then that, or another, sentinel returned and passed slowly across the line of Texas Jack’s vision. He was quite near the lines of sentinels, and he determined to lie there and, if possible, time their coming and going before trying himself to get through.

Once more the figure crossed the line of the scout’s vision. Texas Jack lay, scarcely moving in the grass, and with fingers on wrist counted his pulse while the Indian was in sight. In this way he learned something of the time it took for the sentinel to pace from end to end of his beat. He lay for some time and timed him back and forth to make sure that there was some regularity in the redskin’s actions.

Then, at the right moment—as the sentinel passed out of view in one direction, Texas Jack darted forward like a serpent through the tall weeds. Although he ran on his feet and touched but one hand now and then to help retain his balance, the scout’s body could never have been seen above the waving tops of the grass and weeds.

For several rods he ran in this way and then dropped down again, panting, hugging the earth, flattening his body upon it, and waiting with every nerve on the qui vive to discover if his actions had been noted.

And well he knew that, if the sentinel had seen him, no shout—no sound—would be raised. The red would sneak up behind him, and his first audible sound would be the cry of triumph when the scalping-knife was plunged into the scout’s back!

Jack twisted his neck to see back over his shoulder. After a moment the Indian sentinel appeared again. He walked upright. Jack could see his nodding topknot of feathers, and that he carried a gun of some kind. He passed on without even glancing in the scout’s direction.

“Thanks be for that!” thought the scout. “Now, what’s ahead?”

That the Sioux had but one ring of sentinels around the fort he knew was not the fact. There were two lines at least—possibly three. He raised his head like a turtle stretching from its shell and tried to pierce the gloom of the valley.

And then it was that he suddenly beheld a tall figure standing motionless not far ahead of him and almost in his path. It was a chief of some importance from his war-bonnet, and he had perhaps been going the rounds of his sentinels. Now he stood motionless, his back to the scout, looking toward the fort, one elbow leaning upon a broken stub of a tree, the other hand holding his rifle, hanging idly by his side. The chief was evidently in a reverie—or was he listening? Had he heard the scout’s breathing—or some other sound that warned him of the white man’s presence?

The question seared Texas Jack’s brain. It startled him to action. This was no moment for taking chances.

He rose up like a shadow, and, with great, catlike strides, stole upon the statuelike Indian. It went against the grain for the scout to strike even a redskin from behind. Man to man and face to face in a fair struggle would have pleased Texas Jack better. But the entire success of his attempt to reach the fort depended upon the action of the next few seconds.

Suddenly the chief began to turn—with a jerking motion which showed that he was startled. Some instinct told him that there was an enemy at hand. Perhaps his lips were already opened to give a warning call.

Like a stone from the sling the scout leaped forward—as the panther leaps! His knee found the small of the Indian’s back; his left had clutched his throat like a vise; his right drove his keen blade downward—and home!

The redskin crumpled and fell without a sound upon the earth. Not even a cough or death-rattle proclaimed the passing of his spirit. And the number of seconds occupied in the killing were infinitesimal. One moment the red chief stood there leaning on the broken tree; the next Texas Jack, in his Indian garb, had taken his place and assumed his attitude!

Unless some member of the tribe had been near enough to watch the chief continuously, this action of the scout’s was inspired. The chief had gone down and lay dead under his feet; the white man had taken his place, and for several moments, while he recovered his breath, he stood there in the exact attitude the real Indian had assumed in life.

Carefully he scrutinized his surroundings as closely as might be for the gloom. He became aware at length that a warrior was stalking toward him from the left—undoubtedly one of the sentinels. This man came on, saw the supposed chief standing by the tree stub, and made a gesture as though he were saluting his superior.

“Ugh!” muttered Texas Jack in an excellent imitation of an Indian guttural. He did not care to risk his Sioux intonation if he could help it.

The sentinel went on. Texas Jack was about to change his position and make for the fort when he saw the sentinel who had just passed and another, returning. They would pass him very closely. Did they suspect? Had the first brave become suspicious, and was he bringing the second to help him attack the supposed chief?

The thought sent a chill to the heart of the courageous scout. It seemed to him that, thus early in the game, he had come to a death-struggle with the redskins!

CHAPTER IX.
BREAKING THROUGH THE RED CIRCLE.

Slowly the two braves approached Texas Jack’s position. The scout dared not change his attitude—he could not afford to put the men on guard if they were still unsuspicious of him.

His rifle-butt rested on the ground; his elbows leaned upon the tree stub; he stared straight across the valley to where the camp-fires twinkled, and to where two or three points of light, and the gloomy outline of the tall stockade, proclaimed the presence of the fort.

Would the two warriors speak to him?—or would they respect his apparent reverie and pass on?

Out of the corner of his eye Texas Jack watched the coming sentinels. Every muscle and nerve in his body was strained for a spring. He had made up his mind already what action he should take did the reds show that they meant to accost him.

He did not wish to fire his gun and so call every Indian in that part of the valley to the spot. He gripped instead his rifle by the muzzle, and the instant one of those savages came within reach he would whirl up the gun and bring its stock with crushing force down upon the man’s head!

Then the knife for the second brave! That was all he could do. If he were not shot or tomahawked first, he could finish both of the reds without making much disturbance. The main difficulty would be to stifle their death-yells, as he had that of the chief at his feet.

So he waited, his body sweating, although it was a chill night, uncertain as to what the warriors would do. They were talking in low tones; this in itself gave the scout some hope. Had they intended attacking him their plans would have been made before they came so near, and there would be no need of conversation.

The seconds numbered as the warriors came on seemed centuries long to the scout. But at length he saw that they were passing him quietly. They glanced at him, but he stood haughtily aloof, and the braves were not encouraged by his manner to speak. He saw them go with a relief that almost unnerved him!

He could not risk their coming back. The instant they were out of sight the scout stooped, stripped the dead man of his gun, bow and arrows, and knife, and in a crouching position ran agilely forward to where a clump of young trees loomed up in the path, a hundred yards to the front.

There he dropped down and lay a moment, listening. Not a sound from those behind; not a sound from any redskins before him. Had he at last gotten through the lines completely?

He could not really believe this good fortune was his so easily. He stood up at last and peered all about. And suddenly, just as he was about to move forward once more toward the fort, he heard the stamp of a pony’s hoof on the other side of the clump of trees!

The sound dropped Texas Jack to the ground like a rifle-shot. Had he been seen by the rider of the pony? Or did the pony have a rider? It might be one escaped from the herd and roaming at will about the valley.

The pony stamped again. There was no other sound.

“I’ve got tuh find out what’s doin’ there before I make another break,” muttered the scout. “And here goes!”

The thicket was a closely woven one. Did he try to pass through it with his guns and other accouterments he might make some disturbance. So he left everything but his pistols, knife, and the bow and arrows he had taken from the dead chief on the ground, and began to worm his way through the brush-clump.

Once he made some little noise by catching a part of his clothing on a brittle branch. Instantly he halted and made the squeaking grunt of the porcupine. His imitation of animals was perfect, and a porcupine might easily be on the still hunt in the thicket-patch.

The pony did not change its position. Jack knew. So, after a moment of waiting, the scout risked moving on. He came finally to the edge of the brush, and there the horse stood—not three yards away from him!

And from where he crouched the scout could see more than the bulk of the pony’s body against the sky-line. It was bestrode by an Indian in head-dress and blanket. It was doubtless one of the chiefs who had started to ride around the fort. Would he ride on and not suspect the presence of the white man in the bushes?

But perhaps, in his nervousness, Texas Jack had not imitated the porcupine true enough to satisfy the keen ear of the Indian. Or else the porcupine’s grunt was a private signal between this chief and his own men.

However, Texas Jack saw the redskin force his pony nearer the thicket, and he heard its rider twitter like a bird disturbed at night in its nest.

“Old man, you’ve got the best of me!” thought the scout. “I can’t answer that signal, for I don’t know what the answer is. It’s a bad thing for you!”

There was no time for hesitation. Again the scout had to take life or be killed himself. The scout was a good shot with the bow and arrows as he was with rifle or pistol. And he must use a silent weapon to get rid of this foe.

It was too far to leap with his knife. The bow and arrows of the dead chief came in handy. In a flash the crouching scout fitted an arrow to the bowstring and drew the shaft to its head. There he waited, still as a graven image, until the horse and rider were almost upon him.

Then he let drive the arrow. It sped with fearful force, aimed at the throat of the red chieftain that all death-cry might be stilled.

True was the aim and fatal the shot. The arrow penetrated the Indian’s throat, and its head stuck out a hand’s breadth at the back of his neck. Without a sound the Indian toppled from the pony’s back.

The horse snorted and sprang forward. His escape might have been as dire a calamity for the scout as the death-yell of the chieftain. If the pony dashed away across the valley, the sentinels would surely be aroused.

But the animal made but one leap. Like a shadow Texas Jack leaped up and caught the rawhide bridle which had been snatched from the dead man’s hand. He brought the pony to an abrupt halt. Instantly he swung himself upon the bare back of the animal, well used to riding Indian fashion, and guided him to the other side of the thicket, leaving the chief where he had fallen. He did not stop to strip him of his arms; he had quite all he could carry, and he wanted his own rifle.

All seemed to have gone well, and it looked to the scout at that moment as though the way before him to the fort was clear sailing. But just as he was congratulating himself on this belief a wild and ear-splitting yell arose on the night, and from a spot not far in his rear. First one voice and then another took up the yell—it was the warning of the red man when he finds the trail of the secret enemy!

Texas Jack knew well what it meant. The first Indian he had killed, and whose place beside the dead tree he had taken, had been found by the sentinels. They knew that some shrewd enemy had been at work, and their yells aroused the braves all over the valley.

The cries told the redskins as plainly as words that some white man was trying to break through their lines. Major Baldwin had thrown a line of sentinels outside the stockade, and these heard the cries and understood as well. They passed back the word that either Buffalo Bill or Texas Jack was coming.

And so the scout was coming—on the back of the half-wild Indian pony. The danger behind him was great, nor was that still ahead slight. Some of the young braves, eager for scalps, had crept forward in the darkness, hoping to shoot some white man on the towers, or one that ventured beyond the stockade walls. As the war-whoop was raised these young braves started back for their lines on the jump.

One of them saw the scout coming up the hill at full speed. Although Texas Jack was still in Indian dress, the warrior decided that no honest redskin would be riding in that direction at such a pace!

He fired suddenly. So did the scout. The aim of both was true, for the Indian’s bullet killed the pony Jack was riding, and Jack’s bullet killed the Indian himself.

Although badly shaken by his fall from the pony’s back, Texas Jack was on his feet in an instant and was running at topmost speed for the fort. He suspected that there would be a line of sentinels outside the stockade, and he raised his voice as he ran:

“Hold on, men; it’s Texas Jack! Don’t shoot!”

A cheer was the answer from the fort, while the Indians in the rear who heard uttered their war-whoop again and fired a scattering volley in the direction of the scout’s voice. But he was not hit, and, a few minutes later, he passed in through the gateway of the fort.

Proud of his deed, as he had good reason to be, he shouted:

“Slightly disfigured, boys, but still in the ring!”

The commander greeted the scout joyfully, but with his next breath asked anxiously:

“But Cody?”

“Is a long way on his ride to Resistence, sir.”

A cheer greeted this reply.

“Thank God for that good news! I trust you were not hurt on your way, Jack, though you did raise a merry rumpus in the Indian camps.”

“Well, now! Didn’t they turn loose for a few minutes, sir? But I got only a shake-up, for I got too proud to walk, and the pony I cabbaged took a header with an Injun bullet in him. Somebody got worse hurt than I did, though, and I’m not kicking a little bit, as luck came my way.”

“And it came our way, too, Jack! We’re mighty glad to have you back.”

“Oh, that was my luck, too!” said Jack, laughing. “Buffalo was bound to come and send me on to Resistence with the news, but I wouldn’t hear to it, and finally we drew lots and I won.”

“Next to Cody himself you’re the man I want,” declared Major Baldwin; “for, although all my officers and men are true as steel—and able, too—your experience is worth much, not to speak of the value of your rifle. Your coming and the knowledge that Cody has got through all right gives us a new lease of life.”

The major’s praise tinged the bronzed cheek of the scout with blushes, and he hurried away to remove his war-paint and to change into more civilized garments.

CHAPTER X.
THE RIDE TO THE RESCUE.

The Border King, after leaving Texas Jack in the cañon, did not spare the white horse he rode, for he was riding to save many human lives.

He had known this horse when he was the favorite steed of Colonel Nelson A. Miles, and the scout well knew the endurance of which the horse was capable.

The creature had been captured by Oak Heart, the king of the Utah Sioux, in an attack on a military camp, and Colonel Miles had told Cody to try and get him back from his Indian master.

“I hate to think of the old fellow being handled by that red scamp. Get him back, Cody, and he’s yours,” the colonel had told the scout.

And now Buffalo Bill had the long-barreled, strong-limbed racer under him, and he was proving himself as fleet as a deer and as tireless as a hound.

“The colonel used to call you Runaway, I remember,” said the scout, talking aloud to the handsome creature, and patting the side of his neck with a tender hand, “and what Oak Heart christened you I don’t know, but I shall call you after your redskin master, and it shall be Chief.”

The horse snorted and tossed his head as though he understood what was being said to him, and hour after hour, mile after mile, he kept up his steady lope—that long, free canter that takes the Western range horse over so long a trail in so short a time.

Darkness fell soon after Cody rode away from Texas Jack. He hoped to reached the military post for which he aimed before midnight. And he was not mistaken. The new day had not commenced when the scout on his white charger thundered up to the gates of Fort Resistence.

“Halt! Who comes here?” rang out the sentinel’s challenge.

“All right, pard! This is Scout Cody with an urgent message for the commander. Let me in!”

“By thunder! Is it really you, Buffalo Bill?” cried the sentinel over the gate.

“What’s left of me after about the hardest day’s work of my life.”

“Injuns?”

“And a-plenty of them. Hurry up, old man! This is no place for gossip,” urged the scout.

“Wait till I call the corporal,” exclaimed the curious sentinel. Then:

“Corporal of the guard! Corporal of the guard! Rouse up, corporal! There’s somebody at the gate!”

Half the garrison was aroused by the shouting. The corporal came on the run, saw who it was without, and let the scout and his dripping horse within.

“Injuns, sure, Cody?” asked those who were awake.

“Fort Advance has been surrounded for three days by a thousand red devils under Oak Heart!” exclaimed Cody to the officer on duty. “I must see Colonel Royal at once.”

The commander of the fort had gotten out of bed already, and he received the scout in his nightshirt.

“Is this true, Cody?” he cried. “Is Major Baldwin threatened?”

“Why, sir, your scouts must have been hived up for a week past if they haven’t seen Injun signs,” said Cody earnestly. “For three days the Sioux have held the garrison of Fort Advance prisoners, and five men have been killed trying to get to you. They’re pretty nearly out of ammunition.”

“My God, Cody! You astonish me. I’ve had the scouts working through the country on the other side, trusting to hear from you if anything went wrong in the direction of Advance.”

“I’ve been to Denver, sir. Just got back to-day. I managed to run in half a packload of ammunition that I had cached, and then Texas Jack and I got through the lines again late this afternoon and—here I am!”

“Texas Jack! He’s not killed, I hope?”

“I don’t know. The reckless fellow would try to go back to cheer the fort with the news that I had got away safely.”

“That’s enough now, Bill. You’ll get something to eat, and if you are going back with the men I send——”

“You bet I am. I got a fellow to rub Chief down, and he’ll be good for it.”

“Your horse? Well, I’m off to see things prepared.”

The energetic commander at once ordered his adjutant to call out two troops of cavalry, mount two companies of infantry, and, with a couple of light guns, to start to the reenforcement of Fort Advance. Extra supplies and ammunition were to be taken in ambulances.

Captain Alfred Taylor, of the Fifth Cavalry, was given command of the expedition, and ordered to start within the hour. They tried to get Cody to take some rest, for more than twenty-four hours the scout had been active, most of the time in the saddle, and part of the time fighting for his very life, but he was determined to go back with the party of reenforcements.

When it pulled out from Post Resistence Buffalo Bill rode ahead as guide, while half a dozen of Colonel Royal’s scouts went along to guard the flanks, and to clear out the cañon when they came to it. Cody felt that Oak Heart, knowing that the white men had got through his lines and were probably making for Resistence, might send a part of his force forward to meet any rescue party coming to the aid of the garrison of Fort Advance.

And the wise scout had not been mistaken in this. Perhaps one reason why Texas Jack had succeeded so easily in returning to Fort Advance was because the king of the Sioux had drawn off quite three hundred of his braves for special duty, and sent them along the track toward Fort Resistence.

The easiest and shortest trail between the two forts was through the cañon, and this Oak Heart well knew. He ordered the chiefs in charge of the three hundred to ambush the rescue-party near the entrance to the cañon at the other end, and not long before Cody and the other scouts, riding ahead of Captain Taylor’s command, came within shouting distance of the cañon the bloodthirsty savages were hidden among the rocks and trees on the sloping sides, ready to pour a deadly fire into the band of rescuers when they came along the trail beneath them.

While yet the scouts were some distance from the cañon something startled them ahead. Tearing along the trail toward them came a herd of deer, frightened from their night’s lair by something untoward.

“Now, what under the canopy started them to running?” asked Cody, who never let anything go past him unexplained.

“Wolves, it’s likely,” said one of the Resistence scouts named Judd.

“Haven’t heard a wolf howl to-night,” declared Buffalo Bill.

“You’re right there, pard,” said another scout, Barney by name.

“And there was no critter on the trail of those white-tails,” said a third man.

“That means Injuns, then,” declared Barney.

“I reckon you’re right, boys,” said the Border King. “Let’s see. Those deer came directly from the cañon.”

“You bet they did.”

“Something doing there, then, boys.”

“I reckon you’re right, Buffler.”

“Here, Barney, you ride back and tell Captain Taylor to halt his column. Judd, you and I leave our horses here and go ahead to reconnoiter. Savvy?”

“Sure!”

Barney rode back. Judd and Buffalo Bill discarded their mounts and went ahead afoot.

Oak Heart was a born general, and, like old Colorow, of the Utes, displayed abilities in planning his campaigns that placed him head and shoulders above the average redskin chieftain. There have been few great warriors among the red Indians. Red Jacket, Black Eagle, Tecumseh, Colorow, and a few others have possessed unnatural characteristics for redskins, and that is why they left their mark on Indian history.

And Oak Heart had sufficient control over his warriors to make them do something which above all things a redskin hates. He made them fight at night!

Now, the Indian is a spiritualist of the most pronounced breed. By day the spirits of the dead, and those powerful beings which he believes control men’s affairs, sleep; by night these supernatural beings walk abroad, and no Southern darky is more afraid of seeing a ghost than a redskin. The medicine chiefs, who are, most of them, a set of unconscionable fakers, foster this belief in ghosts and evil spirits and so prey on the tribes.

Indians often select the hour just before dawn to strike their enemies, because at that time man usually sleeps more deeply. But to make a forced march and lay an ambuscade in the middle of the night—well, this proved Oak Heart’s mastery of his tribe. Buffalo Bill suspected that the herd of deer had been frightened by something more than a single redskin—or a small scouting-party of them. He knew Oak Heart’s abilities and respected them. Rash as the scout might be at times, he never took foolish chances. To lead the rescue-party into the head of the cañon might bring it to complete ruin.

“Judd! you take the west side of that gorge, and I’ll go east,” he commanded his brother scout.

“How’ll I communicate? Signal?”

“No! If there are many of the reds they have already frightened away most of the small animals that we might imitate, and to give a bird-call would utterly ruin us. No bird will be waking up at this time o’ night—ugh!”

“Well, what then?” demanded the other.

“Never mind what you find, keep still. Meet me here—in twenty minutes if possible; not later than half an hour from now, at most.”

“Half an hour?”

“Yep. And remember, a confounded lot can happen in half an hour,” added Cody, with a chuckle.

CHAPTER XI.
A BUSY HALF-HOUR.

Buffalo Bill had spoken a truer word than he thought. A great deal may happen in thirty minutes, and the Border King, as he separated from his brother scout, was unconsciously approaching a series of startling and perilous happenings.

The moment the darkness had wiped Judd out of sight the wary scout turned eastward from the trail. The brush was thick and hung heavy with the dew of the mountains—and that might as well be rain. Every twig he touched communicated to its parent branch a shiver that showered him like a patent bath. He kept the lock of his magazine rifle under his armpit, pulled down the brim of his sombrero to shield his face, and walked swiftly on for some few yards. Yet he made wonderfully little noise.

Having begun to climb rising ground, he here bore off toward the gorge, or cañon. If Oak Heart had laid an ambush there, the reds would be hiding in the brush, behind logs, and sheltered by boulders, all along the sidehills for some hundreds of yards. Buffalo Bill proposed to make a wide enough détour to get well behind the ambushed foe.

By chance, however, he came suddenly upon a slope of gravel and sand, and stepped upon it before he realized the shifting nature of the soil. A stream of small pebbles began rattling down the hill!

Instantly Buffalo Bill learned that his suspicions had been well founded. The Indians were there.

He heard a startled grunt below him. Then in Sioux a voice asked a brief question.

“Bear?” returned a second Indian.

There was a sound as though one of the speakers had risen from his place. Buffalo Bill cast his mind quickly over the situation. The suggestion that a bear might be lurking about the sidehill seemed the most reasonable. A bear is notably a blundersome beast, and the wind was not from the ambushed redskins. The scout grasped the idea.

He sent another small avalanche of gravel down the slope, and then floundered a bit in the brush. His ability to imitate the voices of birds and animals was very keen; but it is not easy to imitate the gruff, startled “woof!” of the marauding bear. However, he essayed it and then stamped away up the hill through the brush, making a deuce of a clatter till he reached an open space. He hoped that the reds would take his play-acting in good faith; yet he could not help having his doubts. He considered that, had he been in their place, he would have felt strong doubt regarding the validity of the sound, and would have investigated.

Therefore he slipped behind an enormous tree trunk at the edge of this opening and waited to see if the supposed bear would be followed. Minute after minute passed, and a deathlike silence reigned upon the hillside. Buffalo Bill was wasting time, but he was too wary to approach closer to the Indians—near enough to learn their numbers at least—until he was assured that his first mistake had not borne perilous fruit.

Sharp as his hearing was, however, he did not hear a footfall, or a breath; yet of a sudden a figure was silhouetted before him against the open space in the forest. An Indian stood there with folded arms, his back to the scout, and facing the clearing!

One of the reds whom Cody had disturbed was not satisfied with the imitated retreat of the frightened “bear.” He had come to investigate and stood now almost within striking distance of the scout. But the latter feared to shoot him, of course; nor did he trust to a fling of his tomahawk, or knife. There were too many uncertainties about either of those methods of removing the redskin. To steal from behind the tree and spring upon him was another difficult thing, for the ground was strewn with rustling leaves and twigs, and the scout feared to announce his approach.

To his disgust, too, the Indian turned and began searching about the edge of the forest. Cody saw him step cautiously behind two trees and stick the muzzle of the old-fashioned musket he bore into a brush-clump. The red was trying to learn if the creature that had made all that “catouse” was still in the vicinity.

Instantly the scout glanced about in the gloom for a means of hiding himself more surely. In a minute the red would come his way.

Directly above his head he saw a branch. He slipped the strap of his rifle over his head and shoulder, thus leaving his hands free, seized the branch, and drew himself up carefully as an acrobat does when he “chins” the horizontal bar. Without a sound, or the rattle of a button or an accouterment, the scout drew himself into the tree. Three branches sprang from the butt low down, so furnishing him a splendid nest.

He removed his gun and stood it upright, wedged in a niche. Then he lay down along the lower branch, his body in the darkness merely adding a darker shadow to it, and watched and listened. No mountain cat was better ambushed for a foe. His guns he loosened in their scabbards, and then, drawing his bowie, he stuck it softly into the branch within easy reach of his hand.

At that instant there was a soft rustling in the leaves which covered the ground below. Cody craned his neck to see. The Indian in a stooping posture came into view. He halted directly under the limb on which the scout lay. It seemed too dark for him to see any mark that the scout might have left, yet he seemed wonderfully interested in the tree and the ground beneath it.

Cody could see the outline of his figure very well indeed. How much sharper the red’s vision might be he did not know; but he was not taking any chances. He noted that the red scamp faced the tree trunk and was apparently examining the rough bark for recently broken places. Was it possible that the fellow was really stumbling upon the truth—that a man had climbed this tree? Or was he feeling for the marks of a bear’s claws?

However, Cody decided the red had gone far enough. Besides, the fellow was temptingly near. He was a small, wiry man weighing little more than a hundred pounds.

Cody stooped suddenly, and both his muscular hands clutched the Indian around the neck—one before, one behind. And with this awful grip—which cut short any attempt to breathe, let alone to cry out—he lifted the redskin off his feet!

As was only natural, the red dropped his gun and clutched with both hands at the hand which pinched his windpipe. He kicked vainly for freedom. Before he could drop his hand to his knife and draw that, Cody jerked him upward till the top of his head struck with fearful force against the under side of the tree branch. He could actually hear the redskin’s crown crack!

The foe’s hands dropped limply; yet Cody held on and squeezed his throat for a minute longer. Then he dropped the fellow like a bag of bones to the ground.

In a moment he seized his own rifle and dropped lightly beside him. The Indian had not stirred; he was without doubt dead. Cody took his weapons and removed his scalp, and went his way with some confidence that there was certainly one more “good” Indian.

He dodged the gravel bank this time, and came down the side of the cañon at another point—some rods beyond that at which he had found the first of the reds established. There were fewer trees here, and, looking from above, the scout was able to observe considerable of the more open hillside. Dark as the night was, he saw several forms crouching behind stumps and boulders.

He made a further détour, came down the hill again, and found the same conditions. On this side of the trail the Indians were extended along the hillside for five hundred yards and more. It was a big ambushing party. Cody reckoned it to be no less than two hundred braves at the least, and probably more. Captain Taylor’s command was not prepared to meet such a foe—especially when the foe would have every advantage of cover.

Had it not been so dark, or had Cody known the ground better, a flank movement might have been made which would have overwhelmed the reds. But this would have taken much time, too, and, meanwhile, the garrison at Fort Advance was in sore need of reenforcements.

Cody returned swiftly to the rendezvous he had appointed with Judd, to learn what that individual had discovered upon the other side of the cañon.

Now, the warriors lay very silently indeed in their ambuscade, but three hundred men cannot be in a small place like that together without making some sounds. Judd, too, discovered the ambush, although he did not know just how many Indians were awaiting the coming of the bluecoats.

“There’s a good bunch of them. Perhaps Oak Heart has drawn off half his gang,” said Cody. “We’ve got to fool ’em, Judd.”

They hurried back to the group of scouts, and there Cody issued his instructions. Judd and three others were to watch the Indians as well as possible. Meanwhile Cody proposed to ride back and meet Captain Taylor’s command and take them, by another way, to the valley in which Fort Advance was situated.

Cody rode back in haste and reported the danger ahead.

“We are able to handle five hundred redskins, Cody,” said the officer, eager for a fight.

“But not when they are established on both sides of the trail and it is dark and the forest is too thick for you to maneuver horses. No, no, captain! Be advised by me.”

“I suppose you are right, Cody.”

“And, besides, you will be able to deliver a heavier blow to Oak Heart’s gang if you fall upon them unexpectedly; and then, when these ambuscaders rush in, you’ll be ready to cut them to pieces, too.”

“Right you are, scout. You are sure of the way?”

“Confident. It’s a bit rough, but I could find it with my eyes bandaged.”

“Lead on, then, scout.”

“And no bugle-calls,” warned Cody. “Pass the word to the men. We don’t want these reds, waiting in the cañon, to suspect that we are stealing a march on them.”

Fortunately, the troops did not have to take the back track. The path by which the Border King was to lead them to their destination branched off this main trail into the hills. Over the rough way they rode, and soon the eastern sky began to grow gray. Dawn was approaching, and the increased light made the path vastly easier of traveling.

Buffalo Bill and Captain Taylor rode some distance ahead of the troops. The cavalry could go only as fast as the guns and ambulances could keep up, so the band moved necessarily slow.

They came at last almost within sight of Fort Advance. A low ridge shut out their view of the valley. Suddenly the cool morning breeze brought to them a great shouting and hullabaloo, intermingled with rifle-shots and the intermittent discharge of heavy guns.

“An attack!” exclaimed the captain and the scout together, and they spurred their horses to the top of the ridge.

It was true. Oak Heart had chosen the hour before dawn as the time to throw his remaining warriors against the stockade. He believed that about this time the rescue-party would be falling into the trap he had laid for it in the cañon. He would keep both bands of white men so busy that they could not go to each other’s rescue.

Suddenly the heavy guns ceased. There was only the occasional snapping of rifles from the fort.

“My God, Cody! What does that mean?” gasped Captain Taylor.

“Their ammunition has run out!” cried the scout. “I adjure you, captain, bring up your men at a double-quick. The next few minutes may settle the question as to whether those red devils get the scalps of every man, woman, and child in the fort! There is not an instant to lose, sir!”

CHAPTER XII.
A FLYING FIGHT.

Captain Taylor saw the desperate need of help for the unfortunate inmates of Fort Advance quite as clearly as did Buffalo Bill, but his men were in heavy marching order, and there were the artillery and ambulances to be thought of, too. The column was strung out along the trail for two miles.

“It will take some time to bring the men up and form in line of battle, Cody,” declared Captain Taylor.

“And meanwhile Oak Heart will throw his entire force over those palisades!” cried the scout. “By the time we deploy into the valley there’ll be no garrison, and the red devils can turn their attention to us. The firing will call up the gang from the cañon, and we’ll be between two fires.”

“It can’t be helped——”

“It can be helped, sir—begging your pardon! Give me a few of your men and let me push on. It will make a diversion in favor of the garrison. If the braves see us coming they’ll hesitate about throwing themselves into the fort and so being caught in a trap.”

“Good, Cody! You are right. And your appearance will at least show that help is at hand and encourage the garrison. But I’m afraid you’ll be cut to pieces.”

“We’ll have to take that chance. Somebody has got to die this day—why not us?” demanded the courageous scout. “Let me have some of your cavalry as they come up. There’s the head of the column!”

“Go, and God bless you, my brave fellow! Take all the men whose horses can stand a hard run,” said the gallant captain.

He signaled the head of the column forward at once. The troops had already heard the firing, and were eager to get into action.

“You’ll have to bring your artillery and ambulances down into the valley by yonder ridge, captain,” said the scout, pointing out the tongue of rocky land over which he had raced the day before with his pack-load of ammunition for the beleaguered fort. “From there you can sweep the valley to the very gates of the fort, and likewise you can cover the exit of the cañon through which the ambushing party will like enough pour in a short time.”

“Good! I’ll make a note of that,” declared the officer. “There, Cody, are your men. Pick out the horses you think will be able to keep somewhere near your whitey. Every man of them is eager to attend, I promise you!”

This was true enough, as the scout well knew. In five minutes, with two lieutenants and a couple of score of troopers at his heels, the scout set the pace over the ridge and down into the smoke-wreathed valley.

They were soon in full sight of the fort and the redskins clamoring about it. And it was a complete surprise to Oak Heart and his braves to see reenforcements for the whites so near at hand. As for the defenders of Fort Advance, they were wild with joy to see even this small troop coming to their rescue.

Buffalo Bill’s white steed was recognized, and cheers rent the air from the garrison which, a few moments before, had given up all hope. The Indians had been about to rush the stockade, and then a hand-to-hand fight would have ensued inside the fort which could have ended in but one way. The redskins outnumbered the whites so greatly, despite their losses, that the garrison would have been completely overwhelmed.

Oak Heart saw that he was likely to be defeated, after all. Victory had all but perched upon his banners; now, with his forces separated, he was very likely to taste the bitter ashes of defeat!

But the Sioux king was a born leader and strategist. He saw that, in some way, his plans for ambuscading the relief party had fallen through. His three hundred braves were idle up the cañon while the whites from Fort Resistence were coming to the help of their comrades by another way. Those reserve forces he needed, and needed at once.

He spoke to the White Antelope. She had acted as his aid all through the battle, and now she wheeled her pony instantly and dashed away toward the mouth of the cañon. She was instructed to inform the ambuscading party of the change in affairs and to bring them back at top speed.

Buffalo Bill and his flying column of cavalry saw and understood this move. Lieutenant Dick Danforth, the dashing young lieutenant who ranked in command of the party, spurred up beside Cody.

“See that girl yonder?” he cried.

“I see her,” returned the scout gravely.

“She’s a messenger, eh?”

“She is.”

“Isn’t that the way into the cañon where those other Indians were lying in wait for us?”

“You’re mighty right, lieutenant,” admitted the scout.

“We must stop her!”

The scout remained silent, measuring the distance between them and the flying White Antelope, and the mouth of the cañon as well.

“We’ve got to stop her!” exclaimed Dick Danforth.

“How are you going to do it?” demanded Cody grimly.

Danforth picked up his carbine quickly. Cody at once laid his hand on the young officer’s arm.

“No, no, Dick!” he said, with feeling. “Not that!”

“What do you mean, scout?” demanded the young officer, displeased.

“You must not shoot that girl!”

“Why, she’s a confounded squaw—and she’s an enemy—and she’s taking a message that may bring trouble to us all.”

“She must be stopped; but you must not kill her.”

“What’s the matter with you, Cody?” the young man demanded again. “She’s nothing but a redskin.”

“There is another way—without taking her life,” declared the scout.

“What makes you so tender of the squaw? Lord! I don’t ask you to shoot her,” and the lieutenant raised his carbine again.

Cody’s hand this time fell upon the lieutenant’s wrist with force, as he urged Chief alongside the other’s mount.

“And by God, sir! you shall not shoot her—above all men!” he cried.

“What do you mean by this?” demanded Lieutenant Danforth, his face white as death. “I have a reason for killing every damned Indian that comes under my eye—you know that, Bill Cody!”

“Perhaps; but not White Antelope,” said the scout earnestly.

“And why not White Antelope, as you call her? Is she any better than any other of the devil’s red spawn? Let go of my arm! I’m going to shoot that girl!”

“You are beside yourself!” exclaimed Cody coldly. “Do you want it told around your mess that you deliberately shot a squaw-woman?”

“She’s a messenger, man!”

“That’s no excuse.”

“I tell you the red devils killed my people—butchered them! I saw my father with his head split open by an Indian hatchet! My mother was dragged away to a worse death, it’s likely. I’ve sworn revenge on every redskin that walks the earth! Let go of me, Cody, or I’ll kill you!”

“You are beside yourself, sir,” said the scout, still coldly. “You would not kill me, for I have always been your friend. It was I who got you your chance at West Point. It was I who made you what you are now. You’ll not kill me, Dick Danforth!”

The two had ridden furiously ahead of the troopers, both bearing off toward the cañon’s mouth toward which the squaw was flying on her pony. The other men could not hear this conversation, jerked out between the jumps of the two great horses.

That Dick Danforth, the young lieutenant, was beside himself, was easily to be seen. He was not responsible at the moment for his actions or speech.

“That gal must not be harmed, Danforth,” said Cody firmly. “If you hold any gratitude in your heart toward me, show it now. I demand that the girl be unharmed—now or at any other time—and especially at your hand.”

The scout’s seriousness—aye, his passion in saying this—impressed Danforth so deeply that his own rage gave place to wonder.

“Why, what do you know about her, Cody? Who is she?”

“It does not matter. I must have your promise. You must never harm the White Antelope. Indeed, you must guard her and keep others from harming her with your life; do you understand?”

“No, I don’t understand. And I won’t help an Injun.”

“You will do as I say, Dick.”

“No!”

“I demand it, Dick!” said the scout feelingly.

“That is not fair, Cody!”

“It is fair. I saved your life. I made you what you are. I have a right to some return, and I demand this.”

“Oh, thunder, Bill!” ejaculated Dick Danforth, more in his usual light tone than before. “If you put it that way——”

“I do.”

“Then I’ll have to promise.”

“Very well, my boy. I hold you to your word.”

“But don’t you ever ask me to save an Injun again, for I won’t do it!”

“All right.”

“And while we’ve been rowing, that blamed squaw is getting away. She’ll carry the alarm to the other Indians as sure as shooting!”

“She won’t!” returned the scout, with confidence. “Ride on with your men, Dick. Cut your way through that gang of reds to the gates of the fort if necessary. Off with you! Leave the girl to me!”

With a wave of his hand he clapped spurs to Chief, and pulled sharply on his rein. The girl had almost reached the mouth of the cañon when Cody started in direct pursuit.

CHAPTER XIII.
THE CHASE OF THE WHITE ANTELOPE.

The Border King did not pick his way as he spurred the great white horse down the declivity after the flying Indian girl. He allowed Chief to guide himself, for he felt confidence in the horse’s sense. They went down the hill like an avalanche, and an avalanche of small stones and broken brush went with them.

To the troopers behind on the ridge, to the defenders of the fort, and to the Indians themselves who saw the charge of the big white horse, it seemed that neither horse nor rider could reach the bottom alive.

But Chief did not even lose his stride in going down, and at the bottom, in answer to a sharp tug on the rein, he turned and shot away along the trail after the disappearing White Antelope.

Oak Heart and his braves saw the act, and knew Cody’s reason for chasing the young squaw. Half the army of Sioux would have started in pursuit; but Dick Danforth’s troopers were sweeping down the hill by a smoother road, and would cut the Indians off from the entrance to the cañon. The reds were balked.

Dick Danforth’s blood was up. He had been born a Western boy, and, as he had intimated in his recent conversation with Cody, he had bitter reason to hate the redskins. He had been made an orphan, and his young life ruined, by these very Sioux.

He spoke to the bugler, and the wild notes of the charge rang out across the valley. Two score the troopers numbered, and there were five or six hundred Indians against them; but the bold fellows were ready to dash into the midst of the redskins.

Besides, Major Baldwin, seeing what desperate chances the troopers from Fort Resistence were taking, ordered Captain Ed. Keyes to charge with every able-bodied cavalryman the stockade contained. The fort gates were flung open, and out upon the Indians, already wavering and uncertain, charged Keyes and his troop, sabers in hand. They had no ammunition, but they wielded their sabers like fiends. The Indians, most of them unmounted, were borne down, trampled under the feet of the big cavalry horses, and slashed unmercifully on one side by Keyes, while Danforth came up on the other, his men shooting at short range with carbines and pistols, and finally taking to the sword also.

And while this wild carnage was in progress, Buffalo Bill and the White Antelope were racing along the trail in the cañon, the girl intent upon carrying her father’s message and arousing the redskins lying in ambush miles away, while the scout was just as determined that, without injuring her, she should be kept from carrying out her plan.

It was still dark down here in the cañon. Although the sun was already showing his red face above the eastern hills, as yet there was not light enough to dissipate the gloom at the bottom of this deep cut in the hills. Indeed, Buffalo Bill followed the girl more by sense of sound than sense of sight for the first half-mile.

Then the pace of the great white horse told. His stride was too much for the Indian pony, no matter how cruelly White Antelope lashed it. Steadily the scout drew nearer.

The gray light filtered down from above and showed to the scout the young squaw turning her head again and again to watch the progress of her pursuer. She was evidently measuring with fearful glance the rapidly lessening distance between them.

Buffalo Bill might easily have killed her as she leaned forward on her pony’s neck, urging him with whip and voice. His face was very set and stern, too; but the sternness was not that which masked his countenance when he was bent upon an enemy’s death.

He saw, indeed, the frightened maiden before him, flying madly from his approach; but his mind was laboring with thoughts which carried him back for many years—thoughts which had often embittered his mind and robbed him of his rest at night. He remembered this beautiful girl’s mother and how he would have saved her from her awful fate; yet that was not to be! And here he was pursuing the daughter—yet in a far different manner.

The girl looked back again. Her beautiful face had paled, losing all its naturally rich coloring. Although Buffalo Bill had held her in his power only the day before and had not harmed her, this wild child of the forest and plain saw no reason for his sparing her now. And, indeed, there was no apparent reason. She saw in his attempt to capture her instead of killing her outright, merely the desire of the warrior to parade a captive before his admiring brethren, and then, perhaps, she would be made a slave as the redskins made slaves of the white squaws they stole!

White Antelope had no reason for believing in the honor and tenderness of white men. She had been taught from childhood that they were her deadly enemies. Her mother had died too soon after her birth to instil into the maiden’s mind any different belief than that held by the savages about her.

So the girl looked back at Cody in terror, and made up her savage mind to die rather than be captured by the scout.

But she would sell her life dearly as may be. The day before Long Hair, as she called him, had disarmed her of the light revolver which had been a most precious possession. Now she had only her bow and arrows—a weapon that is not easily used in shooting behind one while the pony is at full speed.

But this was what the girl tried to do. She strung her bow and seized an arrow from the quiver which hung over her shoulder. Then, while the pony was still paddling along the trail at his best pace, she turned her agile young body about, drew the shaft to its head, and let drive at the coming scout.

He ducked as he saw her action; but the shaft went through his hat and carried it away. Instantly she fitted another arrow to the bowstring and sent it likewise at her enemy. Cody slipped over on the far side of Chief, hanging by toe and one hand to the running animal, an Indian trick that no brave could do better than the scout himself. The second shaft went over his saddle in about the place his heart might have been had he been sitting upright!

The Indian maiden was not to be balked so easily. She turned again to urge her pony on, hoping, it is likely, that Long Hair would bob up into the saddle again. But he saw she had a third arrow on the string, and he remained where he was.

But to tamely endure such a persecution as this was not the scout’s intention. Besides, he feared that the White Antelope might shoot Chief.

As he slung himself over the side of the big white horse, Cody had drawn one of the loaded pistols from its holster. With this gun he was a marvelously accurate shot. It had a barrel almost as long as the old-fashioned derringer, and in the hand of a trained marksman could do the execution of a finely sighted rifle.

Under the horse’s neck he had a very clear view of the girl on the pony in front, although she could not easily aim at any vital part of the scout in the position in which he hung from Chief. As the young squaw turned sidewise to larrup her pony again with the quirt hanging to her wrist, Buffalo Bill took a snap shot at the quiver of arrows at her back.

It was a perilous shot—if he did not wish to harm the girl. Few marksmen would have dared try it. William Tell was a bungler, indeed, as compared with some of the marksmen of our great West, and William F. Cody was, in his day, the best of them all!

His pistol ball sped true. The thong from which the quiver hung was severed, and if the hot lead seared the girl’s shoulder in passing it did no more!

The quiver fell to the ground; but the girl had still a remaining arrow—it was already upon her bowstring. She turned swiftly to drive it home—perhaps into the heart of the great white horse that bore her enemy so swiftly.

Buffalo Bill realized the danger to his noble steed. He sprang upright into the saddle, the smoking pistol still in his hand. His appearance as a fair target attracted the Indian maiden’s aim. She drew the arrowhead to her ear.

But the white man’s pistol spoke before she could release the feathered shaft.

Crack!

The long-barreled revolver spit its death-dealing bullet, and the smoke enveloped Buffalo Bill’s head for a moment and then passed away.

Twang!

That was the snap of the bowstring. But the arrow flew wildly in the air, over the scout’s head. The bullet had severed the deer tendon of which the string was made just as the girl released the shaft. Buffalo Bill had taken another desperate shot—and had won. The bow was put out of commission, but the bullet had not touched the fair user of the bow.

White Antelope threw away her broken implement in wrath, and lashed her pony again. But he, poor creature, was coming to the end of his leash. His little legs could not carry even so light a burden as herself much farther.

Buffalo Bill saw that this was so, and he spoke to Chief, dropping the pistol back into its holster again. The great white horse redoubled his effort. He shot along the trail as though he was fresh from the stable.

This spurt of speed brought the scout beside the Indian girl and her mount so quickly that White Antelope had no time to cast herself to the ground as she had intended. Even as she screamed and would have leaped to certain death, the white horse came neck and neck with her mount, Cody leaned over and seized her around the waist with his right arm, and, drawing his pistol this time with his left hand, shot the Indian pony through the head!

He could not afford to have the relieved beast run on to the ambushed Indians miles up the cañon and so warn them of what was being done. The pony staggered on a few yards and fell dead. Chief leaped the fallen body and then came to a stop.

Meanwhile, the young squaw had been struggling in Cody’s grasp. She had one more weapon, and out it flashed from the bead-worked sheath at her side. It was a keen scalping-knife, and with a single downward thrust she might have ended Cody’s earthly career.

However, the scout was watching for just this little play. As the bright blade descended toward his breast, he caught the point upon his pistol. The blade snapped, and with a single blow he knocked the handle and butt of the blade from the girl’s hand!

“The White Antelope is in Long Hair’s power. Let her lie quietly,” commanded the scout in Sioux.

He placed the girl before him, picked up Chief’s bridle, turned the horse about, and they started down the cañon again. The girl did not struggle now, or seek to escape. She was beaten. He could feel her body shake with emotion; but true to Indian custom and tradition, she did not weep.

Cody feared that some of the Indians might have got by Dick Danforth and entered the cañon to follow him; so he went back very circumspectly. If he was caught between two fires he could merely sell his life as dearly as possible; but he would have kept the men in ambush from coming to the help of their tribesmen in time to do any good.

Soon the noise of battle reached their ears. The girl gave no sign of interest, nor did Cody speak to her. In truth, the scout had a bitter problem to consider.

What should he do with the girl? She was in his power. At least, he had separated her from her father and from her Indian friends. But was the time ripe for her to be introduced to white people—to those in Fort Advance, for instance?

It was a time when men’s passions were deeply stirred. There would be murder and hatred in the hearts of the whites as well as in that of the redskins. Of what good to bring this half-breed girl into contact with whites who felt a desire to kill every creature with Indian blood in its veins? And why take the girl away from the red men at the moment when her own heart was bitter as gall toward the whites? What good would come of such an act? Buffalo Bill’s good sense answered for him:

“None!”

Nor did the whites desire her as a hostage. To hold her prisoner would be to strengthen her affiliation with the Sioux. No, no! She must go free—if Cody were free himself.

This question could not be answered until he had ridden to the end of the cañon, and he went on very circumspectly.

CHAPTER XIV.
A STARTLING DISCOVERY.

Meanwhile, the two troops of cavalry, under Lieutenant Dick Danforth and Captain Keyes respectively, plowed their way through the massed redskins. They met, and Captain Keyes heartily greeted the men from Fort Resistence.

“God bless you, Danforth—and you, Mercer! You’ve come just in time to save us, for we are completely out of ammunition. Where’s Cody?”

“Gone to head off Oak Heart’s messenger to the men he had hidden up the cañon to fall upon us—had we come that way,” said Danforth.

“And there is the rest of your column appearing!” cried Keyes.

His seniority gave him command. He raised his saber on high and stood up in his stirrups.

“Now, charge back to the fort, my bully boys, and give these red devils what they are looking for!”

The redskins were not inactive, and there were already empty saddles in the troop; but the tribesmen were demoralized. They began fleeing toward the river across the valley. Out upon the ridge spurred the guns belonging to Captain Taylor’s command, unlimbered, and opened fire on the fleeing reds, the shells screaming over the heads of the charging troops in blue. Down into the valley poured the remainder of Taylor’s column, eager to have some part in the rout.

Upon this scene rode Buffalo Bill and his beautiful captive as they left the cañon’s mouth. The Indians were in wild flight. The whites were forcing them toward the river.

Buffalo Bill pulled in his horse, and his keen glance swept the field of carnage. He saw that the battle was practically over. Oak Heart’s warriors had shown the white feather. The unexpected coming of the rescue-party had knocked out completely the reds’ plans, and they could not rally.

Then the scout looked down at the sorrowful face of White Antelope.

“Yonder flies the White Antelope’s father, the great chief, Oak Heart, and his people,” Cody said gravely. “The palefaces are greater than the red men. They always have been. They always will be. Remember, White Antelope, that Pa-e-has-ka says this, and he is wise, and he knows. The red men must melt away before the white men, or else become as the white men are—tillers of the soil, traders, homesteaders. The red men, who learn this lesson soon, will be saved. There is no other gospel to preach to the red men—and Pa-e-has-ka preaches it.

“The White Antelope’s mother was white,” continued the old scout, seeing that he had the girl’s attention, and he spoke with trembling voice. “She was a beautiful woman—and Oak Heart loved her greatly. While she lived the Sioux remained for years at peace with the white men. Now Oak Heart is influenced by less wise counselors than thy mother. And see what has come of it!

“Many men are dead. Much bitterness is engendered. The strife has been bloody, and now the red men go back to their squaws and children like whipped dogs!

“The whites and reds will now be against each other for a long time because of this trouble. And what have the people gained, White Antelope? A few scalps? Aye, but they have lost more. Many women will tear their hair and mourn in the lodges of the Sioux because of this battle.

“Let the White Antelope remember this. She has influence beyond her years with her people. Let her remember what Pa-e-has-ka says and counsel her father and the other chiefs to make peace with the white men while they may.

“Now, Pa-e-has-ka sends the White Antelope back to Chief Oak Heart. Tell thy father how the Long Hair had thee in his power, and did thee no harm. I am thy friend, White Antelope. See! that is the way to the river. Keep behind the trees, and the bluecoats will not see thee. Fly! For the time is short. Soon your people will be in full retreat, and the old chief will believe his daughter is lost to him.”

The scout set the girl down upon her feet. His voice trembled as he ceased speaking, and he looked closely into her face to see if it had been moved at all by his speech. But he saw there only fright and wonder—the terror of the wild creature unexpectedly released from the trap.

So he let her go and saw her flee on feet as fleet as a deer’s through the undergrowth toward the river, which the vanguard of the Indians were already crossing. Then the scout set spurs to Chief and tore after the column of blue which had hastened to the support of Keyes and Danforth.

Although the rifles and pistols of the men from the fort were empty, their blades were sharp. Before Cody reached the field of action it had become merely a drive of redskins to the river. The bluecoats rode them down, hacking them as they passed, pressing Oak Heart hard.

Horses and white men went down in the mêlée; but when the war-cry of Buffalo Bill was heard that seemed to drive the last atom of courage from the Sioux, and they ran like a herd of frightened deer, flinging away their arms, and leaping from the high river-bank into the shallows.

Some were swept away by the deeper current in the middle and drowned. Had there been a ford near at hand, the soldiers would have crossed over and continued the massacre on the farther side. But the stream afforded Oak Heart a chance to rally his braves.

Sheltered somewhat by the high bank, his riflemen could pick off the soldiers as they appeared, and it became dangerous for the cavalrymen to ride to the very brink of the bluff. This allowed the frightened Indians to escape across the stream, Oak Heart and a few others guarding their retreat.

While Buffalo Bill was receiving the congratulations of Captain Keyes and Texas Jack, the voice of the old chief, Oak Heart, suddenly rose from below.

“I know you, Great White Chief Buffalo Bill! Oak Heart never forget. You save your people—kill my young men—make Sioux run! Me remember, Pa-e-has-ka!”

“He’s got it in for you, Bill, sure enough!” cried Texas Jack.

Raising his trumpetlike voice, the great scout replied to the threat of the beaten Indian chief:

“Pa-e-has-ka knows the voice of Oak Heart—and the heart of Oak Heart. He will not forget!”

The Border King might have picked off the chief with his rifle as he climbed the farther bank of the stream on his wearied pony. But he scorned to do such an act. Besides, far up the river he saw a slender figure dive down the bank, plunge into the stream, and fight the fierce current to the other side, where it quickly scrambled out, up the bank, and ran to join the fleeing Indians.

“What become of the girl, Cody?” whispered Dick Danforth, getting him aside.

The Border King pointed to this figure following the trail of the defeated warriors.

“There she goes, Dick,” he whispered. “Remember your promise!”

It was indeed a great victory for the whites. The Sioux had lost many ponies and more than a hundred slain, although some of the dead had been taken away. In wounded the Indians had suffered more heavily still.

However, it was a costly victory for the whites. More than twenty troopers lay dead within the fort, and several were scattered upon the plain. There were more than half a hundred seriously injured, while of minor casualties there were so many that the garrison had ceased to note them. Almost everybody within Fort Advance showed, at least, some slight mark of the conflict.

Upon every tongue was heard the name of Buffalo Bill, the Border King; for, but for him, how different might have been the result! All felt that the great scout had saved Fort Advance, and, as Texas Jack said, “put a crimp in the Sioux that they’d remember till they were gray-headed.” Indeed the fame of this deed for many years made Buffalo Bill’s name a household word along the frontier.

Embarrassed by the praise bestowed upon him, the scout looked to the care of his horse, Chief, and then slipped away to hide and rest, Texas Jack keeping his hiding-place a secret that he might not be disturbed.

When he slipped out of his retreat the next day he was greeted with a cheer, and Major Baldwin sent for him at parade that evening and complimented him publicly for his work, with a word of praise for Texas Jack, as well.

When matters had quieted down a little at the fort and the rescuers had returned to Fort Resistance, Buffalo Bill had a talk with Major Baldwin.

“Somebody should make an attempt to see what old Oak Heart is about now,” said the scout. “And I reckon I’m the man, major. There are still a lot of masterless Indians in these hills, and we want to know what they’re up to. There is another matter I wish to scout around about, too. On my way down from Denver I crossed the trail of Boyd Bennett.”

“You don’t mean that despicable deserter has dared show up again?” cried the major.

“I believe he is in the neighborhood. There have been several robberies of stage-coaches and mail-wagons up north, and they bear the ear-marks of Boyd Bennett. At any rate, this clue I speak of will bear following up.”

“Very well, Cody. I’ll excuse you from your other duties. I wish I was giving you a quiet vacation, however.”

The scout smiled.

“Excitement is the breath of life to me, major. Wait till I get old. Perhaps I may want to settle down then.”

This Boyd Bennett was an old enemy of Buffalo Bill’s. He was a deserter from the United States Army, and had become the leader of one of those bands of road-agents that cropped up so thickly soon after the close of the Civil War. The West was overrun with disbanded guerrillas who had fought on both sides of the great struggle—wild and masterless men who had lived so long by the power of the sword, that they would not conform to law and order when legitimate fighting was supposed to be ended.

These cursed the growing West. Boyd Bennett had committed several crimes, but had as yet escaped apprehension and punishment.

An army paymaster was soon to make the rounds by coach, paying off the several garrisons; and so it was important to locate Boyd Bennett, the overland bandit, and his gang, and make sure that they were not plotting to seize the paymaster’s treasure.

After a couple of days’ trailing into the Indian country, the scout found that Oak Heart and his warriors were seemingly too much battered by the battle at Fort Advance to think of making another raid at present. They were likely to lie low for awhile.

So Buffalo Bill went in search of Boyd Bennett and his gang. He knew that the rendezvous of the road-agents was usually near some stage-road, and the scout chanced upon the road leading from Fort Advance to Alikon. He knew the time of the coach-running, and after riding along the trail for a couple of miles he came upon the coach as he expected.

That is, he expected to find the coach about here; but the scene presented to his gaze, when he beheld it, was most startling.

There was the coach; the horses were standing patiently in the trail; and yet no driver was on the box, nor did he see any one near at first. Spurring forward, Buffalo Bill beheld the driver sprawling on the ground, with the reins still clutched tightly in his hands. It was Bud Sharkey, whom the scout knew well; and the unfortunate fellow had been shot from his seat on the stage-coach.

There were three other dead bodies on the ground—an officer and two soldiers. They were all dead, and, furthermore, the scout noted now that the four had been scalped.

CHAPTER XV.
THE TREASURE CHEST.

This dreadful discovery told the scout that Indians had held up the coach. Yet he wondered if it had been done for robbery as well as murder? The officer he recognized as Captain Hinkley, the paymaster; the soldiers were his guard. He was a week ahead of his time; yet he had not managed to get safely through.

The fact that Indians had done the deed, however, disturbed Buffalo Bill. He could not understand it. The marks of half a dozen unshod ponies proved that his first suspicion was correct. Some of Oak Heart’s young braves might have done this. It was true, too, that the driver and soldiers had all been shot with arrows.

“How do I know that robbery has been committed at all?” muttered Buffalo Bill, and he leaped off his horse and made search inside the stage.

It was revealed at once that the marauders must have been frightened off before they came upon Captain Hinkley’s strong-box and bags of coin.

Fear of being caught in the act of murder and rapine usually rides the redskin to undue haste. Had there been whites with this gang of red robbers—either Boyd Bennett himself or any of his men—Cody knew that no small matter would have frightened them away before the object of the hold-up of the stage was accomplished. And the presence of the treasure-chest proved that the marauders must have been driven off.

By what, or whom? Surely his own coming had not done this! Yet the thought gave the scout food for serious reflection. Perhaps the reds might be lurking near and would descend again upon the spot and finish their job by gathering in his scalp as well as that of the driver, the paymaster, and his guards.

He did not touch the money, therefore, but appeared likewise to find nothing in the coach. He even went back to his horse, mounted into the saddle, and set off along the trail at a lope as though proposing to go for help. He had remembered that there was a sandy piece of ground not far away, and here his horse’s hoofbeats would be deadened. As soon as he reached this he halted, dismounted, led his horse up among the rocks, and approached the scene of the catastrophe with great circumspection. Not a bird did he raise by this maneuver.

“They’ve vamosed!” declared Buffalo Bill, with confidence. “A scalping party of reds, and they knew nothing about the money. So it appears, at least. Yet, from all I’ve heard, Bennett is hand and glove with Oak Heart’s people. He’ll hear of this without fail. Now, what had I better do?”

He spent little time in cogitating, however. Cody was a man who made up his mind instinctively, rather than by any slow process of reasoning. He was prompt on this occasion to come to a conclusion.

The party of Indians who had done this hold-up act were not in the immediate vicinity. It was of some moment to Cody, however, to learn how far they had gone, and in what direction. He rustled the treasure-box out of the stage and lugged it up into the rocks, where he found a hiding-place that would do for the nonce. Then he picked up the trail of the redskins afoot and hurried after them.

Beyond the nearest hill the party had fled down into a well-watered valley which the scout knew led to a gorge, which was about the shortest way to Oak Heart’s camp. If Boyd Bennett and his gang happened to be with the Indians, saw the scalps, and guessed who the reds had murdered, he would be here after the treasure-box in short order.

Buffalo Bill believed that the reds were aiming for this gorge; yet they might have had another route in view. To make sure, he cut across the valley on a straight line for the mouth of the gorge to see if the trail was marked there, as well.

The middle of the valley was a swamp, and one that the scout had never been through. He had no idea that it was so dangerous a place until he had gotten some rods into it. Then, in leaping from a tussock to what looked like a solid log, he found the log, hammock, and all, sinking under him, and there was no safe spot ahead on which he could alight.

“Great Scott! I’d better go around, after all,” he muttered, in disgust, and turned gingerly on the sinking log.

And then, to his amazement, he saw that the comparatively safe place on which he had last stood had disappeared! As he leaped it had toppled over and the quagmire had swallowed it instantly. All he could see was a long stretch of some ten or twelve feet of stinking, dimpling black muck!

“However did I get over that place?” grunted the scout, in surprise. “Why, I’m due to go ten feet under the surface maybe, if I jump!”

And it quickly became apparent that he might go that depth under the surface if he didn’t jump, too. The old log sank lower and lower, until finally the liquid mud lapped over it completely and began to rise around his ankles. The log was only about eight feet long. He crept to the end which lay nearest solid ground, but even then it was a good eight-foot jump, and from such an unstable footing that seemed well nigh impossible of accomplishment.

Besides, the log began to tip. Where he stood it sank deeper and deeper, and with a splash of the filthy mire the other end shot into sight. Cody had to leap to the middle of the stick quickly to save himself from toppling over completely into the mud. There he wavered a moment until he caught his balance, and then, with grimness, looked about for escape.

He couldn’t hope for any help. Indeed, he would have been more troubled than delighted to see any other person than himself in this swamp at just this moment. The matter of the pay-chest rested heavily on his mind. However he escaped from this situation it must be by his own exertions, and those alone.

To try to wade to a more solid spot was to court possible extinction. To sink slowly into this muck and be smothered by it was a horrible thought. It chilled even the scout’s blood!

And, meantime, the log was sinking steadily. Inch by inch it was being submerged, and the mire was crawling up Buffalo Bill’s boot-legs.

The swamp was quite heavily wooded, so he was hidden from the view of anybody on the eminences around about. And, as he cast a worried glance about at the heights in fear that he might have attracted attention, he suddenly beheld the end of a tree branch almost over his head.

“Ah!” exclaimed he, and his eyes glistened as he followed the trend of this branch with their glance.

Of course, the branch was altogether too slight above his head to bear his weight, even could he reach it. But it promised something. He glanced along its length several times to the parent trunk some twenty feet away, and then began operations. There was, indeed, no time for him to lose, for the log was a good bit under the surface of the dimpling mud by this.

The fronded end of the branch was much too high for him to reach it with his hands; nor could he pull it down with his gun. Indeed, he got rid of that implement at once—it only weighed him down into the mire the faster—by tossing it into a crotch of the branch, where it fortunately chanced to catch and hang. He removed his belt, slipped the cartridges into the side pockets of his coat, tied his handkerchief to one end of the belt to make it longer, and then fastened one of his pistols to the handkerchief to weight the end. Swinging this weighted line, he cast the pistol about the small twigs above his head. The weapon caught in them, and gradually he drew the end of the branch down within the grasp of his hands.

He held this and fastened on his belt and gun again, buttoning his pockets so as not to lose his ammunition. The end of the branch was a bushy fan of small twigs and leaves. He could pull it down into the mud, and the green wood was tough and strong; but there was a big chance, when he bore any weight upon it, of the limb tearing off at the trunk.

However, swarming up this branch seemed the only way of escape from the smothering mud which already was as high as his knees. Its suction was terrific, too. When he flung himself forward on the branch he could scarcely drag his boots out of the mire.

But he fought on desperately, dragging up first one booted foot and then the other, and, although the limb cracked and he lay almost flat in the mud at first, he finally wormed his way up the branch to its bigger part. There he straddled it and waited to get his breath, and to scrape off some of the mud.

“A little more,” he puffed, “and I’d have gone down in that, and nobody would have been the wiser. Ah!”

He halted in his speech and stared down into the mud. An idea had smitten him, and he turned it over and over in his mind while he worked his way along the limb and descended to the foot of the tree.

He returned as quickly as possible to the edge of the swamp, and was contented thereafter to follow the trail of the redskins direct. No more short cuts! He found in time that his early suspicions had been correct. The trail led to the head of the gorge, and he was bound to believe that the murderers were some of Oak Heart’s Sioux.

“Boyd Bennett will learn of the hold-up inside of twenty-four hours—if not sooner. It’s up to me to hide that money where he won’t be able to find it.”

With this decision uppermost in his mind, he put into practise the idea that had been suggested to him as he sat on the tree branch. Returning to the temporary hiding-place of the money, he carried the chest to the edge of the swamp, endeavoring to leave as little trail as possible as he went. He had brought his lariat with him, and when he reached one of the most treacherous-looking pools of mud, he fastened the lariat about the box and lowered it into the depths. The quagmire sucked the box out of sight almost instantly.

Then Cody tied the end of the lariat to a tree-root under the surface of the muck, and so effectually disposed of the treasure where nobody but himself—or some person whom he guided—could find it. He returned to the scene of the hold-up and prepared to get away with the driverless stage instantly.

He placed the dead man inside the stage, tied Chief to one of the leaders, and, mounting to the box, drove hurriedly along the trail.

Being alone, he could not drive the horses and guard the treasure, too; so he had hidden it, intending to bring back a file of troopers from the fort later and pick it up.

He had not driven two miles along the trail when, loud and threatening, rose a voice from the rocks beside the road, which uttered these significant words:

“Live or die—yours the choice! Up with your hands there!”

CHAPTER XVI.
THE BANDITS OF THE OVERLAND TRAIL.

It was Buffalo Bill’s choice to live just then, so he drew rein. He knew from whom the command came, too, just as well as he knew that resistance would be useless.

“Up with your hands, or die! Come, take your choice, Buffalo Bill!”

The threatening words were repeated, as Buffalo Bill had simply reined the horses to a halt and still grasped the lines. He saw at a glance that bandits had sprung to the heads of his leaders, while he was covered by the revolver in the hand of Boyd Bennett himself. With no change of expression the scout said:

“As you seem to hold trumps in this game, Bennett, up go my hands.”

He gave the reins a turn around the lantern, and Buffalo Bill coolly raised his hands above his head to the apparent relief of the outlaws at the horses’ heads, for they seemed to have feared that, after all, he might resist. They knew that, if he had chosen to die fighting, some of them would have bitten the dust first.

“You have acted wisely, Buffalo Bill, and I am glad to see that even you can be cowed when you’re in a tight place,” laughed Boyd Bennett.

“We won’t discuss that part of the proposition,” said Cody coolly. “I’m anxious to get on, so don’t detain me with philosophical remarks.”

“Ah—indeed! In a hurry, are you?”

“I am, Bennett; in a mighty hurry.”

“Well, wait a bit. Go slowly. You’ve got something on that stage I want—though I didn’t expect to see you driving it.”

“No?”

“But you make as good a driver as any—and you give up just as easy,” and Boyd Bennett laughed again.

“Well, what is it you want?”

“The gold-box you carry.”

“You’ve got me, old man,” said Buffalo Bill easily. “Guess again.”

“Don’t play with me, Cody, or I’ll have your life.”

“What’s the use of shooting me if you’re not going to make anything out of it?” demanded the scout calmly.

“I am determined to have that paymaster’s chest.”

“Oh, sho! that’s your game, is it?”

“It is.”

“And you think I’ve got it?”

“I know it’s on this stage-coach.”

“Come, now, what’ll you bet?” drawled Cody easily.

“What are you waiting for, Cody?” demanded the outlaw angrily. “I know you’ve got it. Shell out!”

“You know a lot, Bennett.”

“I know the gold is there.”

“You’re mistaken.”

“I am not. I had a friend who saw it put on board. You’ve got it, and I intend to possess it.”

“Go ahead and possess,” drawled the scout.

“Don’t you trifle with me, Cody! I know you wouldn’t have been put up to drive this old hearse if the soldiers’ money was not aboard.”

“Say! you know a whole lot, Bennett. D’ye mind if I smoke?”

“Keep your hands up!” roared Bennett; “or I’ll puncture you!”

“Thanks! You needn’t be so gruff about it. Didn’t know tobacco smoke was so offensive to you.”

“Hand down that box before I count three, or you’re a dead man!” commanded the robber with deadly significance.

“You keep well posted, Bennett; but you’re behind time on this run.”

“What do you mean?” asked the startled road-agent, beginning to suspect that Buffalo Bill’s ease of manner masked some high card in the game.

“The coach has already been robbed.”

“You lie!”

Buffalo Bill’s brows met in a sudden frown.

“You’ve got the drop on me, Bennett, or you’d never question my word aloud.”

“You do lie.”

“Open the coach door and look for yourself.”

“Not for Joe! I’m no spring chicken, Cody,” laughed the outlaw. “Set a trap for us, have you? Men! fire through that coach—low down.”

Half a dozen or more rifles blazed away. The bullets shattered the sashes of the coach doors and went through and through the vehicle.

“Scared at nothing, are you?” taunted Buffalo Bill. “If I’d come up behind you on a dark night and hollered ‘Boo!’ I suppose you’d all run.”

“Men! if he moves, kill him!” commanded the exasperated Bennett, and he stepped forward and flung open the coach door.

Even Boyd Bennett started at what he beheld there.

“The devil! what does this mean, Cody?”

“Injuns.”

“How did you escape?”

“Wasn’t with the coach.”

“And the treasure-box?”

“Look for yourself.”

“The Indians got it?”

“Whether they did or did not, you lose the game, Bennett,” said Buffalo Bill, laughing with an appearance of heartiness which he did not feel.

“I don’t believe they got it!” cried Bennett, in rage.

“Well, you can run along and ask ’em. They’re not over a dozen miles away, I reckon.”

The countenance of Boyd Bennett grew black with passion, and for a moment he was silent, while into his eyes crept an expression of devilish intent. Then he spoke, and his words hissed from a throat hot with passion:

“Buffalo Bill, you have sealed your doom by this act!”

“Say! I’ve heard talk like that before, Bennett.”

“Mine are no idle words.”

“Well, go on with the dance,” quoth the scout coolly.

“Here!” commanded the bandit chief, “two of you men get up on the box and bind him.”

He was obeyed at once, as far as the climbing to the box went, although the fellows approached the scout gingerly enough. Buffalo Bill sat smiling, with his hands still raised above his head. Suddenly, as the men were about to seize him, and their bodies in some measure intervened between his own and the rifles and pistol pointed at the scout, the latter seized both with iron grip.

Giving his war-whoop, the scout leaped up, hurled one of the road-agents to the ground, and with the other in his arms leaped from the box of the coach. As they alighted, Buffalo Bill drew a revolver, and was throwing it forward to fire at the outlaw chief, when the weapon was knocked from his hand by a blow from behind, and several of the bandits threw themselves upon him.

“For your lives, do not kill him!” shouted Bennett, springing forward to join in the fight for the mastery of the scout.

Borne down by the weight of numbers, Buffalo Bill was unable to break from his foes, and he was soon securely bound, hand and foot. Then the bandits turned to their chief for further orders. The expression of fiendish cruelty upon Bennett’s face showed that he had formed some diabolical plot to avenge himself upon his old-time foe. He believed that Buffalo Bill had thwarted him in his desire to get the government money; and, anyway, there was an old score between them, and Bennett proposed to square the account to date!

“Now drag him up to that box again,” ordered the bandit leader, and with some effort they accomplished it.

“Lash him there!” was the next command, and the scout was securely tied to the seat.

“Now throw the reins loosely over the foot-board!”

This order was likewise obeyed, Buffalo Bill the while looking calmly on, evidently anticipating the crime his enemy intended, yet uttering no word. He would not plead for his life of the miserable cur who now had him in his power.

Having executed their work, by lashing Buffalo Bill with lariats firmly to the box seat and his feet to the foot-board, the outlaws turned to their cruel captain for further orders. It was at this moment that Buffalo Bill took occasion to speak; but his voice was calm and his manner unshaken:

“Hold on, Bennett, before you go too far!”

The bandits’ chief turned with a wicked smile, and asked:

“With what do you threaten me, Bill Cody?”

“The worst fate that ever met mortal man, if you dare commit the deed you have in view,” was the bold reply.

“Dead men tell no tales!”

“Ah, but they do! It is only the fool that says ‘It is all over!’ when his enemy is dead by his hand. It is not over. It has only begun! My fate will become known; a hundred border men will not rest till they learn who committed this deed; and then a thousand men will not rest till vengeance is satisfied!”

“Bah! Your friends might be bad men to meet, I’ve no doubt—if they could prove anything.”

“They’ll prove enough. Your fate will be worse than mine, Boyd Bennett.”

“You seem to be cock-sure of what I’m going to treat you to?” said Bennett.

“I am.”

“Well, what is it?”

“You propose to lead the horses to yonder fork of the trail, turn them loose, and start them down Breakneck Hill.”

“Right! Right, by thunder!” roared the road-agent, slapping his thigh and laughing. “You are a mighty good guesser, Buffalo Bill. That is exactly what I shall do.”

CHAPTER XVII.
A FRIEND IN NEED.

If Buffalo Bill’s face paled he showed no other mark of fear. He knew Boyd Bennett, and had every reason to believe that the man hated him desperately enough to carry out his awful threat.

It was no bluff on the outlaw’s part to frighten him into giving up the secret of the hidden government money. To a man like Bennett, whose temper was ungovernable, revenge was worth more than treasure. He did not even ask the scout where he had hidden the treasure-box.

“I haven’t forgotten, my handsome plainsman, that once you captured me and sent me to the guard-house. I swore to be revenged upon you then.”

“You deserved what you got—you dirty deserter!” exclaimed Buffalo Bill.

The outlaw leader shrugged his shoulders and turned to his men.

“All ready?”

“He’s hard and fast, captain.”

“Unfasten that splendid horse he was riding. I need just such an animal in my business.”

They untied Chief from the leaders.

“Buffalo Bill, straight for the Breakneck you go. And if these horses don’t carry you down fast enough to smash this old coach to atoms and break your cursed neck, I’ll give up this business and turn parson!”

“You’ll never have time to repent of your sins and turn parson, Bennett,” said the scout.

“Meaning I’ll die with my boots on?” asked the outlaw lightly.

“Meaning you’ll be hung,” returned Buffalo Bill.

“Don’t you put too much confidence in that, old man,” said Bennett. “At least, you won’t be to my hanging.”

“There’s many a slip, you know,” said the scout tauntingly.

“I presume you hope to be rescued even now, do you not?” cried Bennett.

But Buffalo Bill did not expect that. He had taunted the man, hoping to inspire him with such ungovernable fury that he would shoot him quickly and so save him the awful ride to death. Even the boldest man might shrink from that journey down Breakneck Hill!

“No, no, old man! You are mine this time. I tell you that you, the horses, and the old hearse, shall all go to the devil together. Here, boys! lead the horses to yonder fork of the roads and there turn them loose!”

The command was obeyed. Whether the other outlaws desired Buffalo Bill’s death as their leader did, he had such a hold upon them that not one objected to the mode of vengeance to be wreaked upon the scout. The horses were led to the brink of the steep hill. It had once been the stage-road; but a landslide, and various heavy rains, had made it impracticable. It was almost as steep as the side of a house in places, and the roadway was full of boulders and stumps, while the gulleys made by heavy rains cut through it in many spots. A careful pack-animal might pick its way from top to bottom safely; but no vehicle could exist in a passage down Breakneck Hill.

The hill was not a continuous decline. It pitched sharply at first; then there was nearly a quarter of a mile of easy going along a plateau until there came the final and impassable descent into the valley.

“Now, Buffalo Bill, your life ends here!” cried Bennett savagely.

“All right, Bennett! And the boys won’t forget how I died,” was the reckless response.

“Turn ’em loose!” shouted the bandit leader.

The men at the bits sprang aside. The horses, having stood so long, and “smelling their oats” ahead of them, were eager to be off. With a great tug the coach started, the harness clattering about the horses’ heels almost immediately as the coach pitched over the rise. This, and the shouts and yells of the outlaws, frightened the poor brutes. They felt no restraining hand on the lines; there was no foot on the brake. The coach was coming down behind them with all its weight.

Therefore the horses leaped away, frightened beyond reason. The old coach bumped and swayed. The rough, steep pitch was not long, but it looked as though the coach would not arrive at the bottom of this first incline without being smashed.

Down it thundered, the wheels bumping, the body swaying, and the bound figure, on the seat unable to retard it in the least. Behind thundered the big white horse, for, breaking away from its captors, Chief intended to follow his master to the death!

Not far away from the scene of the hold-up of the stage-coach by the outlaws, and near the time that the coach and horses were released upon this dangerous dash down Breakneck Hill, a horseman was crossing a table-land, one side of which was formed by the steep wall of the bluff down the face of which the old stage-road led.

Though alone upon the table-land, far in the rear other horsemen were visible upon his trail. At first glance one might have thought that it was a chase, the man in front being pursued by the score or so of men behind him; but a second scrutiny would have shown that it was merely the difference in horse-flesh and human endurance that caused the long space to separate the leader and his followers.

The lone horseman was dressed in a cavalry fatigue uniform with pants tucked in boots, a slouch-hat pinned up with a pair of crossed sabers, and a gold cord encircling the hat, while upon the shoulders of his jacket were straps showing his rank to be that of a first lieutenant in the United States Army.

His face was stern for so young a man, but there were humorous lines about his smoothly shaven lips, and fun danced in the corners of his eyes. Despite the hard brown of his countenance, that must have begun to be tanned by the Western sun and wind at an early age, there was a kindly appearance about the young lieutenant.

He was armed with a cavalry sword and a pair of service pistols. One gauntleted hand rested on his sword-hilt as his horse galloped along. He was several miles ahead of his men, who were now scarcely more than black specks against the horizon.

“Kinder risky to ride so far ahead, I suppose,” he was muttering. “Bill would tell me that. By thunder! if I’m attacked on this plateau I can fight—or run—I hope. There’s little cover hereabouts for either Indians or road-agents. And the latter gentry don’t usually care to tackle Uncle Sam’s cavalry.”

Suddenly the silence about him was shattered by distant yells and several rifle-shots. He glanced back. Nothing was happening to his men. The sound came from ahead. Again he heard shouts and shots, and after that the ring of horses’ hoofs and the rumble of heavy wheels.

“By thunder! a hold-up!” he gasped. “And those weren’t Indian yells. The stage-coach, I’ll bet! Yet the coach wouldn’t take the old road yonder. Why! It couldn’t come that way! It would be surely wrecked.”

Yet, although the shouts and rifle-shots died away, the sound of the wheels and the hammering of the horses’ hoofs increased. Some heavy vehicle, drawn by several horses, was coming down the Breakneck Hill road!

The lone horseman, who had halted at the first sound, now set spurs to his mount again. He headed directly across the plateau. The stage-road was just below the brink of the precipitous slant not many rods away, and toward this place the lieutenant hurried.

“It is the stage!” he cried. “The miscreants have turned it down the old road. There’s a level bit below here for some rods; but if it crosses that and goes down the other descent—well! God help them if there is man, woman, or child aboard!”

He reached the brink of the steep descent to the level stretch of the old road. Down the first dip was tearing six frightened steeds with the old stage-coach swaying and bounding behind them. And in the rear a riderless white horse was racing after the coach!

That horse the lieutenant recognized.

“That’s Cody’s mount—it is, by thunder! What’s it doing here? And where’s Bill?”

There was not another horse like Chief on the frontier; but the stage was too far away for the young man to recognize the figure swaying on the coach seat.

“They’re running away, and the driver’s lost his nerve!” exclaimed the cavalryman.

Then he raised his voice, shouting in trumpet tones:

“Put on your brake! drag hard on your lines, man, or you are lost!”

The six horses, keeping their feet almost miraculously, bounded out upon the level stretch. They did not hold back in the least. They were maddened with fear now, and were headed straight for the second descent. On that hill they would quickly come to grief. No power could save them.

Again the astonished cavalryman yelled his warning to the man on the driver’s seat of the coach. His words seemed to reach the man’s ears. He made no move to seize the lines or retard the mad course of the horses, but in clarion tones came back the answer:

“I am bound! I cannot stop them! Shoot!”

Perhaps the involuntary passenger on the doomed stage-coach meant for the young man to shoot him and so let him escape a more awful death. But no such intention had the lieutenant. The coach was coming toward him rapidly, and he obtained a clearer view of the bound man.

“Buffalo Bill, by the nine gods of war!” he shouted suddenly, recognizing his friend. “What in Heaven’s name does this mean?”

There was nobody to answer the query; but he saw that the man was indeed bound to his seat, and that the reins were loosely swinging, bound to the lantern. The brake was not on at all!

At this discovery the lieutenant sank his spurs into the flanks of his thoroughbred, and, with a wild snort of pain and anger, the horse leaped down the sharp declivity toward the piece of rough, but level roadway, over which the coach must come.

Yet half-way down the incline the lieutenant was smitten with a sudden thought, and he pulled hard on the bit. The thoroughbred lay back on his haunches and slid. The rider seized one of his guns and cocked the weapon.

“Now, Dick Danforth, prove your fame as a dead shot,” he muttered. “For if ever true marksmanship was needed, it is now to save yonder brave man from death!”

CHAPTER XVIII.
THE RACE WITH DEATH.

The young officer’s face was stern, yet calm. No nerves had he, and, although so much depended upon his work of the next few moments, he was certainly cool. His eyes only flashed, showing the excitement that bore him up.

He glanced at the pistol to see that all was right. Straight along the level the maddened horses came, the coach swaying behind them like a ship in a heavy sea. And behind it came Chief as though he hoped to do something for his imperiled master.

Dick Danforth was above the road, and, as he had pulled back his horse, the creature was fairly sliding down the steep incline, laying back on its haunches and bracing its forefeet to retard its progress.

Buffalo Bill could do nothing to help himself. Even had he been able to seize the reins at this moment and slam on the brake, he could not have brought the wild horses to a halt before the damage was done. It all depended upon Dick Danforth.

Far up the hill the keen eye of the officer descried a band of horsemen. They wore no uniforms, were not in buckskin, and were not Indians. He understood who they were at once. He knew that Buffalo Bill had been sent to his doom by the bandits of the overland trail.

“But, by thunder! we’ll fool ’em!” muttered the young officer.

Almost instantly his finger touched the trigger of the pistol, and the flash and report followed. With perfect presence of mind he had made his calculations. Did he kill one of the leaders it would throw the other horses upon him, and the stage would be wrecked after all, and Buffalo Bill doubtless killed.

Did he kill one of the wheel-horses instead it would act as a drag on the others, and still be borne along at a slackening speed, until its mate could be brought down. This he had aimed to do and—he succeeded!

With the crack of the first shot the off-wheeler dropped, the stage swayed forward sideways, and then was dragged on, with the dead horse, yet at a slackened pace.

With the second shot the other wheel-horse stumbled, staggered, half-fell, regained its feet again, and finally went down heavily. Again the coach swayed badly; but the stout pole was kept up by the pressure of the draft of four horses upon it, and the heavy breast chains and traces held the two dead animals firmly attached to it, both acting as a powerful drag upon the others, and retarding their speed to a slow gallop.

Dick Danforth let his mount out, came down the remainder of the run with a rush, and on the level reached the leader’s heads. He seized the bridle of the nearest horse and dragged him to one side, almost throwing him. The horse broke step and pulled its mate down. In a minute all four were brought up standing—and not an instant too soon, for the brink of the second and more perilous part of the hill was right before them!

The horses were still in a nervous state; but Dick Danforth could trust his own mount. He placed the horse he rode in front of the leaders, leaped from the saddle, and left the bridle-reins hanging over his horse’s head. While they remained thus nothing less than an earthquake, or a volcanic eruption, would make the horse move out of his tracks—and the coach-animals could not pass him.

“Quick, Danforth! As you are alone you’d best get out of here quick. Here come my foes!” cried Buffalo Bill, glancing back.

Boyd Bennett and his men, all mounted now, were picking their way down the hill, intent upon overtaking Buffalo Bill again and his lone rescuer. But Dick Danforth was not the man to fly and leave a comrade in peril. His escort was as yet a long way off, he knew; Buffalo Bill was bound too tightly for quick release, and could not aid in beating back the bandits.

Danforth ran directly toward the coach, nevertheless. Along came Chief at an easy lope, and he caught the horse. He saw that Cody’s loaded pistols were in the holsters. He snatched them out, and climbed quickly up to the box seat.

By then the bandits had begun to fire. But, without replying, and while the lead whistled about their heads like hail, the lieutenant slashed the cords which held Buffalo Bill’s hands in limbo.

“Grab these and let the sons-of-guns have ’em, Cody!” yelled the excited officer, thrusting his own pistols into the scout’s hands.

Then he flung himself forward upon his face along the coach top, and, dragging his own guns from his boots, into the tops of which he had dropped them, he began to blaze away at Boyd Bennett and his gang with such good success that almost instantly the leader was wounded and another man was dropped out of his saddle. Buffalo Bill began to fire rapidly, too, being able to twist the upper part of his body about and take aim.

With two such dead shots against the robbers, the latter had little stomach for the battle. Besides, the scoundrels saw Danforth’s hat, and one yelled:

“Look out, boys! the troopers are on us!”

And already the thunder of the squadron of cavalry on the plateau above reached their ears. Their leader having disappeared in such a hurry, the cavalrymen had come up rapidly, and now heard the firing of the guns below.

“Hold, men! fly for your lives!” shouted the voice of Boyd Bennett.

He wheeled and larruped his horse up the hill. Before the troopers reached the brink of the bluff above the coach, the robbers were out of sight.

“You’re all right, old man!” yelled Danforth, in huge delight, smiting Cody on the back.

“Thanks to you, Dick.”

“Who was your particular friend yonder—the fellow with the mustache and the black hair?”

“Boyd Bennett.”

“By the nine gods of war! Too bad I didn’t settle his hash instead of just stinging him.”

“Too bad, indeed, Dick.”

“Are you hurt?”

“No. But you might cut my other ropes. I’d like to get off this blamed old ramshackle thing before she starts again. Those horses are still nervous.”

“Right you are, Bill!” cried the lieutenant, and while his men hurriedly made their way down the hill leading their mounts—and passing wondering remarks at the trail left on the hillside by the lieutenant’s horse—Danforth finished cutting Cody free.

While Cody related his adventure with the coach, the lieutenant’s men dragged out the dead horses and reharnessed the others. The dead soldiers and driver brought forth angry ejaculations from the troopers. Danforth and his men were out on scouting duty, and when the lieutenant heard of the hidden treasure-chest, he undertook the duty of getting it and bearing it and the stage-coach on to Fort Advance.

“You don’t need all your men for that, Dick,” the scout said. “Half your escort can take the coach and the treasure in. I’ve a long score to even up with Boyd Bennett, and I’m going to hit his trail right now. I have my horse and my weapons, and with you and a file of your men we ought to be able to handle the scoundrels if we have the luck to overtake them.”

“I’m agreeable, Cody,” declared the reckless lieutenant. “You haven’t any scruples about my shooting these road-agents if we come up with them?”

“What do you mean, lieutenant?” asked Cody curiously. “What’s the burn?”

“Why, you seemed to object to my potting that Injun gal, White Antelope.”

The scout’s face clouded, and he shook his head.

“Don’t jest over that, Dick.”

“Pshaw! I’m not jesting. I spotted her only this morning—and stayed my hand. Otherwise she would be walking behind my chariot.”

“White Antelope out this way?” exclaimed Cody wonderingly.

“She sure was.”

“Then there’s something afoot among the Sioux. We must look into this.”

“But first the road-agents?”

“Yes. First we’ll serve Boyd Bennett.”

CHAPTER XIX.
DANFORTH’S HAND IS STAYED AGAIN.

It was decided, however, that the entire troop would return with the stage-coach to the scene of the original hold-up. Although Bennett had been driven off so successfully by the bluecoats, Buffalo Bill feared that he might meet up with the scalping party that had killed the paymaster and his guard, and take his gang over to this spot to search for the pay-chest that he was so sure his old enemy, the scout, had hidden.

“We might have the luck to catch him on the ground. If not, we’ll pick up his trail as soon as we see a part of your men off with the coach and the treasure,” said Cody.

The four horses drew the empty stage up the hill with little difficulty, and, surrounded by the troop of cavalry, it rattled back along the trail to the gruesome spot where Cody had first seen it. There Danforth set his men afoot, and at several points of vantage, to watch the road and the valley behind the ridge, while he and the scout went down into the swamp for the treasure-chest.

They had one of the troopers follow them at a distance of a few rods. Their numbers were so few, and they were so scattered, that Danforth took every precaution against being ambushed. The day was waning, and they were obliged to hurry if they would fish out the chest and then pick up the trail of the outlaw gang before night. And Danforth was quite as eager as the scout to do this last.

When they got into the wood which masked the swampy ground they alarmed a big caribou, which started slowly in the very direction they were taking.

“That doesn’t look much as though there were either reds or whites lurking near,” muttered Cody.

“By Jove, Bill! I want a shot at that fellow,” exclaimed Danforth eagerly.

“He’s not going fast. Perhaps you can bring him down.”

“I’m going to try. There, he’s stopped to feed again. He’s a cheeky old cuss.”

“What you want him for? Your party is well provisioned.”

“The colonel will be glad of a haunch of caribou venison. He’s fond of it, and the flesh is good now.”

“All right, Dick. Take my gun. It’s better than yours.”

The eager young lieutenant seized the weapon and began creeping through the brush in the direction of the caribou’s flight. Cody came behind, not much interested in the game, having his mind more fixed upon the overtaking of Boyd Bennett. The hunt promised to be a brief one, however.

Fortunately the running buck had not diverted far from the straightaway course to the hiding-place of the treasure-box; otherwise Cody might have more strenuously objected. In a few minutes the two men came to a glade well dotted with trees, yet free for the most part of brush so that they could see some distance.

“Wait! isn’t that him, Bill?” whispered the young lieutenant.

“Your eyesight is good, Dick. Where?” asked the scout.

“Yonder. Beyond that low brush-clump.”

“Ah!”

“That’s sure him, Bill. Yes, sir! he’s facing this way. You can see his black breast and fore legs. Down, Bill! don’t show yourself,” whispered Danforth eagerly.

“Wait a moment. Better be sure, Dick,” muttered the scout, stooping and peering under the sharp of his hand toward the spot indicated.

“Gad! he’ll get away. Let me plug him.”

The light was so uncertain that, old and keen-eyed hunter that he was, Cody was not at all sure it was the caribou they saw.

“Don’t make a mistake, Dick,” he murmured.

“What mistake? The mistake of letting the critter git away?” cried the young man, exasperated.

“Many a man has been shot from overeagerness in the chase,” said the scout warningly.

“Why, that’s no man!”

“A big buck standing head on in the brush like this one, looks just like a man in black clothes—don’t you see?”

“It does look like a man,” admitted Danforth. “I’ll remember that, Bill. But we know well enough that this is a caribou.”

“Do we?”

“Of course! Confound you, Bill——”

Suddenly a sharp whistle issued from the scout’s lips. Dick Danforth swore out loud and jerked his gun to his shoulder. But the scout grabbed his arm.

“There’s your buck, Dick!” the older man exclaimed.

In a flash the figure beyond the glade moved and came into better view for an instant. It was not a deer at all, but a man—a gigantic figure, dressed in some rough black garment, and he was in view of the two friends for but a few seconds. Then he darted behind a tree.

“It’s a bear!” gasped Danforth. “I might have plugged him, anyway.”

“Get out! That’s no bear. It’s a man.”

“One of that gang?” whispered Danforth, suddenly more cautious.

“I—don’t—know——”

“Better have let me shot him, anyway,” grumbled the lieutenant.

“You bloodthirsty young savage! Be still.”

Suddenly the figure beyond the glade rushed from behind the tree and glided swiftly away through the timber. As he went he uttered a most eery scream, his voice floating back to them as he disappeared in the rapidly darkening forest.

“Well! what do you think of that?” gasped Danforth.

“Why, the man must be crazy!” exclaimed the scout. “That wasn’t Bennett or any of his crowd.”

“Nor a redskin.”

“Of course, it wasn’t a red. And a madman——”

“I’ve got it!” exclaimed the lieutenant suddenly. “That was the Mad Hunter.”

“Pshaw! do you believe there is such a person?”

“One of our old sergeants says he met him, and that the madman took a pot-shot at him,” declared the lieutenant.

“Well. I’ve heard of him myself.”

“And that chap was a big man, all right.”

“A giant.”

“And as crazy as a bedbug,” added Danforth decidedly.

“Don’t know how crazy they are; but this chap certainly acted as though he was a good subject for restraint. Ugh! did you ever hear such a yell?”

“I know you stopped me from making a very pretty shot, Bill,” laughed the youngster. “That’s the second time. The next time I’ll be tempted to turn my gun on you, old man.”

Cody became grave again the instant he was reminded of how Danforth had come near to shooting White Antelope, but he made no rejoinder. They hurried back to the edge of the swamp, and, leaving the cavalryman to watch, the scout and the lieutenant soon found the root to which Cody had tied the lariat, and, with some little difficulty, dragged the submerged box into view. There was a handle upon each end, and between them the two friends carried the chest back to the stage-coach. They loaded it aboard, one of the troopers tied his horse behind and took the reins, and four rode before and behind the coach as guard. Just as dusk fell the paymaster’s chest resumed its journey to Fort Advance, with the dead bodies of its former unfortunate guardians.

CHAPTER XX.
A DOUBLE CAPTURE.

Lieutenant Danforth and the bulk of his squad attended Buffalo Bill on his search for the gang of outlaws. As soon as the coach was well on its way, they rode to the spot where Boyd Bennett and his men had left the trail, and, despite the fact that it was rapidly growing dark, they picked up the hoofmarks of the renegades’ horses and followed them rapidly for some miles.

Although the sky was clear and there was a long evening, the party of trailers could not keep on for long. They got well into the hills; but the tracks of the outlaw gang showed that Bennett had kept on at a swift pace, and it was utterly useless for the troop to wear out their own mounts and possibly miss the trail itself after dark.

“It’s a long chase, as a stern chase always is, Dick,” said the scout. “We might as well make up our minds to that, first as last.”

“So I suppose, Bill.”

“But as long as we’re once on the scoundrel’s trail, I’ll stick to it to the end,” said Cody grimly. “Better rest up the men and horses and make an early start.”

“Right you are. How’s yonder place for a camp?”

“In among those rocks—yes. We can set sentinels on the top of them. Nobody can approach us then.”

“All right. Too bad I didn’t drop that caribou. A little fresh meat would have been agreeable.”

“No smoke, boy. Can’t afford to make a fire. We’re not only following some pretty shrewd white men, but we’re in the Injun country.”

“Thunder!”

“Cold fodder to-night,” said the scout firmly.

“Well. My orderly always packs a small spirit-lamp. He can make shift to get us all a cup of coffee,” said Danforth, and he proceeded to give the necessary orders, and the troop was soon bivouacked for the night.

The horses, well hobbled, grazed within bowshot of the camp, and a sentinel placed so as to overlook them where they were on the plain. No wily enemy might approach them without the watcher, if he be sharp-eyed, seeing the marauder. Yet Buffalo Bill did not altogether trust to the watchfulness of the troopers.

He was in need of rest, and he rolled up in his blanket and left Danforth to smoke his pipe alone, early in the evening. But when the midnight watch turned out the old scout arose like a specter, spoke to the corporal in charge, and stole out of the camp. Knowing the avarice of Boyd Bennett and suspecting that of his men, he felt sure that they would not give up so easily the chance of finding and appropriating the pay-chest which Captain Hinkley had lost his life to defend.

In the first blush of the attack by the troopers, the outlaws had broken and fled. But they would recover their nerve. They might be joined by some of Oak Heart’s braves, with whom Cody knew Bennett fraternized. They might even hear the full particulars of the Indians’ hold-up of the stage, and be more confident than ever of the fact that Cody had hidden the treasure.

The scout believed that, as he and Danforth had moved so quickly, the coach with its present guard would get through in safety to Fort Advance. It was probably there by this time, in fact. But Bennett and his men might come back to see what was really being done by the troopers, and they would be sure to fall upon the bivouac. Therefore, the scout was on the alert.

He made a complete circuit of the camp, but out of sight and gunshot of the sentinels. He did not care to furnish a target for his own friends. Having agreed with the corporal on a signal, he would not come in without sounding it, and so warning the bluecoats of his return.

However, he found no sign of an enemy, although he spent an hour and a half in creeping about the vicinity. And this very fact amazed and somewhat troubled him. He could not imagine Bennett under ordinary circumstances flying from an enemy without sending back a scout to learn if the trail was not being followed. Cody was dissatisfied. He feared that the reason he had not discovered such a scout was because it was some person more wily than himself!

No white man could be that. Ordinarily Buffalo Bill would pitch his own cunning against a redskin’s, too; but in this case, if there was an Indian creeping about the camp, he would have the advantage over the Border King. He might have crawled to the summit of some hill and from that vantage overlook the encampment of Uncle Sam’s troops.

Having encircled the encampment, Buffalo Bill was undecided whether to return to the bivouac—his blanket beckoned him—or to once more make the circle. Suddenly he heard Chief whinny loudly. There was some activity among the horses; but the scout heard the sentinel’s voice and knew that the mob of animals would not stampede. But his own mount screamed again—angrily.

“By thunder!” muttered the Border King. “That means one thing, and one thing only. Chief smells a redskin—or more than one!”

Yet he did not start down into the encampment to arouse the men. The horses quieted down, and there was no further warning from the big white horse. The scout, however, glided out upon the plain, taking advantage of the shadow of every bush and boulder, and so stood beside the soldier watching the herd. He came so suddenly that the man was startled and grunted:

“Holy Jo, Cody! You give me a start.”

“See what an Injun might do to you.”

“Not much. I’d smell the prowling devils,” said the trooper confidently.

“What was the matter with my horse?”

“That white fellow?”

“Yes.”

“Dunno. Just squealed.”

Cody thought to himself: “Well, your smelling powers are not equal to Chief’s. He certainly got the taint of redskin on the air.”

Aloud the scout asked:

“Which way was the horse headed when he squealed—did you notice?”

“Just about as he is now. What’s the matter?”

“Humph! didn’t know but the horse was sick,” replied Cody dryly, and he walked through the herd till he stood beside Chief.

“So, boy! what’s the matter?” he said soothingly, smoothing the horse’s muzzle.

Chief whinnied softly; his fright was passed. Suddenly the sentinel, who had idly followed Cody’s movements with his glance, became aware of the fact that the scout had disappeared! It was not a dark night, and the plain was open; but the scout was gone as completely as though he had been suddenly wiped out of existence!

“Well, I’ll be switched!” grunted the surprised trooper, stepping forward, and then stopping again. “I could have swore that feller stood by his hoss a minute ago.”

And he was right on that point, of course. But Buffalo Bill had slipped the lariat from his saddle-bow and suddenly dropped into the grass at his horse’s feet. Chief began to crop the grass again, and paid no attention while his master crept away from the herd. Cody knew that the light breeze had brought but a single whiff of Indian to the horse’s nostrils. The redskin could not be far away.

He crept across the plain and finally reached rising ground, where clumps of brush and an occasional tree offered shelter. He had been over this ground before, but he knew that some prowling enemy had been here more recently. He remained almost flat upon the ground and gazed all about him, seeking to see the silhouette of any lurking figure against the sky.

And in this he was successful. At first he overlooked it, believing it to be a tree. Then he saw it move slightly, and finally made out the body of a tall man standing beside a sapling, some distance up the hill. Eagerly the scout crawled up the slope, and finally gained a point above and beyond the stationary figure.

Before he could accomplish more, however, the figure he had watched so carefully suddenly stepped away from the tree. He heard a guttural voice grunt the single syllable:

“Ugh!”

For an instant Cody feared his own presence had been discovered. Then he saw what had drawn the ejaculation from the redskin. A second figure had appeared on the hillside. Cody lay behind a boulder and watched the two men approach each other. There was a rapid interchange of guttural observations in the Sioux tongue. Two scouts were reporting to each other what they had discovered about the bivouac and the numbers of the pony soldiers there encamped.

For all he knew there might be a big party of reds within call. He scarcely believed so, considering how the reds hate to travel by night; but the presence of these scouts suggested, at least, that Boyd Bennett had influence enough over the tribesmen to send these two back to do his dirty work.

However, the scout was minded to make a bold play.

He rose up softly from behind the boulder. The Indians’ backs were half-turned to him, and their heads were very close together while they whispered softly. Cody poised himself, and, judging his distance, began to circle his rope—which he had brought with him on the chance of tying up a prisoner—carefully.

Swish!

The serpentine loop hurtled over the heads of the redskins, and—dropped! There were two startled screams, both of which were choked off instantly.

The scout flung himself backward and drew the horsehair noose taut. It had caught one Indian around the neck and over the shoulders, and the other had but one hand free. The first jerk yanked both off their feet and held them together with such firmness that they could not rise or stretch the loop. They were like one enraged animal, struggling and lashing out upon the ground!

Buffalo Bill ran in, wound the slack of the line about their writhing bodies and about their legs. In a couple of minutes they were so mixed up with that rope that it was hard to tell which Indian was which!

CHAPTER XXI.
THE CAVE IN THE MOUNTAIN.

Now, despite the excitement of the moment, Cody noticed one fact that delighted him. The two entangled Indians did not cry out. After the first involuntary grunt, neither uttered a yell of rage or despair, and this proved a point in the scout’s favor. There were no other redskins near at hand!

Had there been, a war-whoop from the struggling scamps would have been quite in order. But as they were evidently scouting with their main party at some distance, they were mighty careful about raising a racket and so bringing the soldiers up the hill to the aid of their unknown enemy. As for the latter, Buffalo Bill, he was not in the habit of singing out for help—not even when the odds were greater against him than upon this occasion.

Having yanked the fellows back upon the ground twice, and pulling the lariat so taut that one Indian’s throat was almost cut, he taught the prisoners that he was master. He then, as shown, entangled their feet and legs, and so held them triced like a bale of hay.

Being sure of handling them now, he came close, lashed the end of his lariat, and removed their knives and tomahawks. They had dropped their guns at the moment of the attack, and these the scout gathered up, too.

Having made sure of the prisoners single-handed, the Border King walked composedly down toward the camp. The sentinel near the horses saw him coming and challenged:

“Who goes there?”

“It’s me, old man.”

“Ah! I thought ’twas you, Cody. Where’d you go to back there a spell? All of a sudden I lost you.”

“Why, I walked out to capture a couple of reds that were hanging about.”

“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed the man. “That’s a good one. I ain’t heard a thing to-night, have you?”

“My horse did.”

“What?”

“Chief heard, or smelled, reds. And I’ve got ’em tied up out yonder,” said Buffalo Bill coolly. “Call your corporal and have ’em brought in.”

“What’s that, Bill?” gasped the trooper.

“Call the corporal.”

“You don’t mean to say you’ve captured an Indian since you left me?”

“Two.”

“No!”

“I tell you I have,” said Cody, with some exasperation. “Here are their arms. Get a move on you!” The surprised and half-doubting trooper made so much noise arousing his immediate officer that the lieutenant was awakened, too. He came down with the corporal and two men and went out with Cody to bring in the reds. It was a fact that none of the soldiers really believed Cody had captured two redskins until they saw the captives writhing on the ground.

“And I wouldn’t have had ’em much longer if you fellows had stopped to chin any more. They’re most free,” said Cody.

“Bill, you’re a wonder,” declared Dick Danforth.

“Thanks. Bring ’em in. Let’s see who the scamps are.”

This was done, the fire was renewed, and those of the troopers who had been aroused gathered around in a respectful circle to hear their lieutenant and the scout put the two bucks through their catechism.

That they belonged to Oak Heart’s tribe was easy to learn; but beyond that the two young redskins were very non-committal. They had come scouting about the soldier camp for Death Killer, the new medicine chief of the Sioux; little else could the whites learn.

“Who the deuce is this Death Killer, Bill?” demanded Lieutenant Danforth.

“I’ve heard some whispers of him; but who he is I haven’t learned,” said Cody.

“Was he with the bunch that Oak Heart brought up against Fort Advance?”

“No.”

“That’s odd, isn’t it?”

“These medicine chiefs are mighty scarey of their safety. They never take many risks, you bet!”

“So Death Killer stayed at home and let his children fight the battle alone, eh?” remarked the lieutenant.

“Why, as to that, I believe the Sioux didn’t have this wonderful new chief at that time.”

“Is that so?”

“I met an Arapahoe, a friend of mine, who told me something about the medicine chief that Oak Heart had got. The Sioux believe that the next time they buck up against the whites, the medicine of this Death Killer will bring them the victory.”

This was said aside so that the two young Indians could not understand.

“What’ll we do with these fellows, Bill?” asked the young officer.

“Thunder! We don’t want any prisoners.”

“You mean to shoot them?”

“What’s the use? It will only mean bringing the whole tribe about our ears like a swarm of bees. While we’re hunting Bennett we don’t want the Sioux onto us, too.”

“You wouldn’t advise turning them loose?”

“Well, do you know a better way of getting rid of them?”

Danforth shook his head slowly.

“They certainly would be white elephants on our hands if we tried to hold them,” he admitted.

“Kick ’em out,” advised the scout.

“They’ll go back and report.”

“What can they report? That they found a bunch of troopers here camping on the trail of the white outlaws.”

“But suppose Bennett is hand and glove with the reds as you think?”

“Then we must run that risk. Here! let me talk with these young bucks alone,” suggested Cody.

The examination of the reds had been accomplished in English and by aid of the sign language. Now the scout spoke to them in their own tongue. He did not expect to win their confidence; but since they had discovered that no other than Pa-e-has-ka had so easily overcome them, they felt better in their minds.

Finally Cody unfastened them, filled their pouches with food, gave them back their weapons, and advised them to go back to their lodges.

“Let this medicine chief, Death Killer, come himself to learn our numbers and our intentions,” said the scout significantly. “Let him learn about us by his magic. If he is so great a medicine-man why does he not know these things by his magic power? Go, brothers; you have your lives at the hand of the Long Hair.”

The two young reds departed with unmoved countenances. If they felt gratitude they would not be likely to show it in the expression of their faces. That would be against Indian nature.

The camp being pretty thoroughly aroused now, and daybreak being near, the lieutenant ordered breakfast prepared. Buffalo Bill did not object to a fire being made now. Not only had their encampment been discovered by the reds; but the morning was so misty that the smoke would not rise high, anyway.

They went on after the meal, finding the trail of the outlaws difficult of following in some places, for it was apparent that an attempt had been made to cloud the trace. By mid-forenoon, however, they were deep in the hills, in a wild and gloomy country, and where every mile was perilous. They might be ambushed by the foe in almost any cut, and Cody kept the command back while he investigated every particularly ugly-looking defile. What report the two released Indians might make to their people had much to do with the safety of the expedition, too. For all the whites knew, the Sioux might be gathering to fall upon them!

Not a soul did they see on the trail; but they found the place where Boyd Bennett and his men had spent the night; and they noted marks which assured them that the outlaws had lit out that morning hurriedly. Evidently the approach of the troopers was feared by the renegades.

Before night, however, Cody called a halt in the forward movement. They were in the midst of peaks, and tall, chimneylike rocks where the timber was sparse and vegetation of any other kind becoming thin. Shelter was not easily obtained, and the trail had to be guessed at many times, the way was so rocky.

“I don’t like the look of this territory, Dick,” said the scout.

“Those fellows can’t be far ahead of us,” declared the eager lieutenant.

“I’m not so sure of that. They plainly know the way.”

“Well, they haven’t succeeded in fooling us much yet.”

“That may be; but they may fool us badly in the end.”

“Don’t croak, Bill; that isn’t like you.”

“I tell you, boy, we’re perhaps putting our necks into a noose. I’ve seen several smokes this afternoon. Now, if the Injuns join in with Boyd Bennett, and make common cause with him—well, where’ll we be?”

“Here, or hereabout,” grunted Danforth.

“And we’ll stay here, too! I vote we make an end of this quick.”

“Why, Bill, I thought you were so eager to follow Bennett up?”

“So I am. But I’m not as eager for meeting my finish as you seem to be.”

“Pshaw! you’re not afraid for yourself, Bill. I know you,” cried Danforth.

“I’ve got no right to run you into peril.”

“Forget me!”

“And you’ve no right to lead your troop into a pocket. What do you suppose your ‘kern’ will say?”

“Oh, shucks! I hate to give this up.”

“So do I, son. But we’ve got to.”

“You mean to start right back now?”

“You’re the doctor. I’m not in command,” said Cody.

“Hang it all, Bill! you are virtually in command, and you know it.”

“Well, you want me to advise?”

“Of course.”

“Then I say we’d better hunt a place to stop the night, and then light out for a more healthy country in the morning. I begin to feel that we’re being watched.”

“You feel so?”

“Sounds silly, doesn’t it, eh? But it’s so. And intuition has stood me in good stead before. There are foes near. We want to get shelter and prepare to receive them properly.”

Thus advised, Dick Danforth ordered his men to dismount, and they led their horses up into the rocky gorge Cody had chosen as a retreat. It would have been well for Danforth if he always so easily listened to the admonition of his elders and the better informed.

Just inside the gorge was a yawning cavern in the mountainside. Evidently Cody knew of this retreat, even had he never been over the ground before. He led his big white horse with satisfaction into the dusky interior.

“Hold on, Bill! The critters can’t feed in there,” Danforth objected, bringing his own animal to a stop.

“All right. We’ll have to cut brush for ’em to pick over. There’s no safe feeding ground outside.”

“But, hang it! how do we know who or what may be in that hole?”

“Chief says there are no Injuns here, that’s sure!” retorted the scout, laughing.

“But it may be a grizzly’s lair, or a cougar’s.”

“Nope. Old Chief would have made remarks about it. Come on, lieutenant.”

“Oh, I’m not afraid, if that’s what you mean!” grunted Dick Danforth, and with a nod to his file-leader, he followed the scout into the maw of the darksome cave.

CHAPTER XXII.
THE NIGHT PROWLERS.

The frontiersmen—those who were Buffalo Bill’s associates—mapped the mountains and plains of the West long before Uncle Sam’s exploration parties ever penetrated the wilderness. Cody had never been to this hole in the mountainside before, yet he knew all about it. Hunters and trappers—and some early gold-seekers—had told him of its existence. It had been considered “bad medicine” by the Indians who inhabited this section of the country before the Sioux had flowed over into the land, and Oak Heart’s people themselves kept away from it. The scout was pretty sure that they had a sufficiently strong fortress here to withstand any ordinary attack.

Besides, there was spring water in the cave, and, as he showed Danforth very quickly, something better still. As they advanced under the arched roof of the cavern, light appeared ahead.

“There’s another opening,” said Danforth.

“Looks like it.”

“Why, they can get at us from two directions, Bill!”

“Can they?”

“You’re blamed cool about it.”

“Might as well be cool as hot. We have got to take it as it comes.”

The light grew apace.

“What kind of a place is this, anyway?” cried the lieutenant.

“Come along, sir!”

“But the horses——”

“Bring the horses along, too. I reckon I haven’t mistaken the place. Here we are!”

As he spoke they came out into a roughly circular basin, surrounded completely by steep—aye, unscalable—rocks, but well grown to grass and bushes at the bottom. It was a veritable little pocket in the heart of the mountain. There was no escape from it, and no getting into it, excepting through the cave.

Chief kicked up his heels, snorted joyfully, and broke away from Cody’s detaining hand. The other horses followed, and the whole herd set to cropping the sweet grass in equine delight.

“Well, sir! This beats my time!” exclaimed Danforth.

“Guess we can stand a bit of a siege here, if necessary, eh?” queried Cody.

“That we could.”

Fire-wood was cut and brought into the cave and the meal started. Cody was not content to remain for long inactive, however. He slept while the meal was being prepared. After he had eaten, however, he left the camp, and in the gloaming made his way out and down into the valley from which they had retired, on the lookout for the enemy.

The worst of it was, he did not exactly know whether their white or red foes would be upon them first. The Sioux might attack—for they were now well into the Indian country—or Boyd Bennett and his gang might come back at them. If the latter, the troopers could handle the outlaws easily. But a horde of savages might give the troops a mighty pretty brush up here in the hills, so far away from reenforcements and a base of supplies.

The scout was careful to leave no trace himself, and when he reached the spot where the troopers had turned aside from the outlaw’s trail, he hid and watched, and waited, to see what or who might “turn up.” That it was about time for either the outlaws or the Indians to show their hand Cody was sure.

His judgment was good in this case, too. He had not been lying in wait an hour when he saw two mounted figures coming along the valley toward his station. Dark as it was down here, he could make out their outlines sufficiently to know that one was an Indian and the other was a white man. They came to the point where the troopers had diverged from Boyd Bennett’s trail, and there halted to whisper together.

From where he lay in the rocks, Cody could see the fire blazing in the mouth of the cave up in the gorge. He knew the men below him could see it, too. Writhing down the hill, like a serpent between the boulders, the scout reached a point where he could overhear something of what the Indian and the white man said.

“Return and bring them to this place. The hour must be no later than midnight,” the white man was saying in a commanding manner.

“It shall be as my brother says,” the redskin muttered.

“My men will advance and draw their first fire—perhaps get them out of the cave. You say there is no chance of getting in from the rear?”

“No Sioux would venture, if it were possible. That cavern was the abode of a great spirit at one time.”

“Ha! Very well. Do as I have bid you. You and your braves hold back if you must. But if we draw the badgers, we can count upon you to pitch in?”

“It is as my brother says.”

“All right! Off with you. I await my men here.”

The redskin twitched his pony’s head about, and rode softly away. After standing a moment in the path, the white man’s horse was turned out upon a bit of sward, and Cody knew that the fellow dismounted. He evidently proposed to remain near and watch the cave until reenforcements arrived.

And Cody knew the scoundrel. He had recognized the voice, and likewise by the fact that he held his left arm stiffly bound to his side, the scout knew that it was Boyd Bennett himself. Dick Danforth had indeed “stung” the robber. The bone of his left arm had been broken, and he could barely hold the reins with that hand.

Buffalo Bill was greatly tempted. Here was a chance for him to take his old enemy, single-handed. And did naught but personal vengeance enter into the affair, he would have made the attempt. But there was a brave opportunity of rounding up more of the gang, despite their affiliation with the redskins, and Cody resisted the temptation.

He made his way back to the cave, found most of the troopers already peacefully asleep, and Danforth anxiously awaiting his return.

“Well?” demanded the young lieutenant.

“We’re going to have visitors about midnight.”

“How’s that?”

“Mr. Bennett and his gang will make the attack; a set of thieving reds will stand off to pitch in if the whites can’t handle us.”

“Gee, Cody! how d’you know all that?”

Buffalo Bill told him.

“Why didn’t you shoot the bloody thieves?”

“And lose the chance of rounding up more of them?”

“They’ll be too many for us, I fear,” said Danforth, although without displaying any particular fear of such an outcome.

“They will certainly outnumber us—reds and all.”

“Nice prospect.”

“But forewarned is forearmed, eh?”

“Right you are, Bill! We have the advantage of knowing that they are coming, whereas they will labor under the disadvantage of believing we are unsuspicious.”

“Yes.”

“But hived up in this place——”

“We haven’t got to stay hived up,” interrupted the scout. “And we don’t want to.”

“You’ve got a plan, Bill?”

“I have.”

“State it, old man. You know well enough you don’t have to stand on ceremony with me.”

“This fire can be seen from below. Let it die down. Don’t let any fuel be flung on for some time. When it’s at the lowest we can lead our horses out without being seen.”

“Give up our shelter, Bill? And with a horde of redskins coming?”

“Sure. Let them attack an empty cave—but one that doesn’t look empty. The last man to leave can fling a pile of fuel on the fire and then slip away before it burns up brightly. So we’ll have ’em attacking an empty fortress while we are out here among the rocks ready to play heck with ’em!”

“I’m not afraid of the outlaws,” said Danforth slowly. “But the redskins——”

“Won’t come too near the cave; it’s bad medicine, as I told you.”

“But when they see that we’re outside——”

“Wait! We’ll lead the horses away along the trail we came over, and leave them in charge of one man. Then, when it gets too hot for us—if the reds pitch in—we’ll decamp. The reds won’t be too near, however. I know ’em. An Injun is as full of superstition as an egg is of meat.”

“Your plan looks good, Bill.”

“All right. Stop that fellow—quick! He’ll spoil it all.”

Danforth turned to see one of the guards advancing toward the fire with an armful of fuel. The lieutenant ordered him to desist and instructed his subordinate to let the fire die down. Then he and Cody rolled up in their blankets for an hour’s sleep.

CHAPTER XXIII.
MORE THAN THEY BARGAINED FOR.

When the lieutenant and scout were awakened, according to order, the camp became at once an exceedingly lively though quiet place. The men had their instructions in a low tone from Danforth. They led the horses into the cave from the rear, and, the fire being now merely a bed of glowing coals, the shadows of neither man nor beast were pricked out by the light from the fire.

Cody had slipped out and beaten the rocks and brush on the hillside before the mouth of the cavern. He found no lurking spy, but he went far enough to hear Boyd Bennett’s horse stamping in the valley. The outlaw was still there awaiting the coming of his men and of his redskin allies.

The scout hurried back and led the way with Chief, warning the troopers to smother any desire on their mounts’ part to whinny if they smelt the strange horse in the valley. The scout had picked out a path around the swell of the mountain, between the rocks and ledges, and, although it was a roundabout way, it was sod-covered for most of the distance, and they were enabled to lead their mounts away without an appreciable sound. Like a file of shadows they passed around the mountain and down into the lowlands. There the horses were tethered and left in the care of a single soldier. The others hurried back to positions near the mouth of the cave, to await the expected attack of the outlaws.

Divided as their forces had been, by sending the stage and treasure on to Fort Advance, Danforth’s squad now numbered less than the gang of outlaws. And, in addition, Boyd Bennett would have at his back a party of bloodthirsty savages. It was a ticklish position, and none understood that better than the Border King, Buffalo Bill.

Strategy was the scout’s best card under these circumstances. He knew the quality of the gang whom Boyd Bennett had gathered about him. They were ignorant, superstitious scoundrels, and, therefore, he ventured to play upon their fears as well as to lay a close ambush for them.

To approach the mouth of the cave in which the fire now burned brightly necessitated the foe advancing up a sidehill into the mouth of the gulch under the shelter merely of low brush and boulders, with here and there a stunted tree, the roots of which had found fixture between the rocks. Higher up the mountain, and upon both sides of the gulch, were thicker forest.

Under Cody’s advice Danforth placed his men upon the side of the gulch opposite the cavern’s mouth, and outside the gulch itself, all positions selected being easy of access to the trail down which they had led their horses so cautiously. A more withering fire could have been arranged by placing the troopers upon both sides of the gorge; a cross-fire is always more galling and confusing to an enemy. But, then, there remained the danger of the reds rushing to the assistance of Boyd Bennett and his gang, and so those soldiers above the cave might be cut off from escape. Whatever happened, the mêlée was bound to be a sharp and quick one; it would be all over in a few moments.

Just outside the mouth of the gulch, and in advance of the line of hidden troopers, was a rather larger tree than most upon the lower hillside, and it had a low crotch from which sprang three branches. Cody saw that to approach the cavern’s entrance, the attacking force would be pretty sure to come close under this tree. Seeing this, he evolved—with the help of the corporal—a scheme which later added much to the excitement of the battle and came near to utterly routing the outlaw gang.

There was little time for preparation, however; already the hour grew close to midnight. Cody crept into the cave, showed himself in the firelight, threw on more wood, and then crept out again, so as to assure the watching Bennett below that the place was still occupied. Then the scout went down into the valley and watched and listened until his keen ear assured him that several ponies were being ridden rapidly toward the hiding-place of the bandit leader.

How many were coming—whether the reds were with the whites—Buffalo Bill did not know. Nor did he consider it well to wait to learn. That the attack would be made at once, he was sure. Boyd Bennett was not the most patient man in the world, and he had waited here long for his men to appear.

Cody found the lieutenant, and snuggled down beside him behind a brush-clump.

“By the nine gods of war, Bill! I thought you’d never come,” muttered Danforth. “I got as nervous as an old maid with her first beau, fearing that you wouldn’t get here in time to holler. I can imitate some critters—thanks to you and Jack Omohondreau: but when it comes to murdering the night air with the scream of a wildcat——”

“Sh!” breathed Cody. “They’re coming.”

Danforth became quiet. They were placed so that the entire sweep of the side-hill was before them. Several of the troopers were nearer the cave; several were behind the station of the lieutenant and the scout. All had their instructions regarding the withholding of their fire until a prearranged instant.

Soon Danforth beheld several flitting shadows below. A number of men were coming up the rocky slope; they had spread out and were approaching the cavern’s mouth without any regard to military formation. Several, however, were coming close to the forked tree which Cody had previously noted. That stood some yards in front, and a little below, where he lay with his friend, the lieutenant.

“All right, Bill!” whispered Danforth.

“Wait till I give the word,” breathed the scout. “Let some of them pass. We want every shot to count.”

A few moments more they waited. Several figures passed on up the hill, dodging from rock to rock, but all converging toward the mouth of the cave where the fire now glowed dully. That they were the bandits, and not the redskins, Cody was sure. Suddenly he saw two of the prowlers approaching the forked tree. He nudged Danforth sharply.

The two outlaws in question were almost under the branching limbs of the tree when they heard what sounded like the scratching of claws on the rough bark. Both looked up, and beheld an uncertain but bulky figure lying along one branch. A sharp snarl seemed to come from it, and the two bandits sprang away.

“Curse you!” exclaimed the voice of Bennett, low but deadly in its temper. “What’s the matter?”

Two or three of the bandits ran together. They thought some attack had been made upon them.

“What is it?” repeated several in shrill whispers.

“A cougar!”

“A wildcat!”

“Get back to your stations!” commanded Bennett. “Do you want to spoil the whole thing? Such cursed foolishness over a blamed tomcat——”

He had approached the tree, and suddenly the animal on the limb seemed to gather itself for a spring, and there sounded upon the night air the shrill, blood-curdling yell of the dreaded panther!

“Look out, Boyd! He’s goin’ ter jump!” exclaimed one fellow.

Several of the others stepped warily back and raised their guns. Above on the hillside—this had been prearranged by Cody—one of the troopers shouted:

“Who goes there?”

“Curse my body and bones!” growled Bennett. “The game is spoiled! They’ve heard us.”

The supposed panther screamed again, and then the body in the tree was hurled out into the air. Involuntarily every outlaw in sight took a pot-shot at the flying body. The mountainside reechoed with the reports of half a dozen guns, and the flashes of the same revealed to the ambushed party just where the bandits stood.

The log of wood, dressed in a blanket, representing the panther, and jerked out of the tree by Cody’s lariat, fell to the ground riddled by the bullets of the outlaws. But instantly Danforth leaped up and shouted to his men:

“Now, my bullies! Give it to them!”

The troopers fired a broadside. Four of the robbers dropped under the fire, and two more ran away screaming. Cody had picked out Bennett, and intended to wound or kill him; but the wily scoundrel seemed to fear some game just as the dummy was yanked by Danforth from the tree. He leaped away and dodged behind a boulder before the first shot from the party in ambush was fired.

As the echoes of the first round from the troopers died away Boyd Bennett raised an ear-splitting yell of defiance. It was a war-whoop that the redskins in the rear evidently understood. They answered from the valley, and, although the soldiers had succeeded in placing so many of the bandits hors de combat at their first fire, Danforth whistled almost instantly for his men to retire.

“Did you wing Bennett, Cody?” asked the young lieutenant.

“No. The scaly rascal left his men to bear the brunt of the trouble, and he’s under shelter half-way down the hill.”

“Can’t we get him?”

“With those reds tearing up to his aid?”

“Oh, by thunder, Bill! I hoped to either kill the scoundrel or bring him in.”

“So did I.”

“But we can’t risk staying here longer.”

“You’re right there, Dick. Come on. The men have gone.”

The scout and the lieutenant followed their men down the hill. And none too soon, for the redskins soon found that their white brethren had been outwitted by the soldiers, and they came tearing along the valley trail to try and head the refugees off.

They were not successful in that, however. Every trooper came in, they mounted at the command, and with fresh horses under them soon outdistanced all pursuit.

“It’s getting too lively for us,” said Buffalo Bill, in disgust. “We can’t chance it with such a small force. I hate to give it up; but we must.”

“We’ll keep on if you say the word, scout,” said Danforth.

“You’d ride straight into the jaws of hell if you thought there’d be a fight, Dick,” said Cody. “But discretion is the better part of valor in this case.”

“I hate to give Bennett up,” grumbled the younger man.

“So do I. But it can’t be helped.”

“When I get back to Resistence I’m going to ask Colonel Royal to give me a roving commission to hunt the scoundrel down.”

Neither of them realized at the time what the putting of this decision into practise would amount to in the end.

CHAPTER XXIV.
CHASED BY THE FLAMES.

The welcome that greeted the Border King upon his return to Fort Advance was proof of his popularity, and of the admiration the garrison held him in. That his coolness and wisdom had saved the paymaster’s money-box from capture by the bandits, and so made it unnecessary for the boys in blue to endure another long wait for their pay, added not a little to their feeling for the scout.

The troopers had told the story in full. Captain Hinkley and his guard had been buried, and the coach-driver, as well. The soldiers had a most revengeful feeling toward Boyd Bennett and his outlaw band, and Danforth went back to Resistence with his troop, threatening slaughter for the road-agents if he could catch them.

The activities of the Indians, however, disturbed Buffalo Bill and the commander of Fort Advance more than the work of the outlaw, at just this time. The Border King, with Texas Jack, set out on a mission soon after his return to the fort. Ten days later Lieutenant Danforth, with a squadron of men, was allowed to make an attempt to bring in Boyd Bennett by the commandant of Post Resistence.

Buffalo Bill was still away on his scouting expedition and did not know of this. He was deep in the Indian country, and had found nothing of real significance regarding any concerted movement among the Sioux, although there was plenty of excitement. Little bands of warriors were going back and forth, from encampment to encampment; but nothing was being accomplished by the redskins.

“What does it look like to you, old man?” queried the Border King of his partner. “Are we barking up the wrong tree?”

“Dunno,” replied Texas Jack, pursing up his lips and looking more serious than usual. “There may be a coon in the crotch; but we certainly haven’t shook him down.”

“How does all this running back and forth from teepee to teepee strike you?”

“Looks like the reds was given more tuh society than us’al, Buffler. But, Great Scott! you can’t never tell what’s in a red’s mind when he’s planning some game.”

“There is surely no outbreak planned for the immediate future, eh?”

“No. These runners aren’t gathering the tribe. I reckon Oak Heart got his belly full and won’t trouble us for some time.”

“But this new medicine-man they’ve got?”

“Humph! Death Killer, eh? Nice name that! I’d like a squint at him.”

“Me, too.”

“Wonder if we couldn’t sneak over to Oak Heart’s town and take this Death Killer into camp?”

“Kidnap him?”

“Yep.”

“You’re a cool one, Jack, my boy. What’ll the reds be doing meanwhile?”

“That’s all that stops me—that question,” replied Texas, with a grin.

This conversation took place beside a running brook, in the heart of a great forest many miles from Fort Advance, where our story first opened. The wind soughed through the tree tops and brought scurrying to earth the dying leaves which proclaimed the fast approach of King Winter. Suddenly Cody rose upon his feet and keenly snuffed the air.

“What’s th’ matter, Bill? What d’yer scent?”

“I’ve been smelling it for an hour, Jack.”

“What is it?”

“Smoke.”

“Huh! here’s wood burning at your feet.”

“No, no!” exclaimed the other. “This breeze is rising and is blowing more steadily than it did. And it brings the smoke to us. Look up through the tree tops. D’ye see how hazy it’s grown?”

“Umph-ah!”

“Nothing to fool over, Jack. It’s a big fire.”

“D’yer believe so, Bill?”

“I do, indeed,” said the anxious scout.

Texas Jack cast his eyes about the forest aisles reflectively. He knew as well as his companion the peril attending a forest fire; but he was naturally of a more volatile character, and the discovery made less impression upon him at first.

“We’d better make a break, hadn’t we, Bill?” he asked finally.

“Just think a bit, Jack,” the other replied. “Where’ll we go? Do you realize that this crick is the biggest body of water in a circle of forty miles?”

“If my hoss kin make Black River, yours kin, I reckon.”

“True enough. But the wind is blowing directly from Black River. That’s where the fire is, old man. The nearest water of any size is Bendigo Lake, and the going will be thundering hard on the horses.”

Texas Jack leaped up and exclaimed:

“Hark! what’s that?”

A crashing in the underbrush had startled both men. Some distance away there burst into the glade a fine herd of deer, all running madly. They swept across the scouts’ line of vision and disappeared in another clump of brush, keenly alive to peril in their rear.

“They’ve come a power of a ways in the last half-hour, Jack,” said Buffalo Bill.

“Right you are, Buffler. Guess we’d better light out. Ha! there goes a grayback.”

A lone wolf slunk through the underbrush, gave the two men a sharp look, and then loped away in the same direction as that followed by the deer. But he was not running the deer—oh, no, indeed!

Soon other animals began to drift past the camp of the scouts. The two packed their war-bags, caught their mounts, and prepared to leave the vicinity in short order. By that time, although the evening was closing in, the sky was a mass of ruddy, drifting haze. The fire was advancing with terrific speed, yet it was still so far away that the smoke floated high above the tree tops, and they heard no sound.

“Reckon we kin make it, Bill,” said Texas Jack, as they pricked their mounts along the forest path.

Buffalo Bill was not so sanguine, however. The fire was coming down upon them with terrific speed, for instead of deepening the evening brightened all about them as they rode. The odor of burning wood was now quite pungent, and past them in mad flight went all manner of small animals, while now and then the startled “woof! woof!” of a bear was heard in the brush as he, too, lumbered along.

The paths of the forest were not cleared for riding. Deer and other animals, searching drinking-places and salt-licks, first made these traces through the wilderness. The red man followed, following the spoor of the game. And so the paths became “runways,” sometimes worn knee-deep and only wide enough for a single person to pass. Such paths were of little use to horsemen.

Where the forest was open or clear of underbrush, the two scouts could travel with some rapidity; but in the thick, junglelike scrub, it was even necessary at times to get down and lead their horses. This delayed them, and before long the smoke wraiths began to drift past them and the distant roaring of the flames was perceptible.

Had the men given the horses their heads the animals would have become panic-stricken like the other dumb beasts, and they would have dashed through the forest at a much better pace; but Buffalo Bill and Texas Jack would have been swept from the saddles, and, perhaps, killed. It began to look, indeed, as though both horses and men could get along better and faster alone. Texas remarked upon this fact.

“I know it, Jack—I know it,” said Cody. “But I don’t want to lose Chief. And then, we can’t carry all our plunder and make any time at all.”

“Life’s sweeter to me than either hoss or rifle,” declared Texas, laughing.

“Me, too; but it may be a week before we catch the brutes.”

“I vote we let ’em go. It’s getting derned hard to manage them, anyway, Buffler.”

“So it is. Keep your grub, Texas.”

“Betcher!”

Both men were off their mounts in a hurry. They left their magazine guns in the saddle scabbards, and their holster pistols as well. If the Indians or any ne’er-do-well whites found the horses after the fire, they would make quite a haul.

Jack’s horse plunged away, snorting to be free, and was quickly out of sight; but Chief seemed uncertain whether to leave his master or not. The scouts did not delay an instant, but started off at a sharp run through the forest, with their packs on their backs. They could dodge under the low branches and burst through the brush-clumps, or avoid them altogether, with much more facility than before.

Chief ran whinnying after them. Suddenly out of the yellow haze above the tree tops a blazing ball of leaves or such light flotsam, floated down. It fell between the white horse and the two men, and Chief snorted and leaped aside. Fortunately the firebrand went out without igniting any of the leaves or twigs which rustled so dryly under foot, but the flame evidently spoiled Chief’s desire to keep with the men. He kicked up his heels and dashed away in the same direction as his mate.

Buffalo Bill and Texas Jack noted this brand, but they said nothing, only increasing their speed. There was vast danger from these flying balls of fire. The wind continued to rise, and soon the conflagration would be leaping ahead rods at a time! It would ignite in dozens of places at once.

As they ran together, Texas Jack glanced into his comrade’s serious face, and a grin overspread his own.

“Say, Buffler,” he said, “I didn’t sleep none too warm last night. Reckon we’ll be more comfortable to-night, eh?”

Cody had to smile at that.

“You reckless devil, you! You’d joke in sight of the fires of Tophet.”

At the moment a great burst of flame roared up into the sky from the summit of a little hill behind them, and both men glanced back. The banner of fire streamed clear across the sky.

“Gee, Bill! Tophet couldn’t look hotter than that,” declared Texas Jack.

CHAPTER XXV.
THE TELLTALE CROW.

For the most part, however, the scouts saved their breath and spoke but little. They were straining every effort to reach Bendigo Lake, the only body of water of sufficient size to offer protection from the conflagration. Every creek and pond hole in the neighborhood, which either of them knew about, was low now, and none were big enough to promise safety. In Bendigo Lake was a long, narrow island, wooded to be sure; but the lake was so wide that the scouts believed the flames would not leap from the shore to the island.

“At any rate, it’s our best play, Buffler. No doubt of that,” observed Texas Jack.

“Right you are, Texas,” panted the other. “Pick up your feet!”

“That fire’s certainly racing to overtake us.”

“Ha! What’s that?” muttered Cody, suddenly turning to look up a small slope which was more heavily wooded than the lowland through which they were passing.

There had been a movement in the brush. The wind did not affect the leaves and branches down here; it was only the tree tops that swayed and sang in the breeze.

“A deer, eh?” panted Jack.

“There!”

Uttering the yell, Buffalo Bill seized his friend by the neck and flung him suddenly forward upon his face. He fell himself as well, and at the very instant there was a flash in the bushes on the side-hill, an explosion sounded, and the zip-zip of the bullet cut the air over their heads.

Both scouts rolled aside, found covert, and sprang into position, revolvers in hand. Cody emptied one pistol as rapidly as possible into the brush-clump from which the treacherous shot had been fired.

“No use, Bill! There he goes!” yelled Texas Jack.

Off at one side they saw a huge figure pass rapidly out of sight. It looked like a bear running on its hind legs—were such a thing possible.

“Of all the bloody-minded scoundrels!” said Texas Jack, as the two scouts set forth again, in the same direction as that taken by the person who had fired at them—which was likewise toward the lake, “that fellow takes the bun.”

“Who was he? The smoke was in my eyes, and I couldn’t tell whether he was white or red.”

“He was white, all right—or, so I have always heard,” declared Texas Jack.

“By thunder! you don’t mean to say you know the scoundrel?”

“Not personally acquainted with him—no,” laughed Jack.

“What then?”

“I’ve heard tell of him a good deal the past dozen years.”

“Who is he?”

“The Mad Hunter.”

“Get out!”

“That’s who it was, Buffler.”

“Why should the fool fire at us?”

“He’d just as soon shoot a white man as a red.”

“He’s a devil.”

“That he is.”

“Why, I believe I saved his life the other day when I was out with Dick Danforth.”

“What for?”

Cody told him of how the young lieutenant had come near to shooting a gigantic man for a caribou, and how the being had run away yelling into the forest.

“That’s him. Crazy as they make them.”

“He must be crazy if he would stop to shoot men down when such a fire as that yonder is on his track as well as theirs.”

“I reckon an insane person don’t act logically.”

“He’s worse than the dumb beasts,” said Cody. “Look at that rabbit running almost between your legs, Jack. Aw! don’t step on him!”

“I ain’t—dern his hide!” exclaimed Texas Jack, making a flying leap over the bunny.

“He’s scared stiff. Some of the deer have run close enough to us to be touched. Even a bear will behave when there’s a forest fire. But this crazy bedlam is ready to shoot inoffensive men when death of the most awful kind is threatening him.”

“That’s why he’s crazy, I reckon,” said Texas Jack. “Come on, Buffler; this way.”

The light of the fire now made the forest about them as light almost as day, but the radiance flickered, and the shadows danced in a blinding fashion. The scouts could not see as clearly as usual. Within a mile of the spot where they had been attacked by the Mad Hunter a second shot was fired at them—this time from directly ahead. Fortunately, the bullet went wild.

“He’s got a single-shot, old-fashioned rifle,” declared Texas Jack.

“That’s what is saving our lives,” returned his comrade.

“He’s ahead of us—between us and the lake.”

“We’ve got to try to capture him, then,” declared Cody firmly. “No use mincing matters. The fire is bad enough, but he is more dangerous.”

“Reckon you’re right, Buffler,” grunted Texas Jack.

The scouts separated, running several rods apart, so that the Mad Hunter might not be able to get them both in a line. And, if that were possible, they increased their pace. They heard the man crashing through the brush ahead, but they did not obtain another glimpse of him. And so phenomenal was his speed that soon he was out of ear-shot. Besides, the roaring of the flames and the crashing of falling trees interfered with their tracking of the madman by his footsteps.

Their enemy ran as no human being ever ran before, for he got far enough ahead to load his old-fashioned gun and again await their coming. This time he took a shot at Texas Jack and sent that worthy’s hat spinning into the air.

“Confound his hide!” roared the scout. “Pepper him, Bill!”

But with a scream of rage the madman was off through the illuminated forest once more, and Cody’s shots did not overtake him. Besides, the light was so uncertain that the scout did not waste but two balls in the attempt to bring down the foe.

“He’ll git one of us yet,” cried Texas Jack.

“We’ll keep as close to him as possible. He mustn’t have a chance to reload!”

But it was like chasing a will-o’-the-wisp. The madman was off like the wind, shrieking his defiance. They could not keep him in sight, although the fire now was illuminating the forest far ahead of them.

The roaring of the flames drowned the scouts’ shouts to each other, too; and the heat puffed upon their backs as though somebody had suddenly swung open the door of an enormous furnace.

Suddenly Cody saw his friend throw up his hand, and knew that he shouted rather than heard the sound of his voice. Jack turned at a sharp angle, too, and Buffalo Bill followed suit. In a moment a glint of steel-blue water ahead invigorated Cody as well as his comrade. Lake Bendigo was at hand!

In fifteen minutes they were on the shore. The water was a blessed relief to their eyes when they plunged their faces into it. In the rear the fire roared mightily, and the smoke now began to drift down upon them with smothering thickness.

“We’d better take off our clothes and swim for the island, heh?” queried Jack.

“Yes. There’s a bunch of driftwood that will make some kind of a raft. We’ll use it to transport our clothing and guns.”

They stripped swiftly and were about to step into the water and push off the rude raft piled with their possessions when:

Ping!

The bullet buried itself in a tree trunk right beside Buffalo Bill’s head.

“Holy Christmas!” exclaimed Texas Jack.

“That devil has got ahead of us,” declared Cody. “That bullet came from the island.”

“Why, he’s got us between two fires!” exclaimed Texas, bound to joke under any and all circumstances.

For an instant the scouts were nonplused. They had involuntarily taken trees, but the heat from the rear was already unpleasant to their bare bodies.

“We can’t stay here,” muttered Cody. “I shall go around the lake a ways, Texas, and try to swim over without being seen. You show yourself here. Better still, push off the raft and keep behind it and submerged as much as possible. Make for the island, but go slowly.”

“You bet I’ll make for the island. I think I’d rather take cold lead than hot flames. Ouch!”

“Meanwhile I’ll try to sneak over and get to the madman’s rear.”

“Bare-handed?”

“How else, man?” cried Cody. “I must be prepared to swim under water a part of the way. It must be cunning to match his cunning or we are lost, Jack!”

Texas Jack realized that this was so, and he made no further objection. Cody glided away through the shadowy forest, and Jack pushed off the raft and dodged another bullet. He was soon floundering in the cold water, pushing the raft before him, but by no means enamored of his position. The fire was behind and would devour him shortly if he returned to the shore. Every few moments a bullet sped from the madman’s hiding-place on the island and “plunked” into the raft, or into the water close beside the swimmer.

Meanwhile Cody scurried along the shore, but suddenly found himself cut off by a tongue of the fire that had got ahead of the main conflagration and was already burning fiercely at the very verge of the lake. Traveling through the brush in his bare skin was not pleasant at best, so the scout tried sneaking into the water behind the little point of land which chanced to hide the island.

Cold as the water was, it was a blessed relief from the heat and smoke of the forest. As he struck out from the shore, blazing embers showered about him, hissing and smoking as they struck the water. The smoke rolled down upon the lake and now and then completely blinded him, and must certainly have hidden his head from the observation of anybody on the island. Cody was delighted with the apparent success of his scheme, and struck out strongly for the little patch of wooded soil in which he hoped, with Texas Jack, to find safety. That it was held in possession by a madman did not matter. It was the single refuge offered the scouts, and if the madman would not share it peacefully, he must be put out of the way.

These were Cody’s thoughts as he swam across the intervening space. He finally came to the sloping shore, so that he could stand upright and wade in with his head and shoulders out of water. He had gone so far around the island that he believed that the madman, watching Texas Jack and his raft, would not see his own approach.

And he did almost reach the shore unmolested. Suddenly, out of a dark hemlock at the extreme point of the island, there sprang a big crow, which, with raucous cry, flew over the scout and circled about him threateningly. The crow’s nest was evidently in that tree, and the coming of this strange maritime animal, who walked erect like a man, but wore no clothes, troubled the crow’s mind.

The bird squawked like a hen with its head caught between two fence-palings. Cody made a dash for the shore, hoping to get under cover and so cease to disturb the telltale crow.

But as he was about to step out on dry land a gigantic figure suddenly sprang through the brush at the water’s edge and appeared over him in a most threatening attitude. Above his head the man held a great rock, which he poised to fling upon the unarmed scout.

CHAPTER XXVI.
THE MASSACRE.

Why the madman had not sought to shoot him Buffalo Bill did not ask at the moment. The fact that he was at such a disadvantage was enough to fill his mind with forebodings. The rock was poised in the giant’s hands just over his head, and, as the scout was more than knee-deep in the water, it seemed impossible for him to successfully dodge the missile if it were flung.

The madman stood in the shadow, and Cody could not see his face. All he saw was that the man looked like a great, wet bear. He had swum or waded across to the island with all his clothes on. He evidently knew Bendigo Lake and its surroundings better than either of the scouts, and had found a shallow path across from the mainland.

For several seconds the scout and the giant faced each other. Buffalo Bill’s muscles grew tense. He would try leaping upon the fellow, at any rate, although the possibility of his dodging the rock looked exceeding small.

And then there suddenly flashed into his mind such a simple dodge for getting the best of his foe that the scout hesitated to use it. It seemed so exceedingly simple and childish. But the moments were flying, and the Mad Hunter was on the point of flinging the rock down upon him with terrific force.

Cody stood so that his hands just touched the water. He hollowed his palms, swung both arms back, and suddenly scooped up the water and flung it in a blinding sheet of spray into the maniac’s face.

Again and again he splashed the water over the fellow. The Mad Hunter uttered a howl of rage, and, as Cody threw himself to one side, still splashing the water, the rock was thrown. But the scout had destroyed the maniac’s aim and escaped the missile altogether.

Cody could not land, however. The best he could do was to plunge back into the deeper water and there dive and remain swimming under the surface until he had placed the island between himself and the fire. Here the trees threw black shadows, although the whole northern sky was red as blood, and the flames danced wildly upon the tree tops on the mainland.

The Mad Hunter had disappeared, yet the scout did not know whether he had gone back to watch Texas Jack and the raft or was lurking in the shadow, waiting to spy upon him again. Meanwhile he was becoming thoroughly chilled, and feared to remain out beyond his depth, for a cramp might take him, and he could never struggle ashore then.

Carefully he waded shoreward once more, watching the shadows beneath the trees, fearing to see the bulk of the maniac burst out of the brush and attack him again. There were several frightened creatures on the island, but they cowered and were dumb. All the scout could hear was the lapping of the water and the crackling of the conflagration on the mainland.

The fire was eating through the forest very rapidly. It had reached the shore and was passing swiftly around the entire lake. Cody and Texas Jack could not return to the mainland now under any circumstances. It was the island or drowning for them!

And Cody feared that his brave comrade had already succumbed to the cold water, or mayhap to a bullet from the maniac’s rifle. The fire as it ate around the lake began to illuminate this side of the island, too, and he feared that he would soon be a shining mark for the Mad Hunter.

He kept his body under water and crept in toward the shore, his head only showing. He knew that he was taking his life in his hands, but the water was chilling him to the bone.

Suddenly there was a great shouting on the other shore of the island, and following it came the pop of a pistol several times. Cody leaped ashore, and, despite the rough way and the thorns and brush which tore his body, he dashed across the narrow bit of land. He knew Texas Jack had landed and might need his help.

As he ran, however, he suddenly came full tilt against a great, hairy object that was blundering through the brush. Over went the scout, and with an angry “Woof!” the bear darted aside, and a moment later he heard a splash in the lake, and knew that the creature had found the presence of mankind on the island more fear-inspiring than the fire on the mainland.

When Cody picked himself up he beheld the half-clothed figure of Texas Jack standing over him.

“By the piper that played before Pharaoh!” ejaculated Texas. “What’s the matter with you, Buffler? Come an’ git your clo’es—or do you fancy parading around yere in your birthday suit?”

“What—what was that?” demanded the scout.

“A bear. I fell over him myself and drove him off.”

“I thought for a minute it was the madman.”

“Oh, he’s gone,” said Texas Jack. “He ran out of ammunition, I reckon, and he took to the water, clo’es and all. There’s a shallow place yonder. We can wade ashore that way, too, when the fire burns out.”

“He pretty near had me,” said Cody, and related his adventure as he shakingly got into his clothing.

Texas Jack built a fire for them to dry and get warm by, and meanwhile explained that, finding he could not keep the scouts off the island, the Mad Hunter had departed for the mainland, approaching that part where the fire had come nearest to burning itself out.

“It’s dangerous to go over there yet,” said Buffalo Bill.

“You can bet it is. But he reckoned he’d rather go than meet us closer to. The old scoundrel! I’ve heard of his tricks and deviltry, but I never happened to run up against him before.”

“I hope I never will again,” said Cody devoutly.

But he was doomed to meet the Mad Hunter again, and to learn that about him that caused the Border King much sorrow of spirit.

The scouts remained on the island during the night, and late the next day started out to find their mounts. There was a swamp several miles away, and, knowing well the keen instinct of their horses, the scouts went to it, and in less than twenty-four hours found both Chief and the other, much mud-bespattered, but in good condition. And their arms, though somewhat rusted, were safe.

The forest fire had burned over a large tract of country, had driven away the game, and had cleared the territory of Indians. So the scouts separated to follow the trails of different bands of reds and spot their new villages. Their duty was to find and report upon every new encampment of the redskins, that the department might keep tabs on the movements of the savages.

Cody kept his eyes open for traces of the bandits, but during the following week learned nothing of the movements of Boyd Bennett and his gang.

He was thinking of going to a certain rendezvous where he expected to join Texas Jack, when he came suddenly upon a spectacle in a little valley that brought him up standing. So appalling—and unexpected—was the scene that it seemed for the moment as though his heart stopped beating!

Over a score of figures in blue lay in the little cup-shaped coulée, where they had fallen battling for life!

There they lay, partly stripped of their uniforms in some cases, robbed of their weapons, and lying amid their foes, hideous, painted savages, whom their red companions, in their haste to fly from the fearful scene, had not borne off to burial. Yet they had found time to tear the scalp-lock from the head of each white man.

They lay in no order. The battle had been of the fiercest, and hand to hand. Here a trooper; there another—a redskin, an officer, a chief, a caparisoned steed, an Indian pony—all dead they lay and huddled together by the riverside in the tiny valley.

Upon this scene Buffalo Bill came suddenly, just as the sun was about to drop below the western hills. The sight shocked and sickened him. Man of iron heart and steel nerves that he was, the sight made him reel in his saddle. He reined in his good horse, until it rose upon its haunches, and covered his eyes with one gauntleted hand as though to shut out the awful sight.

An instant only did the scout show this weakness; then he scrutinized the red field which had flashed like some horrid vision on his sight.

White-faced as the dead, with eyes which scrutinized each form and feature of the white men, the scout counted the slain. Gradually his own orbs flashed with the fires of rage, and his lips became livid and quivering.

Suddenly, with a stifled cry, he leaped from his horse’s back and strode to one figure that lay stark at one side. It was in contact with a heap of slain on a knoll at the foot of a rock.

Here the end had evidently come. This spot was plainly the last act of the fearful drama. Here the curtain of doom had fallen upon the remnant of the gallant band, to rise no more for them in this life!

A groan issued from the scout’s lips, and he bowed his head in grief. There, with face upturned, lying in an attitude that showed he had died fighting to the last, lay Lieutenant Dick Danforth!

The boy’s left hand grasped the barrel of an empty revolver; he had used it as a club at close quarters. The right held his sword-hilt, the blade buried in the body of a painted chief, whose death was probably the last act of the dying leader of the slaughtered troops.

About him lay the foe, piled in heaps. Dick Danforth had sold his life at a dear price, indeed. And the fiends had run without scalping him!

“Danforth dead!” murmured the scout. “It cannot be possible.”

Yet it was true; he saw it plainly before he touched the already stiffening body. Merely by some freak of circumstances the young man had not been scalped.

“Devils’ work this!” muttered the scout. He glanced again over the field. There were many points that had at first escaped his attention. For instance, there were shod horses lying dead that had never been ridden by either cavalrymen or Indian!

“Aye, Indians did the deed, but there is a paleface hand behind it, and I mean to ferret out the fiend who inspired it,” said Buffalo Bill.

He dropped upon his knees again and felt of Danforth’s body. There, in a voice quivering with sorrow and passion, he exclaimed:

“Aye! here beside the body of the man whom I loved—who saved me from death—I swear revenge on the instigator of this crime!”

In his deep feeling he spoke these words aloud. A sound smote upon his ear. He sprang to his feet with a cry and turned as a harsh voice pealed out behind him:

“And I swear, Buffalo Bill, that you shall never keep the oath your lips have just uttered!”

CHAPTER XXVII.
“THE DEATH KILLER.”

Buffalo Bill had believed himself alone with the dead on this field of blood, and the voice fell like a knell upon his ear. For the moment he was half-unmanned. Then he wheeled completely to face the speaker.

He knew then that he had an old and deadly foe to deal with. His discovery, however, brought the scout to himself. He recovered his presence of mind, and in a tone that was reckless in its defiance, he cried:

“So we meet again, do we, Bennett? And you think you hold the trumps once more?”

“I do—and likewise a revolver at your head, Cody!” declared the bandit. “Drop your rifle!”

The scout obeyed. The pistol in Bennett’s hand was a well-timed argument. To all appearances the man was an Indian chief, for he was bedecked with feathers, his face was hideously painted, and he wore the full attire of a redskin, from moccasins to war-bonnet.

At his back, with rifles and arrows likewise covering the scout, were a score of braves who had, with the stealthy tread of panthers, followed their leader to the spot where Buffalo Bill had mourned over the bodies of the slain white men. Cody knew well that he was at the mercy of a merciless foe.

“You know me, do you, Cody?” said the bandit.

“Oh, I know you—even if you’ve turned squaw-man,” said Cody bitterly. “I recognize your black heart under the paint and feathers.”

“Have a care, scout, for every word of insult you heap upon me shall increase your torture at the stake.”

“I see you’ve got it all mapped out for my finish,” said Cody.

“You will not escape me this time, Buffalo Bill!” declared the bandit chief exultingly.

“Don’t be too sure.”

“Nay. It is settled. You are in my power. There can be no rescue here. There lies the one who cheated my vengeance before. He has paid the price.”

“True. And his death must be paid for,” muttered the scout.

“But not by you, Cody.”

“Wait!” was the enigmatical word of the Border King, his eyes flashing the hate he felt for his sneering captor.

“Do not tempt me too far, you dog!” exclaimed Bennett. “Remember you pay for all this when you come to die.”

“Aye; when I do come to die! But I am one who believes that while there is life there is still hope, you accursed renegade!”

“That belief will not benefit you now, Cody. You are a dead man already.”

“I’m the liveliest dead man you ever saw!”

The renegade looked as though he was about to shoot the scout in his tracks; but he caught sight of the smile that curled Cody’s lips, and, not understanding it, refrained. Indeed, he looked all about, somewhat nervously, to try to discover the meaning of the scout’s expression.

“You must have help at hand, or you would not be so defiant, Buffalo Bill.”

“That may be,” said the scout non-committingly.

“At least, these will not help you,” said Boyd Bennett, with a horrible smile, pointing to the stark figures in the valley.

“Not one left to tell the story—no prisoners?” queried Cody sorrowfully, forgetting for the moment his own peril.

“No, no! Chief Oak Heart wanted no prisoners from Danforth’s band. I told the chief that Danforth and his men were come to take him captive—that they had sworn to do it! Ha! ha! That was rich, eh? So every man of them died.”

“And he came for you,” said Cody bitterly.

“Aye; and met the death he deserved; but a more merciful death than you will meet, scout. I do not need to stir up the red men’s rage against you. They will receive you with great joy at Oak Heart’s encampment.”

“And you fought with these savages?” cried Cody.

“I did. And killed as they killed—without mercy.”

“You do not fear to admit your crimes.”

“Why should I? For am I not speaking to one who will soon be dead? Bah! you can no longer frighten me, Buffalo Bill!”

“Yes, it looks as though I was near my finish; I do not deny it,” said Cody quietly. “But tell me one thing, Boyd Bennett. Did you kill Lieutenant Danforth yourself?”

“I am sorry to say I did not. There was a good deal of hot work right here. But Red Knife claims the honor of having delivered the finishing-stroke. We were returning to take the scalp-lock——”

“By Heaven, man! you shall not do it!” roared Cody, starting forward.

But a dozen rifles clicked, and he knew that he was helpless. He fell back again. Bennett laughed.

“Chief Oak Heart refused to allow any of his braves to scalp Danforth because he had fought so boldly.”

“God bless the old red sinner for that!” murmured the much wrought-upon scout.

Bennett laughed again.

“But I am Death Killer, the medicine-chief, and I have come back myself to take the scalp-lock from the head of the man against whom I swore revenge.”

“Boyd Bennett! accursed though you be, with a heart blacker than the foulest redskin can boast of, you would not do this wrong!” cried Buffalo Bill, in horror.

“Watch me, scout.”

“You shall not do it!”

“You are mistaken; I shall. I came back with Red Knife and a few of the braves to point me out the place where Danforth fell. On the way we saw you arrive, and we dogged your steps to the very corpse of your friend.

“Ha, Cody! this is sweet—this revenge. My kind have cast me off. Well, then! I cast the white men off! I spit upon them! I slay them! And now I scalp my enemy!”

Bennett had worked himself into a species of frenzy. He sprang forward now, dropping his revolver, knife in hand, to carry out his threat.

“Never shall you do this crime—not if this is my last act on earth!” shouted the scout.

As he spoke he suddenly jerked a revolver from his belt, threw it forward, and fired pointblank at Boyd Bennett, all with the quickness of a flash of light!

CHAPTER XXVIII.
THE WHITE ANTELOPE INTERFERES.

So rapid and unexpected was this movement of Buffalo Bill, in drawing his revolver and firing it, that not one of the warriors who stood behind the renegade chief—some with arrows already fitted to their bows, and others with rifles covering the scout—had time to fire.

Yet, swift as he had been, one eye was quick enough to send an arrow upon its errand. The shaft struck the outstretched arm of the scout just as his finger pulled the trigger of his weapon, and the shock destroyed his aim.

Having made this daring move, however, and believing that death must follow the deed, Buffalo Bill dropped his left hand upon his second pistol, determined to press the fight, kill Bennett, and die as had the brave man at his feet—fighting to the last!

Maddened with rage and thirsting for the life of his foe, Boyd Bennett shouted to his warriors to rush upon the scout and take him alive that he might end his career by cruel torture. But suddenly a slender form darted before the red braves, and, with arrow set in readiness to let fly, the White Antelope thrust herself between the white man and the reds who would have seized him.

“Let the Sioux braves hold their hands. The White Antelope commands it!”

Like one man the reds halted, and even the renegade shrank back a step, gazing in fear and wonder on the apparition of the beautiful girl.

Buffalo Bill, too, gazed upon the chief’s daughter in amazement. He knew now that the arrow he drew from the wound in his right forearm had been driven home by the girl; yet now she stood between him and his foes.

Her attitude evidently astonished Bennett as much as it did Cody himself, for the renegade cried:

“Why has the White Antelope become the friend of the slayer of her people? The man she shelters is Pa-e-has-ka, the Long Hair.”

“The arrow of the White Antelope brings blood from the arm of Pa-e-has-ka. Is that the way in which a Sioux shows friendship?” asked the young girl scornfully.

“Then the White Antelope yields the paleface foe to the medicine chief of her tribe?”

“No!” was the decided response.

“What would you do?” demanded the renegade angrily.

“I will deliver Pa-e-has-ka to the great chief, my father, Oak Heart.”

“The White Antelope is no warrior,” sneered the renegade. “Are there not braves enough loyal to Oak Heart to carry out his will upon this paleface?”

“The White Antelope may be no warrior,” said the girl; “but she has just saved the life of the Death Killer.”

At this Buffalo Bill laughed aloud, for the shot was a good one, and his seeming indifference to his peril caused the daughter of the chief to turn her eyes upon him. She scanned the scout from head to foot. What was in her thoughts he could not guess; but, suddenly, deciding upon a course of action, she stepped boldly to the side of Buffalo Bill, and touched with tender fingers the wounded arm which he had bared.

“If the Long Hair has ointment for the wound, it would be better to bind it,” she said to him.

Buffalo Bill opened his pouch, and the girl found the salve and bandages he always carried. Meanwhile, the scout sucked the wound to remove any foreign matter that might have been driven into it by the arrowhead. Then the Indian maiden bound up the hurt while the renegade looked on sullenly.

“Why is the Long Hair here—so near the village of the Sioux?” she asked Buffalo Bill, when this act of kindness was performed.

“I chanced upon the place. I saw the dead. Here lies my friend—the young man whom I loved as a son,” said the scout, pointing to the body of Danforth. “He and his men have been all slain by the Sioux.”

“They were enemies,” said the girl simply.

“But they had not come out to disturb the red men.”

“Why were they here?”

“To find and take prisoner that villain yonder!” exclaimed Buffalo Bill, scowling at Boyd Bennett in his war-paint and feathers. “That man who is neither white nor red, but a squaw-man! He had committed crimes against the white man’s law and should be punished by that law.”

“My father heard that the palefaces were coming to seize him.”

“Another lie of that renegade!” exclaimed the scout. “And while I mourned over the body of this young man, the villain came upon me, returning, as he declares, to tear the scalp from the head of the white chief whom he was not brave enough himself to kill!”

The girl seemed to understand. She glanced from the body of Danforth to the rage-inflamed face of Boyd Bennett.

“Is it from this dead white chief’s head the Killer would take the scalp?” she asked haughtily.

“Aye; and I will have it!” cried Bennett.

“Did the young paleface fall by thy hand, Death Killer?” demanded the maiden, with all the dignity of a judge.

“It matters not. Forget not, oh, White Antelope, that I am the medicine chief of the Sioux——”

“And see that the Death Killer forget not that I am the daughter of Oak Heart!” she interrupted.

“I acknowledge that fact,” sneered Boyd Bennett. “But the White Antelope has no control over the acts of the Death Killer.”

“Did the paleface fall to your prowess?” she demanded again, looking the renegade sternly in the eye.

An Indian stepped forward. He carried a blood-stained war-club in one hand. In a deep guttural he said:

“The white chief’s scalp should be Red Knife’s; he brought him low at last with a blow of his club. But the great chief, Oak Heart, forbade that we take the scalp of so brave a warrior.”

“Then why does the Death Killer wish to do that which is forbidden by my father?” cried the girl quickly.

“Is it the White Antelope’s place to question the medicine chief of her tribe?” demanded the painted white man, with haughty demeanor. “The scalp of the dead bluecoat is my prize!”

Buffalo Bill saw indecision in the Indian maiden’s face. He knew how superstitious the redskins were regarding the mysterious powers claimed by all medicine chiefs. In some way—by some manner of fake magic—Boyd Bennett had roused the superstitious reverence of the Sioux, and Buffalo Bill did not know how greatly the chief’s daughter might be tainted by this feeling of reverence for the villainous renegade.

“Let not this crime be done, White Antelope,” he said in her ear. “Remember what Pa-e-has-ka told you in the cañon, when he had you in his power. He knows much. He was once your mother’s trusted friend. And he warns you now—as you hope for peace of soul and body—not to allow the dead young man to be so treated by your people.”

The girl turned upon him suddenly, with wide-open eyes.

“What does Long Hair mean? What is this dead paleface to her?”

“That Long Hair may not tell thee, oh, White Antelope. Trust him——”

“Trust a paleface!”

“Trust one who has given you back to your father when he might have taken your life, or held you prisoner.”

“Aye, Long Hair, thou didst that. It is true.”

“And believe me,” the scout said, more earnestly still, in English, not wishing the other Indians to understand; “this dead paleface whom even the great chief Oak Heart admired for his bravery, is more to the White Antelope than she knows. The time will come when I can explain all to you, girl—but not now!”

“What’s that?” demanded Boyd Bennett, stepping forward. “What’s this foolishness you are telling the girl?”

But the White Antelope haughtily waved him back.

“Let the Death Killer stand away. The chief’s daughter can care for herself. And let not one of these dead palefaces be further disturbed. It is my will!”

The waiting Indians grunted agreement. They were willing enough to obey the beautiful princess. The White Antelope turned again to Buffalo Bill:

“Where are the paleface brothers of Pa-e-has-ka?”

Buffalo Bill pointed in the direction from which he had come.

“Far away.”

“The White Antelope is his foe, and the foe of his people; but she wishes not to see the wolves and the vultures tear the bodies of brave men for food. The Sioux have come to remove their dead. Let Pa-e-has-ka go bring his brother warriors to remove the paleface slain.”

At that Boyd Bennett uttered an oath and sprang forward.

“Not that, girl! You’re crazy!”

“We’ll see who wears the breeches in this family, Boyd Bennett!” laughed the scout.

“You shall not leave this spot alive, Bill Cody!”

“Oh, shucks! Don’t speak so harshly,” gibed the scout.

The girl raised her hand. Without looking at the renegade, she said to Buffalo Bill:

“But Pa-e-has-ka must make the White Antelope a promise.”

“All right. What is it?”

“The White Antelope came from the great chief Oak Heart, who told her to seek the paleface warriors and tell them where to find their dead. He bids them to come here and remove their slain in peace, and not to follow on the track of his people. Will Pa-e-has-ka tell the big chief the words of Oak Heart?”

“I will.”

“Then Pa-e-has-ka must promise to return and yield himself to the Sioux.”

She looked Buffalo Bill straight in the eye as she stated her condition, and he saw that she meant exactly what she said; but he asked:

“Does the White Antelope mean that I am to give myself up to the red warriors after I have guided the bluecoats here?”

“She has spoken.”

“And this is the promise she wishes Pa-e-has-ka to make?”

The Indian girl nodded.

“Why should Pa-e-has-ka return?”

“He is the captive of the medicine chief, Death Killer, now; but White Antelope lets him go free that the paleface braves lie not unburied, and that the other white warriors take heed not to follow upon the trail of the Sioux. Will Pa-e-has-ka promise?”

Buffalo Bill was silent for a moment. If he refused he knew that her protection would cease. If he agreed to her condition he must keep his word, be the end what it might. And that end looked to the scout much like an ironwood stake, a hot fire, and a bunch of naked red devils dancing a two-step about him while he slowly crisped to a cinder!

There was a loophole. He made a mental reservation that, after bearing the tidings of the massacre to the fort, and delivering Oak Heart’s warning, he would return to the Sioux encampment—but with a force behind him that would surprise the redskins!

“I agree,” he said finally.

“Trust not the fox-tongue of the Long Hair!” cried Boyd Bennett violently. “He will not keep his pledge.”

“The paleface is the foe of my people, but his tongue is straight,” declared the Indian maiden, with confidence.

Buffalo Bill began secretly to weaken on that “mental reservation.”

“But he will come with a force at his back and burn the Indian village,” cried the renegade.

Buffalo Bill had to give the fellow credit for having divined his purpose; but the girl turned scornfully from the squaw-man.

“Pa-e-has-ka is not two-faced. He is not a turncoat,” she said sneeringly. “The White Antelope will believe that the Long Hair will return alone.”

Buffalo Bill at that completely abandoned the “mental reservation” clause.

“Bet your life he will!” he exclaimed. “I’ll come back as I promise, girl.”

“Then let Pa-e-has-ka go.”

But as she spoke the command, Boyd Bennett once more sprang forward. He covered the scout with his rifle and cried:

“I am the medicine chief of the Sioux, and I say the paleface dog shall not go!”

Then in English he declared:

“Your hour has come, Buffalo Bill. You die here and now!”

CHAPTER XXIX.
A GIRL’S WORD.

The instant the renegade uttered the threat, Buffalo Bill placed himself upon guard by drawing his revolvers and covering the scoundrel. His wounded arm was sore, but the nerves had recovered from the shock of the arrow-wound, and he could hold his gun steadily enough. The renegade was so near at best that the scout could not miss him!

But the scout did not shoot. The White Antelope with flashing eyes, sprang to the front, and she, too, aimed her arrow at Boyd Bennett.

The warriors—or the bulk of them, at least—were surprised by Buffalo Bill’s action, and their several weapons were in line for the scout’s heart before they noted the White Antelope’s action. Then several of them dropped their guns, and their facial expression was as foolish as it was possible for so stoical a set of faces to be!

For a moment the tableau continued. A sudden motion might have precipitated a bloody, though brief, conflict. Buffalo Bill, though pale, was stern and determined, his eyes riveted upon the face of Boyd Bennett. He felt that the girl was friendly to him, and he knew her influence among the Sioux.

“Why do you not bring that finger to the trigger of your rifle, Bennett?” he asked sneeringly. “It won’t go off otherwise.”

The girl looked at the warriors and commanded quickly:

“Let the braves of Oak Heart turn their weapons from the heart of Pa-e-has-ka, the paleface chief.”

To the delight of Buffalo Bill, the command was instantly obeyed. Much as they might have feared the power of the medicine chief, Oak Heart was greater, and his daughter was here as his representative.

That Boyd Bennett was nonplused by this move was plain. His face fell, and he lowered his own rifle. But the scowl of deadly hatred which he bestowed on the white man threatened vengeance at some future date.

“I reckon the redskins are trumps, old man, and the girl holds a full hand of them!” laughed Buffalo Bill.

“It is your time to laugh now, Cody. But mine will come,” gritted the renegade.

“Oh, I can’t expect to laugh always, Bennett; but,” and the scout changed his speech to the Sioux dialect, that all the warriors might understand; “let the renegade paleface meet me now in personal combat, and settle the matter at once. Long Hair does not fear a fair fight with the mighty Death Killer!” he added sneeringly.

The nods and grunts of the warriors showed that they approved of this proposal. Although they could not quite agree with the White Antelope’s friendliness with Buffalo Bill, they saw that he was a brave man—as, indeed, they knew well before—and a duel to the death seemed to their savage minds the only way to properly decide the controversy between their medicine chief and the scout. They looked at Bennett expectantly.

But the renegade was not desirous of meeting Buffalo Bill with any weapon he might name! He knew the scout’s prowess too well. His desire was to see the scout writhing in the embrace of the flames, or standing bound as a target for the hatchet-marksmen of the Indian tribe with which he was affiliated.

He dared not seem to refuse the challenge, however, for he would then lose completely his influence with Oak Heart’s braves. But suddenly he caught sight of the Indian maiden’s face, and that he read like an open book!

“The enemy of the Sioux has spoken well. We will fight!” exclaimed Boyd Bennett promptly, but with a crafty smile wreathing his lips.

“The White Antelope says ‘No!’” exclaimed the Indian girl, facing the renegade.

As he was so sure she would veto the proposition, the wily Bennett was eager to urge the duel.

“Why does the daughter of the great chief interfere? She says that Pa-e-has-ka is not her friend, and yet she shields him.”

Buffalo Bill had to chuckle over this. He couldn’t help it. He saw through the whole game of Bennett’s, and it amused him.

“No, the Long Hair shall not fight the medicine chief,” declared the girl earnestly.

“And why not?” demanded Bennett, with continued haughtiness.

“Because if they fought, the white man would wear the medicine chief’s scalp at his belt,” declared the young girl. “The white man shall go his way, bring his brothers to bury the paleface dead, and then deliver himself to Oak Heart, as he has promised.”

“And you can make up your mind, Boyd Bennett, that she says one very true thing,” declared Buffalo Bill. “Whenever we do fight, you’ll go under! Mark that! I’ll run you down yet and nail your scalp to the wall of Fort Advance as a warning to all horse-thieves, stage-robbers, and deserters!”

The White Antelope spoke quickly before the wrathful Bennett could reply to this challenge:

“Let the paleface go to his big chief. There is his horse. Yonder is his weapon. Mount, Pa-e-has-ka, and away!”

“Aye, girl,” said Cody, in English; “but what will happen to this poor young man if I go, leaving that brute here? He will tear the scalp from Danforth’s head as soon as my back, and yours, are turned.”

“That he shall not!” exclaimed the White Antelope.

“You do not know his treachery,” said Buffalo Bill, who knew that the very deed was in Bennett’s mind.

“I have told the white man that the brave young chief shall not be mistreated.”

“Your word on it, girl?”

“The White Antelope has spoken. She will guard the body of the young white chief herself until Pa-e-has-ka’s return.”

“Good!” exclaimed Buffalo Bill. “And, my girl, you’ll never be sorry for this mercy shown the corpse of that poor young man.”

The girl looked at him strangely.

“The Long Hair will return, as he has promised, to the village of Oak Heart?”

“I’ll keep my word; do you keep yours,” said the scout.

“Pa-e-has-ka’s tongue is straight?”

“As sure as I live, I’ll come back, girl!” declared the scout earnestly.

The next instant he mounted Chief unmolested, having picked up his rifle, settled himself in the saddle, seized the reins, and dashed away. As he mounted the ridge he looked back. The reds were busy separating their own slain from the dead soldiers. The tall figure of the medicine chief was stalking angrily from the scene. White Antelope was down on her knees by the body of Dick Danforth, the dead lieutenant. With a dumb ache at his heart, and little thought for his own coming peril, Buffalo Bill went over the rise and spurred away for Fort Advance.

CHAPTER XXX.
THE MAD HUNTER.

In the valley a cavalry command was encamped, some hours after the battle in which Lieutenant Dick Danforth and his men had been overwhelmed by Oak Heart’s ambuscade.

It was just sunset, but twilight among the mountains is sometimes four hours long—a man might see to read fine print at nine o’clock.

The command had ridden hard and were a-wearied, so the party had bivouacked early, the guide reporting that the ridge before them afforded no good camping-ground. The horses were soon lariated out, and scores of camp-fires were kindled along the banks of the stream, while the cheerful rattle of dishes and the smell of cooking sharpened the appetites of the troopers.

Leaving his servant to prepare his frugal meal, the commander of the soldiers strode up the hillside toward the summit of the ridge, the better to view the valley and its boundaries while daylight lingered.

“Be careful, captain, for I look for Injuns hereabouts,” called the guide, who was Texas Jack.

“All right, Jack. I’ll signal if I see any signs of the red scamps,” returned the fearless officer, as he strode on up the ascent.

Once or twice he turned to enjoy the scene of beauty spreading below him—the lovely valley, the winding stream, the picturesque bivouac of the troopers, and the distant blue hills, on which the light was fading rapidly. At length he reached the point from which he could view a part of the country through which the morrow’s trail would lead them.

Below him, on that side of the ridge, all was shadow now, for the ridge shut off the last glow of the golden western sky; but the summits of the hills and ridges were still bathed in the departing sun’s radiance. The scene so impressed him that, quite unconsciously, the officer spoke aloud:

“No wonder that poor Lo loves this land so well that he’s willing to fight for it. It is a pity it must ever be settled, and cut up into farms and homesteads—and possibly, town lots! The life of the free savage is the best, after all!”

“Well said, captain! But I’ve got the drop on you!”

The officer started as the voice fell upon his ears, and, dropping his hand upon his sword-hilt, turned to face the speaker. Before him, and not six paces distant, having just stepped from a dense thicket, was an apparition which, at first sight, the officer scarce realized was human!

And yet, no other shape was near, and from the lips of the strange being that confronted him had fallen the threatening words he had heard.

“Who and what are you?” cried the officer sternly, his eyes beholding a being of gigantic size, clad in the skins of beasts, so that at first sight he appeared more like a grizzly bear reared upon its hind legs!

About the waist of the giant was a red fox-skin belt, in which were slung two revolvers and a large knife; upon his head was a panther-skin cap, the tail hanging down the man’s back, and on his feet were moccasins of black bearskin. Hair black as night fell to his waist; beard of the same hue matted and unkempt; and a dark, haggard face, out of which glittered the wildest eyes it had ever been the officer’s fortune to see.

To finish this terrifying picture, the strange being held a rifle at his shoulder, and that rifle was aimed now at the military officer’s heart!

“You ask who and what I am?” repeated the creature, in a deep voice.

“I do,” said the soldier, measuring him with the eye of a hawk.

He had instantly seen that he was in the presence of a maniac—a person utterly irresponsible for his acts. Whether he was to be cajoled out of his present murderous condition of mind, the soldier did not know. But he was watching for some wavering of the rifle which might tell him that the fellow was off his guard, and that there might be a chance to spring under his guard and seize him.

“You are a bold man to question me, captain!” said the giant sternly.

“I know it; but I’ve an overpowering curiosity to find out,” and the captain dropped his hand carelessly upon the butt of the pistol he carried at his hip.

“Hands up!” exclaimed the fellow, seeing the movement. “Hands up, or you are a dead man!”

Hoping that he might yet parley with the maniac, the officer obeyed. It were better, perhaps, had he drawn his gun and risked a shot. The giant looked at him with wicked, glowing eyes.

“I will tell you who I am, officer,” he whispered hoarsely. “I am a madman!”

The last word he fairly shrieked; yet not for a second did he forget his victim, nor did his hand tremble. The rifle still transfixed the helpless officer.

But the officer was a kindly man, and although he believed himself in peril of his life still, the brave man ever has pity for those touched in the head. He said quietly:

“My poor man, lower your weapon and come with me down to yonder camp. Those are Uncle Sam’s troops down there. They will take care of you.”

“Ha!” cried the maniac furiously. “I need no one to care for me. I can care for myself. You’d much better be thinking of help for yourself, captain.”

“Well, then I’ll go along and look for that help,” said the officer easily.

“Don’t move!”

“But, my dear fellow——”

“Hold! Address no words of kindness to me, for they are thrown away upon one whose duty it is to slay.”

“But it surely isn’t your duty to kill me!”

“Aye—you, too.”

“But what have I done to you?”

“It matters not. Mankind has done enough to me. I am appointed to slay, and slay I will!”

“It’s nice to know your duty so clearly,” said the officer easily. “But aren’t you liable to make a mistake?”

“No! Never a mistake. Once I might have made a mistake. That was when I believed I was called of God to kill the redskins only. I know better now.”

“Well!” murmured the officer, hoping to catch the madman off his guard, if only for a moment.

“I saw the error of my ways,” cried the madman. “I beheld my sins. I had neglected the full measure of my duty.”

“So killing redskins didn’t satisfy you, eh?”

“Why should I kill the savages alone? I saw white men quite as brutal—aye, more brutal—than the red. I saw them commit the same atrocities. I saw white rangers rip the scalps from the head of their dead foes; I saw the soldiers storm the Indian encampments and kill the squaws and the papoose at the breast! Aye! how much better are the whites than the red men?”

“And having seen all this bloody warfare, you wish to add to the sum total of horror by killing everybody you come across, do you, old fellow?”

“You are all alike to me. I kill. That is the way I obtain ammunition and arms. The arms and cartridges you carry are mine!”

“Oh, I’ll give them to you right now, if you want them,” exclaimed the captain eagerly. “You won’t have to kill me to get them. Really, it isn’t necessary. I’ll do the polite and hand them over.”

To himself he thought:

“And I’ll hand you something that will do you a lot of good the first chance I get!”

But the madman was not to be fooled so easily.

“Nay, nay! Your bullets would not fly true for me were you alive,” declared the giant. “I am the Mad Hunter. Have you heard of me?”

“I have heard of such a character,” admitted the captain.

“I am he, and if you know of me you must know that I show mercy to none—not even to one wearing the uniform you do. No, no! I spare neither my own race—for I was white once, before I became like the beasts that perish—nor the redskin. All fall before me.”

The man spoke with intensity; yet not a motion gave the officer hope of his chance to spring on him. The man’s nerves were of steel; he held the rifle as though it and his own body were of stone; yet the glittering eyes showed his victim that if he dropped his hands a bullet would end his career on the instant.

“But, you know, I haven’t harmed you, my poor man,” said the officer.

“All mankind are my foes,” said the Mad Hunter, in his strong monotone, and without moving. “Come! the night draws near, and I have yet to travel many miles to my cave in the mountains.”

“Don’t let me detain you, old man,” said the officer. “Won’t it do just as well another day?”

“Come! prepare to die. If you have prayers to say, repeat them quickly. It is growing dark.”

Now, the officer didn’t care how dark it got before the madman fired. Indeed, he would have been glad if it suddenly became pitch-dark—so dark that he might dodge away and escape the sinister weapon which held its “bead” on his breast. He gave up all hope of “talking the fellow out of it.” The madman meant to kill him, and unless some miracle averted the fate, he would very quickly be a dead man!

The madman was a giant in build and strength. He remembered now having heard the scouts tell many strange stories of the Mad Hunter about the camp-fire. For years he had been tracking about the Rockies, appearing unexpectedly in first one locality and then another; sometimes committing atrocious murders of inoffensive people. But usually his presence was noted by the scouts by the dead bodies of Indians, their bodies mutilated by a cross gashed with the madman’s knife over their hearts. He put this insignia upon every redskin he killed, so that even the savages—who feared him as some spirit and altogether supernatural—knew who to lay the death of their friends to when the Mad Hunter was about.

Whether the giant had a habit of marking his white victims in the same way, the captain did not know; but it was a suggestion that did not tranquilize his nerves. To cope with the giant he knew would be impossible. He was a tall and strong man himself; but the maniac could have handled three men like the officer with ease. A movement toward his revolver or sword would be a signal for his death. Yet the officer could not stand here helplessly and allow the maniac to shoot him down!

In full view below him were the camp-fires of his men. The valley had grown dark now, but surely they could see him clearly standing here on the summit of the ridge. His body must loom big against the sky-line. Yet it was plain they did not see the giant with him.

He stood in the shadow of the thicket where he had hidden at the officer’s approach. It was behind him, and made him invisible to the men in the valley. To call for aid would bring the end more quickly. So he waited in silence, hoping against hope that some mad freak of the maniac’s mind and humor might work for his salvation.

If the Mad Hunter kept his word, the officer had but a few minutes to live. He looked all about the vicinity, hoping he might see some chance of help. It was a desperate—a really hopeless thought. Who or what could save him now?

Suddenly his eyes became fixed upon the spur of a hill that jutted out across a shallow valley. The lingering rays of the sun touched the hill-spur redly. It seemed much nearer to him than it really was, and along its brink came a horse and rider!

The officer gasped; then held his breath, and did not change the mask of his face. He had learned long since to hide emotion; but this was a terrible situation, and he had almost lost his nerve.

The horseman had evidently been about to descend into the valley, when his glance fell upon the two men standing like statues upon the opposite ridge. He could see the giant huntsman, if the soldiers in the other valley could not. He saw at once the attitude of both men and understood. He drew rein, and the officer at the same moment recognized him. Unconsciously his lips parted, and the name of the rider came from the officer in a quick gasp:

“Buffalo Bill!”

The keen ear of the mad hercules caught the name, and, turning like a panther at bay, he saw the scout on the distant spur. As he moved, the officer’s hands dropped, and he seized the revolver from his belt. Throwing it forward, he pulled the trigger as the madman wheeled again toward him.

But the hammer fell without exploding the cartridge. The madman laughed aloud.

“No, no!” he shouted. “The bullet is not cast that will kill the Mad Hunter! The cartridge is not made that will injure me!”

The officer found his pistol-hammer jammed. He could not cock the weapon again. With a wild shriek the maniac dropped his rifle, and, drawing his knife, flung himself at his victim, intending evidently to kill him with those slashes across the breast which usually marked his dead.

But in that awful moment the doomed man’s eyes turned upon the distant spur, and he beheld the rifle rise to the horseman’s shoulder. Desperate as was the chance, Buffalo Bill intending risking a shot to save him. He flung himself backward, as the madman came on, leaving the field clear for the scout to fire.

CHAPTER XXXI.
BUFFALO BILL’S GREAT SHOT.

In that instant, as he was falling backward upon the ground, knowing that if the huge madman reached him before Buffalo Bill’s bullet reached its mark he would be a dead man, a clear perception of the great mistake he had made flashed through the captain’s mind. He remembered that that morning when cleaning his revolver he had noticed something wrong with the hammer, and had put it aside, unloaded, to attend to later in the day. But as he started from the camp that evening to walk up the hill, and Texas Jack had called his warning to him, he had picked up the weapon and thrust it into his belt without looking at it.

Had he not made this error he would have shot the Mad Hunter dead in that instant when the giant turned his head to look across the little valley. As he went backward, the officer flung away his useless revolver and clutched at his sword. But he could not get it from its scabbard in time. It was but half-drawn when he landed upon his back with a shock that almost deprived him of his senses!

Fearful, indeed, were the chances against the officer. He was absolutely helpless then, and like a tiger-cat the madman had sprung at his falling body. He actually was in the air with the blade of his knife poised to thrust downward into the officer’s breast when the latter heard the crack of Buffalo Bill’s rifle on the other hillside.

The keen eye of the scout on horseback had noted every move of the game on the ridge. He recognized the officer, and he guessed who the other man must be when he saw his threatening attitude. It was a long shot, and there was danger at first of his hitting the captain instead of his foe.

But when the former flung himself backward the scout dared fire. And he pulled the trigger just in the nick of time. The maniac was already plunging forward to knife the supine soldier when the bullet sped on its mission.

With a scream the madman pitched forward, over-leaping his victim, and falling on his face upon the ground, the knife being plunged hilt deep into the soft earth! A red streak showed across his scalp where the bullet had grazed the man’s crown.

“Bravo, bravo, Buffalo Bill! I owe my life to him—and Heaven knows I was never in closer quarters with death!” cried the officer, as he leaped up and drew his sword to further defend himself.

But the huge form lay still. The Mad Hunter lay unconscious. Therefore, turning to the opposite hill, he waved his hat, which he had picked up, to the horseman who was now spurring down into the valley. An answering yell from Buffalo Bill showed that he saw the officer was safe.

The rifle-shot and the shout of the Border King was unheard down there in the bigger valley; all this tragic happening had been in sight of the camp of the troopers, yet had chanced to go unnoticed. It was the scout who had come upon the scene in the nick of time, and who again had proved himself a hero.

With rapid bounds the scout urged his big white charger up the hill, from the shadows below to the twilight of the ridge summit. Finally he pulled up, threw himself from the saddle, and the officer caught his gauntleted hand.

“God bless you, Cody!”

“Captain Ed. Keyes!”

“Always in the right place at the right time, scout. Another minute, and that old madman would have sent me on my long journey, and no mistake!”

“I came blamed near being in the wrong place, captain,” said Cody seriously. “That was a long shot. I was taking great chances, and if you hadn’t flung yourself backward I should have scarcely risked firing at all.”

Then he turned to view the prostrate form of the madman, and said:

“It’s that crazy fellow they talk about, isn’t it?”

“So he said. He seemed to be proud of his reputation.”

“The Mad Hunter!”

“Yes. And mad he certainly is—poor fellow. I suppose he’s not to be blamed for what he can’t help. But he’s better dead than at large. Ugh! Another moment, and he’d had his devil’s cross slashed on my breast, I fancy.”

“You had a narrow squeak, sir.”

“I certainly did. Is he dead?”

Buffalo Bill was stooping over the giant. He turned him over so that his face was visible in the half-light.

“That shot oughtn’t to have killed him,” muttered the scout, noting the course of his bullet.

“It certainly couldn’t have hurt his brain any more than it was queered. He’s breathing, isn’t he?”

But Buffalo Bill did not immediately reply. He had suddenly fallen silent, and when Captain Keyes looked at the scout in surprise he saw that his eyes were fixed with a most strange expression upon the unconscious madman’s face.

“What’s the matter, Cody?” the officer asked.

The scout still made no reply. It is doubtful if he heard his superior officer. He seemed devouring the features of the unconscious man.

Little of the face could be seen for the matted beard and hair. Yet the angles of the cheek-bones and jaw were easily traced; likewise, the penthouse brows and deeply sunken eyes. The nose was prominent—a handsome nose, with its point thin and flexible, and the nostrils well marked.

“No—no,” murmured the scout at last. “I never could have seen him before—never!”

“What’s the matter with you, Cody?”

Buffalo Bill looked up at him, and wet his lips before speaking.

“I—I thought I saw a ghost, Captain Keyes—a ghost! My God! and it’s no wonder, with my mind full of the horror I have seen already this evening. It—it was Danforth—he’s got into my mind, and I can’t forget him.”

“Dick Danforth—Lieutenant Danforth?”

“Aye—the poor boy himself.”

“What under the sun has Dick got to do with this madman?”

“Oh—nothing! nothing!” exclaimed Cody, leaping up. “But I have to report a very terrible thing, captain.”

“Not about Dick Danforth?”

“It is, sir. Lieutenant Danforth is dead—dead with all his men!”

“No!”

“It is the awful truth, sir.”

“I cannot believe it, Cody. You are beside yourself. You look strange, man!”

“Aye, and you would look strange yourself had you seen what I have seen, Captain Keyes.”

“Tell me!”

“I was on my way to Fort Advance with the news when I happened to see you—as I supposed, facing a grizzly bear over on this ridge.”

“He was worse than a grizzly,” said Keyes, with a glance at the giant. “But give me the particulars——”

“Boyd Bennett has joined the Sioux, betrayed Danforth and his men into a trap, and the whole party were wiped out.”

“My God, Cody!”

“It is so. I saw them. I was captured by Bennett, indeed. It was within a few miles of Oak Heart’s big village.”

“Ha! And did you see the wily old scoundrel himself?”

“Oak Heart?”

“Yes.”

“No; but I saw a representative of the chief;” and he repeated the story of his coming upon the field of carnage and his adventure with Bennett and the White Antelope, while Keyes hurried him down the hillside toward the troopers’ camp.

CHAPTER XXXII.
THE BORDER KING’S PLEDGE.

With him Captain Keyes had over a hundred cavalrymen, a company of mounted infantry, and two mountain howitzers, numbering, with the artillerymen and scouts, nearly two hundred men—a strong flying column, that could move rapidly and stand off a big force of Indians. They were then encamped not twenty miles from the main village of the Sioux, and not much more than half that distance from the coulée where Danforth’s squadron had been overcome.

The coming of Buffalo Bill, although it had been most timely for Captain Keyes, and had undoubtedly saved his life, cast a mantle of gloom over the encampment. Although the men had been warned to turn in early, because of the work before them on the morrow, they stood or sat around the camp-fires until late, discussing the terrible intelligence the scout had brought.

And at the officers’ quarters, Buffalo Bill had to relate the story all over again to an eager band of listeners. All had known Dick Danforth, and his death was greatly deplored.

As soon as he could get away, and had eaten a bit of supper, Cody sought out his faithful partner, Jack Omohondreau.

“Jack, old man, did you ever see the Wild Huntsman?”

“What! this fellow who come pretty near bowling over the captain—the Mad Hunter?”

“Yes.”

“Never. But I’ve seen his spoor—and I’ve seen his work.”

“Meaning his dead?”

“Yep. Two redskins. He didn’t do a thing but hash them up. Ugh!”

“I don’t think I killed him up there. Will you get a couple of torches, and bring two other fellows you can trust, and help me make a search for him?”

“Lord! Want to put the finishing touch on him—eh?”

“No. I must bring him down here and have the surgeon give him what care he can.”

“Whew! You’d best roll him over a precipice by mistake.”

“The man is mad.”

“Well, then, he isn’t missing much, if he cashes in.”

“But perhaps he can be cured.”

“Well, are you going to tackle the cure?”

“I want to see if he’s dead first,” said Cody non-committingly. “Go find your men—and don’t forget the torches, Jack.”

Texas Jack found both, and the four men searched the ridge thoroughly—or as thoroughly as they could by torchlight; but the gigantic madman was not there. He might have crawled into some hole to hide; anyway, they had to give it up for the night.

As they returned to camp they found an orderly searching industriously for Buffalo Bill.

“Captain Keyes’ compliments, sir, and will you come to his tent at once?”

The scout complied with his request. Keyes had his despatch-box open, and was undoubtedly just inditing his report of the day’s work, and of the intelligence the scout had brought him, to his commander at Fort Advance. He motioned the scout to a camp-stool.

“Sit down, Cody. I want to talk with you.”

Buffalo Bill obeyed.

“We have deeded to divide the command. I shall go myself with the first division on to the place where our poor brave fellows lie, and attend to the burial of their bodies. The rest of my party will form a reserve squad with the howitzers—in case of treachery.”

“There will be no treachery, Captain Keyes. I know Oak Heart.”

“But you say that deserter, Bennett, has influence in the tribe.”

“Not enough to make the old chief break his word.”

“Best to be sure, anyway. Now, there’s a point I wish to discuss with you. I know your confounded quixotism, Cody. You certainly don’t propose to keep your promise to that squaw and go alone to the Indian encampment?”

“I do mean just that, sir.”

At this the officer rose to his feet and spoke vigorously.

“Cody, you sha’n’t do it! By the nine gods of war! it’s foolish—it’s insane!”

“I have promised.”

“But I forbid you!”

“I can’t help that, sir; but if you will think a moment, you will see that it is quite out of your jurisdiction. I was the reds’ prisoner. They did not have to let me go at all. My life is hostage to them yet. They have trusted me—and, God knows, enough white men have lied to them.”

“Then I’ll attack their camp, small as my force is.”

“You will compass my death sure enough if you do,” said the scout, shaking his head.

“But, Cody, of all white men alive, you are the one they most wish to see dead!”

“So be it.”

“Be reasonable.”

“They desire to make my closer acquaintance, and I intend to give them the chance,” said Buffalo Bill, smiling.

“Never, Cody!”

“But I——”

“I’ll hear no ‘buts,’ scouts. If you persist in such a foolish intention I’ll put you in the guard-house and keep you under arrest until you come to your senses.”

“I’m afraid I’ll grow gray in the guard-house, then,” laughed Buffalo Bill, who knew that his friend did not mean this.

“But you were forced to make the promise to save your life. Therefore, the promise was given under durance and cannot hold.”

“The redskins have few lawyers,” said Cody, with a smile. “That sophistry would not appeal to them.”

“It’s sure death!”

“I’m not so sure of that. However, I must go to Oak Heart’s camp. I may risk my life, but I hope to accomplish a purpose that I have in mind.”

The officer saw that the scout was determined, and that his will could not be shaken.

“It seems like being a party to your murder to let you go, scout,” said Captain Keyes gloomily. “And you saved my life, too!”

“Let us hope for the best, sir,” said the scout quietly, as he bowed himself out of the officer’s tent.

Before dawn Buffalo Bill and a squad of men sent by Captain Keyes went to the ridge to hunt the live—or dead—body of the Mad Hunter. In an hour, and just before the column was ready to start, the squad returned without Cody.

“Where is the scout, sergeant?” asked Captain Keyes.

“He left us upon the ridge, sir,” said the man, saluting.

“Left you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And where did he go?”

“He struck a trail, sir, and said he would be off on it.”

“What sort of trail?”

“The Mad Hunter’s trail. We could not find the man, but Mr. Cody saw where he had walked away, and he started in pursuit.”

“He’s gone farther than that!” exclaimed Captain Keyes, shaking his head. “What say, Texas Jack?”

Omohondreau, who knew of Buffalo Bill’s promise to the White Antelope, nodded.

“He’s gone to the Injun camp,” said the brother scout, “and it’s a toss-up if it isn’t ‘good-by, Bill Cody!’ for good and all!”

CHAPTER XXXIII.
TRACKING THE MAD HUNTER.

After a night of uneasy repose, in which the thoughts engendered by his first sight of the Mad Hunter’s face had ridden him like a nightmare, Buffalo Bill was determined to make a thorough search for the maniac. Had he not believed the evening before that the man was likely to remain unconscious until roused by the efforts of the surgeon, he would have begged Captain Keyes to let him stay by the maniac until help could come. He was deeply disappointed when he and Jack Omohondreau could not find the giant.

In the morning he had searched patiently, struck the trail of the madman, and, as the sergeant reported, had started at once to follow and run the maniac down. He had brought his horse, and having left the soldiers, he mounted Chief and followed the big footprints of the wild man at a round trot for some distance.

How seriously the man was wounded, Cody did not know; but his quarry did not seem to try to hide his trail. Straight along the ridge it led, then down into the little valley the scout had ridden across the night before, and so up the range of hills on the other side. Something about the walking of the big man puzzled the scout greatly, and suddenly Buffalo Bill spurred his horse to the summit of a high hill, that he might take a survey of the country over which it seemed the madman might pass.

The soldiers were under way now, and, first of all, Cody saw them traversing a defile at one side, up which they had come from the bivouac of the past night. A steep bluff towered beside them where they were then marching as Buffalo Bill came out upon the back-bone of the range.

The course he had taken in following the madman’s trail had brought the scout out ahead of the marching column. But it was not upon them that his gaze became fastened. Instead, a single moving object upon the summit of the bluff in the shadow of which the soldiers marched held his attention. This object was more than a mile ahead of the soldiery, and would never be noticed from the valley below.

In an instant Buffalo Bill divined the identity of the moving object, and the nature of the work which engaged its attention. The ridge of land on which he stood was unbroken to the bluff itself. He set spurs to Chief and raced along the highlands, knowing that he would not likely be seen by the soldiers, and therefore must do alone what he could to avert the catastrophe which he saw imminent.

Thwarted the night before when he sought the life of Captain Keyes, the Mad Hunter was trying to compass a worse crime. The moving form Buffalo Bill knew to be the maniac, and he saw that he was gathering huge rocks into a pile, which he proposed to push over upon the soldiers as they passed below the bluff!

It was a fiendish plan, and well worthy of the man’s insane cunning. Buffalo Bill spurred on, and came to a place not many yards behind the Mad Hunter without the latter’s being aware of his presence, so intent was he in the work.

Leaving his horse and rifle, the scout, with soft tread and every sense alert, crept up behind the busy lunatic. He saw that the Mad Hunter had put aside his own arms, the better to toil at his horrid trap. With a single shot from his revolver the scout might have dropped the maniac dead, and so relieved the world of a dangerous creature—a being neither man nor brute. But the scout did not wish to hurt the giant.

Finally, without being discovered, the scout stood within twenty feet of the Mad Hunter. His eyes were as fierce as a wolf’s, his hands opened and shut with nervous clutches, and his lips moved continuously as he whispered to himself. Yet something familiar in the contour of the poor creature’s face held Cody spellbound. He was moved as he had been the night before when he had first looked upon the features of the wild man.

Nearer and nearer drew the column of soldiers, for through a gap in the edge of the bluff Cody could mark their progress. Captain Keyes and his officers, and Texas Jack, rode ahead. The madman prepared to tip his monument of rocks over upon their devoted heads!

Suddenly the Mad Hunter picked up a great stone—one that the scout was sure no two ordinary men could lift—and, picking his victim on the plain below, was about to fling it down. Cody quickly dashed across the intervening space, and, revolver in hand, tapped the madman on the shoulder.

With a sudden inspiration the scout shouted into the man’s ear a name he had not spoken himself for a dozen years—the name of a man who, until the night before, he had believed long since dead.

The Mad Hunter turned in a flash. He dropped the rock. He stared at the scout with wondering gaze. His eyes grew somber as the light of insane rage died out of them. He whispered at last:

“Who—who calls me by that name? Speak!”

Trembling violently, he gazed upon the scout with some shadow of reason struggling to dawn in his expression. It was elusive—fleeting—yet the scout knew that he had touched a chord of memory that shook the man to the foundation of his being.

“Who speaks that name after all these years?” cried the madman again.

“I am Bill Cody—Cody, your old pal. Cody, the man you knew on the Rio Grande!” exclaimed the scout, his own voice shaking, for the discovery he had made passed the bounds of reason.

The strange being shook his head slowly.

“No. You may be whom you say; but the man you spoke of first is dead—dead—a long time dead!”

Buffalo Bill, however, was gaining confidence in his discovery all the time.

“You’re the man! I know you are. Think, man! Send back your memory to those old times. Remember the work we did together. Remember—remember your wife—your child——”

With a shriek like nothing human, with a face that changed in a flash to that of a demoniac, the Mad Hunter hurled himself, bare-handed, at the scout’s throat.

“Fiend! Fiend from the pit!” he yelled. “You have come to torment me and taunt me! Ah! for long have I escaped your taunts; but now you have returned!”

His heartrending cry almost unmanned the scout. He saw that he had touched the wrong chord with the madman. Reminded of the loss of his wife and child, the victim of this awful fate had been thrown into a paroxysm of rage.

For an instant Buffalo Bill hesitated. That hesitation came near to costing him his life. The maniac was upon him and seized his pistol-hand before he could make up his mind to fire at his old friend. The madman’s other hand tightened on the scout’s throat. They swayed upon the edge of the precipice.

Seconds dragged like hours in that struggle. Buffalo Bill had met more than his match in this wild being. Suddenly he heard a cry below:

“Hold, Cody! for God’s sake, hold!”

It was Captain Keyes’ voice. It inspired the sinking scout to make one final and desperate effort. He half-tore him self free of the giant’s clutch.

“Steady! Texas Jack has got the drop on him!” yelled the voice of Keyes again.

Instantly there came the sharp crack of a rifle. The maniac jumped slightly, and his awful grip loosened. The scout tore himself completely away, spattered by the maniac’s blood.

The latter whirled about, back to the brink of the bluff, clutched helplessly at the air with his great hands, and pitched down the declivity. He was dead before he struck the bottom—a heap of broken bones and bruised flesh!

Texas Jack mounted the cliff to see if the scout was all right. He found Cody wiping the blood from his face, and very grave of look.

“Had to shoot him, old man. ’Twas you or him, yuh know,” said the brother scout.

“I know it, Jack. I can only thank you. But I am sorry—bitterly sorry. I knew that man when he was a right good fellow. Ask Captain Keyes to give him decent burial, and to mark the grave—mark it with the letter ‘D.’”

With these words Cody shook hands with his pard and hastened away to where Chief was quietly feeding. In a moment he was riding hard away from the spot where the terrible tragedy had taken place.

Captain Keyes complied with Cody’s request, but was sorry that the scout had evidently gone on his mission of death—for the officer could look at the visit to the Indian encampment in no other light.

He had divided his force, as he said he should, and the vanguard went on to the coulée and buried the dead. All the redskins had been removed, and the place was deserted of the living. But when they came to search for Dick Danforth’s body, intending to remove it to the fort with them, it was not to be found. The brave lieutenant, for whose scalp Buffalo Bill had pleaded with White Antelope, had disappeared from the field of battle.

CHAPTER XXXIV.
RED KNIFE LOSES HIS “MEDICINE.”

At the time the fire burst out in the great forest and Buffalo Bill, the Border King, and his partner, Texas Jack, were chased by the flames, a young buck of Oak Heart’s tribe of Utah Sioux was likewise in the path of the flames. He had been out after a bear, because his father, an old brave now toothless and unable to follow in the chase, had expressed a desire for bear paws, roasted.

The government of Indian society is strictly patriarchal. The father of a family demands, and is accorded, the greatest respect. Besides, it is a trait of Indian character to care for and respect the aged. The aged men of the tribe usually mold its opinions in both peace and war.

Besides, Red Knife, as this young buck was named, was not a married man. He was what the whites would have called “an old bach.” He had no teepee of his own, but it was a notorious fact that he cast longing glances toward White Antelope, the cherished daughter of Oak Heart and the flower of the Sioux maidens. He had gone hunting for the bear because his father was fond of bear paws, but with the claws, and others in his possession, he hoped to make a cunning necklace that would be acceptable to the chief’s daughter.

Red Knife had lately become of moment in the tribe. It had been his hand that had finally felled the chief of the pony soldiers who were killed in the coulée, and whom Death Killer had tried to scalp. Red Knife hoped in time to become so important that the White Antelope would really look at him with favor, instead of ignoring him altogether.

The buck had obtained a single shot at his bearship, wounding him with a barbed arrow, and had driven him into a thicket toward the close of the day. Suddenly the smoke that had been hanging over the hilltops for hours swooped down upon the Indian and his quarry, and following the smoke came the fire—a deluge of flame!

The bear suddenly lost his fear of the redskin, and the latter lost his desire to take bear paws to his teepee.

The crackling of the flames as they leaped down the wooded side-hills into the valley warned both hunter and hunted that there was no time to lose. The bear burst out of the thicket, the arrow still sticking in his rump, and waddled off for running water at a great pace. The Indian had chased the beast into unfamiliar territory, and now he took advantage of his prey’s instinct. He followed the bear.

Through brush and bramble, over rocky way and swampy land, the bear and the man raced. At times they were almost side by side, and neither paid the least attention to the other. Lighter and swifter creatures passed the two like the wind; the bear and the redskin plugged along doggedly, as though running for a wager.

They were not in the neighborhood of Bendigo Lake, so they did not meet up with either the two scouts or with the Mad Hunter. It was a stream which the bear, back in his little brain, knew would be running full even at this dry season. They reached it barely in time to save themselves from being withered by the flames. The bear’s fur was indeed smoking.

He plunged over the bank into the deep, dark pool. Red Knife went after bruin, landing squarely on the bear’s back, eliciting only the notice of a grunt from the beast as he sank to the bottom of the pool and let the flames roar overhead.

The redskin stayed below the surface as long as he could, too. He could feel the bear beside him all the time. He might have flung himself upon the beast with his knife and killed him. It were better had he done so.

But at the time Red Knife was too perturbed to think of killing his companion in misery. When the redskin came up to breathe, the fiery brands showered upon him so thickly that he was glad to sink again. It was some time before it was safe for him to squat, with his head out of water.

And there were the redskin and the bear, both on their haunches, with their noses stuck out of the pool like two bullfrogs. As the heat grew less intense and the brands stopped falling, the bear and the man began eying each other with less favor. Each recovered from his panic and began to remember that they were deadly enemies.

The bear growled and shifted his position to a distance from the red; the latter got out his knife—the only weapon he had saved—and in moments when he was not dodging flying fire planned what he would do should bruin take it into his head to attack.

This deep pool in the brook was no proper arena for a bear-fight—especially when the human antagonist had simply a knife. Red Knife thought some of sinking to the bottom of the pool again and making the attack himself by trying to drive his blade into some vulnerable part of the beast.

But the difficulty of using his knife with any surety, or putting any force behind the blow under water, detained him from trying this. Besides, the bear, if killed or badly injured, would sink and might pinion the redskin to the bottom of the brook.

Therefore, as soon as he could see at all through the rolling smoke, and the worst of the flames had passed, leaving a thicket or dead tree only blazing in its wake here and there, the redskin made up his mind that he would better trust to the dry ground. His moccasins were well-nigh torn from his feet by his furious race through the forest, and his meager clothing in general had been seriously torn. There was little to shield him from the fire if he came forth, but the water of the brook was ice-cold, and hardy as the Red Knife was its chill had now set his teeth to playing like castanets.

The bear whined with the cold, too, but the next moment he growled as Red Knife made a movement toward him. If the beast once got a hold with his front paws on the redskin he would disembowel him with the great claws of his hind feet. Red Knife shrank farther away from the bear’s vicinity.

At this bruin plucked up courage. He growled again, came down off his haunches, and began to swim across the pool toward the Indian. The latter saw that it was his move—and the only place for him to move to was out of the water. So he backed into the shallower part of the stream and toward a part of the bank that was comparatively clear of fire.

The heat and smoke were still almost blistering. To leave the water was a cross indeed. But the bear continued to advance, and Red Knife did not consider that he wished to come immediately to close quarters with the brute.

As he backed out of the stream the heat of a near-by blazing thicket warmed him more than comfortably. The chill was driven out of his body, and his teeth stopped chattering. Fearful as he was of the fire—all wild beasts hate it—the bear found the increasing warmth grateful, too. He scrambled out upon the bank, too, and actually squatted down in the heat of the bonfire to dry himself.

Red Knife looked about him as well as he could for the drifting smoke, and picked out the apparently safest path from the spot. Had he been contented to decamp without stirring up the bear, he would have been all right. But an Indian loves to tell of his prowess around the camp-fire, and so far there had been very little in this adventure to suggest a tale of self-glorification.

Therefore the buck determined to have those bear paws for his father and the claws for the necklace, after all!

He hunted out a big stone, pried it out of the smoking ground with his knife, and, picking it up, poised it carefully for a cast. With a sudden grunt of anger, the bear rose up. He seemed to smell trouble in the air. His movement rather spoiled Red Knife’s aim, or else the buck was nervous. The stone, thrown with terrific force, just glanced from bruin’s hard skull!

With a roar the bear sprang at the foolish red man. He came all glaring eyes, froth-dripping fangs, and unsheathed claws—a sight to drive the barb of terror into the bravest heart!

The redskin found himself walled in by fire behind. He leaped for the pool again, but the bear reached him with one paw first. The stroke ripped his hunting-shirt and leggings fairly from his body. Nothing but shreds of the garments were left and hung upon him—along with shreds of his torn flesh!

The redskin yelled and leaped into the water. The bear growled and plunged after him. As he came up Red Knife saw the great body of the beast going down, and he struck at it with his blade again and again. The sharp steel was buried in the body of the brute at each stroke, but all about the shoulders—a part not at all vital.

Again and again Red Knife struck before the bear came to the surface, but, although the blood flowed until the agitated pool was dyed red, the bear came up as strong and as ugly as ever.

Red Knife threw himself backward and escaped the first plunging blows of the bear. He reached shallow water and leaped ashore, being more agile in this than his bearship. But in doing so he chanced to slip and turn his ankle. The pain was very great for a moment, and the Indian fell to the ground, giving the bear a chance to almost overtake him.

Instantly, however, the red turned and struck at his bearship before the latter could seize him with its great, slobbering jaws. An attack always puts a bear on the defensive. He squatted back on his haunches, ready to either hug his enemy or to strike at him with his great forearms, which swung like flails!

Red Knife clambered to his feet, but he could not run. The bear would overtake him now in a short race. He poised himself on one foot, holding his dripping blade before him, and, believing himself come to the end of his time, the stoical Indian began to chant the death-song.

The growling of the bear almost drowned this cry of the Indian. The latter advanced to embrace death, yet determined to sell his last breath dearly.

The flaillike arms of the bear swung to and fro; he champed his teeth and roared. The Indian flung himself with the desperation of a berserker upon the animal, striking again and again with his keen blade.

Two awful raking blows the bear got in himself. It stripped the last rag from the Indian’s body, and broke the string of the amulet he wore about his neck, as well. They clinched like two men wrestling, and so rolled into the pool.

Splash! they went under the surface. Bubbles and gore rose to the agitated top of the water.

Then one of the contestants floated up, struggled a bit, secured a footing, and slowly walked ashore. It was the Indian. It was Red Knife, as naked as when he was born. He sank upon the bank of the stream, the conqueror in a good fight. But he had no joy in his heart. Instead, he was filled with gloom. In the struggle and the last plunge in the pool he had lost his medicine-bag!

CHAPTER XXXV.
THE SEARCH FOR NEW MEDICINE.

When a young brave comes to man’s estate his initiation into the religion of his tribe is a great matter. Heretofore he has had no real name. He has been called by several names, perhaps, but they have been those given him by his parents, and are perhaps only the pet names of childhood. Now he is a man and gets the name which in war and on the hunt he is hopeful of making great and long-remembered by the tribe.

Red Knife belonged to the family of the Crow. The signification of that family was painted upon his father’s wigwam, as it would be upon his own when he set up a domicile for himself.

So the medicine-man had put into a bag the dried entrails of a crow, its hard, black claws, and some of its feathers, with various other charms against evil. The young man had watched all night upon a lonely hill, fasting, to guard his shield and arms, as well as the new medicine, from those spirits that are ever warring against human beings—according to the Indian code—and had in other ways proved himself worthy of being a brave in the councils of the Sioux.

The bag, which had been fastened about Red Knife’s neck, was as precious to the Indian as his soul! Having lost it, he had lost caste and all else that an Indian holds of value. He would be considered apostate from the faith of his fathers; all that he had done heretofore in war and the chase would be held as nothing. He would be outcast from his kind, having lost his medicine, unless he could by some wonderful performance, or by some mysterious chance, find and appropriate a new medicine.

There are just so many medicines in the world, according to the Indian belief; there is one for each man. Having lost his medicine, it could not be replaced by the medicine chief or by any other ordinary means. He could not kill an enemy and take his medicine for his own; for as soon as a man is dead the virtue of his medicine accompanies him on the journey to the happy hunting-grounds.

No man would be so foolish as to sell his medicine at any price. With his last breath he will fight for that amulet. Red Knife was undone indeed as he sat there beside the bloody pool. All the manhood had gone out of him. His hard fight and his many wounds seemed as nothing to him now. He was bereft of his choicest possession and could not be comforted.

Yet a desire to be with his kind, to see the faces of his tribesmen again, drove the young man finally from his position. The fire had gone from the forest, and it was midday of the second day before he rose to his feet. The decomposing gases in the body of the bear had brought it to the surface. Red Knife hobbled down, cut off the paws and strung them about his neck, flayed the carcass, cut off some flesh for his own consumption, found a flint-stone, and with the back of his knife struck off sparks which lit a fire, and after eating and renewing his strength he wrapped himself in the gory robe and started for Oak Heart’s village.

This encampment had been well out of the line of the forest fire and had not been disturbed by it. Red Knife reached it in the night and came to his father’s lodge. But he did not venture within. He was pariah—outcast—the lowest of the low.

His mother gave him food in the morning, but his father sent back the bear’s paws. It was soon known that Red Knife had lost his medicine, and the head of the Crow family could not accept food at his hand. Of course, Red Knife knew it would be useless to make the bear claws into a necklace for the White Antelope. She would look at him less now than before. Besides, the White Antelope remained in her lodge, with one old woman, her nurse, most of the time. There was something very mysterious about the movements of the daughter of the chief.

This did not interest Red Knife much at the time, however. He was past thinking of women. His own people looked at him askance. Nobody spoke to him; he was welcome in no lodge, and the very clothing which his mother flung him seemed begrudged. All Indians must harden their hearts against a being so cursed of the Great Spirit that he had lost his medicine!

He could enter no council of his tribe; he had no voice in the general affairs; he could join in none of the sports. All that he had done before was forgotten. Even that he had brought low the white chief who had led the pony soldiers to the battle in the coulée counted nothing for Red Knife now. He was outcast.

Red Knife could not stand for this long. An Indian does not make way with himself. A suicide wanders forever between this life and that to come, and is never at rest. But Red Knife was nearly desperate enough to resort to this awful finish.

At least he determined to go out from among his people and never to return until he had found a new medicine and obtained a new name for himself—in other words, until he could demand the respect of his family and of his tribe.

Now he crept out of the encampment, and from a high hill muttered his farewell address to his home and his people. He would not be Red Knife when he returned—if he returned at all. All the encampment knew that, but only one figure stood by his father’s lodge to watch him go. He knew that was his mother, but it was beneath him to notice a squaw!

Now this young buck had set forth on a search as great as that for the Golden Fleece or the Holy Grail of old! Had the tribe a Homer, some great saga might have been written regarding the labor Red Knife had set himself.

To go forth and kill an enemy and take his medicine was a simple matter. But the medicine of another would surely bring bad luck to the scion of the family of Crow. And to find a man with two medicines—ah! that were a well-nigh impossible task! And, when found, would such a fortunate person be willing to give up his extra medicine? To fight for it might end in the death of the first possessor, and then would the virtue go from the medicine and it become a curse to Red Knife.

The young man left his village and journeyed aimlessly for two days through the mountains. So unnoticing was he that finally he came to a place where he did not know his way out. He was not so far from Oak Heart’s village, but its direction he did not know for sure. And this valley in which he found himself seemed an uninhabited place.

Many of the braves were out on hunting bent, but Red Knife had not seen any of them for twenty-four hours. Nor had he beheld a white man until, coming down to drink at the edge of the stream which watered this valley, he suddenly saw a figure in buckskin sitting upon a great, white horse on the opposite side of the stream. In the fading light of the evening the being looked gigantic to the red man—who was in a state of mind to see ghosts or anything else eerie! The strange figure was that of a white man. He had hair flowing to his shoulders, and he sat his horse with folded arms, staring off into the distance, evidently wrapped in deep thought.

The wind was with the brave, and the horse even did not notice his presence. Red Knife might have crossed the stream and leaped upon the unsuspicious white man. Yet his mind was not upon killing, and when he finally recognized the stranger as the far-famed Pa-e-has-ka or Long Hair he feared and would not, single-handed, have attempted the man’s death.

Seldom might Buffalo Bill have been so easily caught napping. But he had seen no trace of Indians in the valley; he had ridden through it to this spot, and now his mind had reverted to his deep sorrow regarding Dick Danforth’s death, and he thought of nothing else.

He roused at last from his reverie with a sigh, and glanced about him. His vision fell upon the figure of the young brave standing, likewise with folded arms, upon the edge of the stream. He could not repress a start of surprise at the appearance.

“How!” grunted Red Knife.

“How!” repeated the scout, in English.

Then in the Sioux dialect he said:

“Is it peace, brother?”

“It is peace.”

The scout had seen that the young buck was not panoplied for war, and now he dismounted and came to his side of the stream.

“You are one of Oak Heart’s people?” Cody asked.

“I was Red Knife, of the Sioux.”

The scout overlooked the emphasis on the “was” for the moment. His attention was particularly stung by the name the brave gave.

“‘Red Knife!’” he repeated.

The brave bowed and was silent.

“It was you who killed the white chief of the pony soldiers?” gasped Cody.

Red Knife nodded again.

The scout fiercely gripped the rifle he carried. In his heart he felt like shooting the brave down where he stood. But he repressed this momentary feeling and said:

“I have sworn vengeance against all who had to do with the death of that young man. He was as my son. Will Red Knife fight Pa-e-has-ka? Let him choose his own weapons and come against me that I may kill him in fair fight.”

“I heard of your oath over the dead body of the brave white chief,” said Red Knife. “Pa-e-has-ka is a great chief himself. Red Knife is no match for him. But Red Knife now has no name and is of no people. Would Pa-e-has-ka fight with such a one?”

“What’s the matter?” demanded Cody, in English, suddenly seeing that the young man was in a despondent mood.

“I am an outcast from my people.”

“What’s all that for? I should think the bloody devils would have rejoiced over your killing of poor Danforth,” muttered the scout.

“Let me tell Pa-e-has-ka the tale,” began Red Knife oratorically. “The Sioux did indeed rejoice over the death of the young white chief. Red Knife was then a great warrior. But since misery has come upon him.”

“And serve him right!” muttered Cody.

With many a flourish of flowery phrase, the buck went on to recount his fight with the bear and the loss of his medicine-bag. He displayed the half-healed wounds made by the bear, and Cody saw that the story was true. Knowing well how great a matter this loss was to the Indian, the scout could not help but feeling some pity for him.

Besides, Red Knife had only followed out his savage instincts and code of honor in killing Danforth. And putting aside his personal desire for vengeance, Buffalo Bill saw that he might make use of the young brave. It was not against the ordinary bucks who had been in the fight that the scout felt hatred. Boyd Bennett had lied to Oak Heart, made him believe that Danforth’s expedition was after the old chief, and had led and planned the attack upon the soldiers and brought about their massacre.

It was the renegade—he who called himself Death Killer, medicine chief of the Sioux—whom Buffalo Bill wished to get!

Buffalo Bill had taken many desperate chances in his life. From the time when, as a younker of eleven years, he had hired out to the freighter at Leavenworth to do a man’s work for a man’s pay, and became a messenger riding between the long freight-trains on the overland trail, he had faced death in many forms and on many occasions. But in determining to go to the Sioux encampment to keep his tryst with White Antelope, he seemed to be passing the limit of reckless daring!

Yet he believed that he had a chance for life. He would risk it, at least.

For some days he had scouted about Oak Heart’s encampment, and he had learned that something very strange was going on in that neighborhood. He saw in this meeting with the outcast Red Knife a chance to gain a more intimate knowledge of matters in the encampment before venturing himself in the lion’s mouth.

“Let Red Knife join Pa-e-has-ka upon this side of the brook,” the scout said, at last. “There shall be a truce between them. Pa-e-has-ka will share his meat with Red Knife; Red Knife shall smoke and sleep beside Pa-e-has-ka’s fire.”

If the young brave was astonished at this sudden proffer of friendship, he showed nothing of the kind in his face. He did not even hesitate. He crossed the brook straightly and helped prepare the camp in silence.

The fact was the young Indian had put himself in the hands of the spirits. He believed he was being led. Perhaps this white man had a good medicine which Red Knife might fairly obtain and so become a person of consequence in his tribe again.

CHAPTER XXXVI.
THE MAGIC CUP.

First of all, Cody desired to question the Sioux warrior, and as he prepared a hearty meal he proceeded to draw Red Knife out.

“When did my brother leave the village of his people?”

“It is a night and two days.”

“Is Oak Heart inclined to peace?”

“Oak Heart awaits the coming of the Long Hair, as he promised White Antelope.”

“Very true,” said Cody calmly. “But there is one near Oak Heart who would keep the Long Hair from fulfilling his promise.”

“A warrior?”

“The renegade white, whom you call Death Killer.”

“Ah! Death Killer is a great magician,” declared Red Knife, looking as though he meant it.

“He is a wicked white. He is throwing dirt in the faces of my red brothers. They do not know him.”

“His medicine is wonderful.”

“Yet he could not make new medicine for the Red Knife?” suggested Cody slyly.

“Ah! who could do that?” demanded the brave gloomily.

“I have heard of its being done,” said the scout, and then, before the red man could ask a question, he proceeded: “Death Killer has ringed the camp with his own braves. They lay in wait for Pa-e-has-ka. Is it not so?”

At this Red Knife showed that he was surprised.

“This is bad. This is not known to Oak Heart. Is it so, Long Hair?”

“The Sioux know that Long Hair is not two-tongued,” declared Cody. “This is so. I suspected it, and I have found them watching. Is not Death Killer much from the camp?”

“He is.”

“He goes from watcher to watcher to see that all are in their places. If Long Hair goes straight to the camp of Oak Heart, he will be killed.”

Red Knife shrugged his shoulders and fell silent. Cody saw that, although the young brave considered it none of his business—it was a fight between Long Hair and Death Killer—he did not approve of the latter’s methods. And the scout was convinced, too, that the bulk of the Indians—and Oak Heart himself—knew naught of the trick to which Boyd Bennett had resorted.

Cody had not been foolish enough to ride straight toward Oak Heart’s village when he rode away from the spot where the Mad Hunter had been killed. He had seen in Boyd Bennett’s face, when he had gone free under his promise to the chief’s daughter, that the scoundrel would do all in his power to keep the scout from fulfilling his agreement. Although in going to the Indian village Cody would be taking his life in his hand, still by not appearing there he would lose honor among the reds themselves.

It would be said among the Utah Sioux, and from them spread to the Utes, Arapahoes, and others, that Pa-e-has-ka was afraid to keep his promise. And from the time he first journeyed across the plains Buffalo Bill had kept his agreements in every particular with the red man, friend or foe alike. He was one of the few white men “without guile.” He said what he meant, and meant what he said, and he was considered single-tongued by all, though he was up to every craftiness that his enemies might try upon him.

Cody now wished to undermine the popularity of Boyd Bennett among Oak Heart’s braves. Even if he got through the medicine chief’s guards and reached the council-lodge of the Sioux, he would have to face the influence of the renegade, and that might overcome him to the extent of his life’s sacrifice. The scout was not the man to go blindly into a trap.

Death Killer, as he called himself, was playing the traitor. Cody wished to convince Red Knife of this fact and send him back to the encampment to spread the tale against Death Killer. To this end he used the cunning which he had long cultivated in his association with the redskins.

He well knew the regard in which the Indian holds his medicine-bag. If he could restore to Red Knife his medicine, or, rather, supply him with a new amulet that would make him a man and a citizen again, the scout could command his good offices to almost any extent.

But the scout said nothing further that night. He let his observations regarding the renegade Bennett sink into the red man’s mind. In the morning he fed him bountifully again. When he had finished, Red Knife showed that he had digested Cody’s remarks well, and was in some measure grateful for the entertainment shown him.

“The Long Hair is my brother. He has warmed me and fed me. If the Long Hair really desires to appear before Oak Heart and the old men of the tribe, as he has promised, Red Knife may show him a way.”

“Ah!” exclaimed the scout. “Some way that Death Killer is not guarding with his braves, eh?”

“It may be.”

“In which direction is it?”

“The Long Hair knows the direction of the encampment, perhaps? Red Knife, wandering in broken spirit, has lost his way.”

“Oh, you want to know the direction of the place?”

“It is so. The lodges of his people will not receive Red Knife, but he may point them out, by a secret way, to the Long Hair.”

“Humph! Let’s see the direction,” muttered Cody, and drew from under his shirt a small compass in a brass cup which was hung about his neck by a strong cord.

The Indian’s eyes suddenly glistened. Here was the great white’s chief’s medicine, and Red Knife was greatly interested in medicines just then! He peered closely at the cup which Cody held in his hand. The latter noticed the brave’s eagerness, and he knew instinctively what was passing through the red’s mind.

Therefore the scout made a great show of consulting the compass, holding it in his hand while the little needle waggled cheerfully to his movements, pointing ever to the north. Finally Red Knife spoke—breathlessly:

“Does the magic cup speak to Long Hair? If so, its voice is very low. Does it tell where lies the lodges of my people?”

“It does not speak. But it answers the question,” declared Cody gravely.

“A marvelous magic!” exclaimed Red Knife. “The white chief worships the spirit of the cup?”

“This is a great medicine, Red Knife,” said Cody seriously. “Now mark! We wish to know how to travel to reach the lodges of your people. Long Hair knows that we are south and west of the village. We look into the cup.”

He thrust the compass under the Indian’s nose, and Red Knife had hard work to keep from jumping back.

“Look! See the finger which moves?”

“Ugh! It is magic!” muttered the young brave.

“That finger points ever to the cold land—to the lands from which winter comes. Always to the north it points. Therefore, so standing and facing the north, my right hand points to the sunrise, my left to the sunset,” suiting the action to his words. “Behind me is the south. Therefore, by facing the sunrise and bearing off somewhat to the north of that, we approach the village of Chief Oak Heart.”

“Ugh! It is wonder-work, indeed!” exclaimed Red Knife. “It is a great medicine.”

“It is a great and good medicine. No brave in Red Knife’s tribe has a medicine like this.”

“There are no two medicines alike in this world,” grunted the brave philosophically.

Cody went to the bag strapped to Chief’s saddle, unbuckled a pocket, and brought out a small packet tied in wash-leather and oilskin. When he was in Denver he had made a purchase for a brother scout, but so far had not run up against the man to give it to him. He came back to the fire, squatted down beside Red Knife, and unwrapped the exact counterpart of his own “magic cup,” only this was brighter and unused.

“Waugh!” ejaculated the Indian, starting back.

“You see, here is another of the magic cups. I have long had two medicines,” said Buffalo Bill, drawing slightly on his imagination. “They are good medicines. They have brought me good luck and made me successful in the chase, and in war. The Red Knife has no medicine. What would he do for the possession of this?” and the scout held out the compass temptingly.

Red Knife could barely restrain himself now. His cheeks actually flushed, and his eyes glistened.

“The Red Knife is a man!” he cried. “He will fight the Long Hair for the good medicine.”

“Nay. The Long Hair cannot battle at once with he whom he has fed. The Red Knife and the Long Hair are brothers. The Long Hair will give his red brother the magic cup,” and he thrust the compass into the brave’s willing hand.

“In return,” Cody pursued, “Red Knife will take the tale of Death Killer’s treachery into Oak Heart’s village. Come! Long Hair will show his brother the medicine chief’s braves lurking for the scalp of Long Hair. It is a true tale. Red Knife will tell Oak Heart himself.”

“Waugh! Death Killer is a mighty chief,” said Red Knife hesitatingly.

“And this is a mighty medicine,” suggested the wily scout.

The Indian rose up suddenly and thrust the compass into the breast of his shirt. He had evidently made up his mind.

“It is well,” he said shortly. “Let Long Hair show this truth to me.”

CHAPTER XXXVII.
THE TRAITOR.

Buffalo Bill was too wise to take Chief too near the Indian encampment. The wise white horse could take care of himself in ordinary emergencies, but he would be rather in the way up in the mountains, and the scout left him in a well-grassed valley, while he and Red Knife went on toward the Indian village.

Chief Oak Heart had established himself in a place not easy of access by the pony soldiers, and he had a great contempt for the “walk-a-heaps.” The Sioux are great riders, seldom walking where a pony can carry them, and are contemptuous of all people who do not likewise ride.

Red Knife had left his village afoot. It was a mark of his humility and his desperate straits. The route back to the encampment was so rough that ponies would have been of little use to either the red man or the scout. They were all day in climbing the mountain and finding a pass through to the other side of the ridge. They came out about dark in sight of the valley where the village lay. Its lights were visible to them from the mountainside. They retired to a cave that Red Knife knew of, however, and built their own fire, out of sight.

Red Knife was mightily pleased with his new medicine. He was eager to get down to his people and show its virtues to them. But he had promised two things to the scout. One was to point out a secret trail down into Oak Heart’s camp; the other to spread among the braves the fact of Death Killer’s treachery—providing Cody proved to his satisfaction that the medicine chief was treacherous.

Before daybreak Buffalo Bill awoke his red ally, and they stole out of the cave like shadows. The Border King had marked well the stations of the various braves who were under the medicine chief’s control. They were set at every entrance to the valley by which the scout might have penetrated to the encampment.

At least, such had been the case upon his previous visit, and they were not long at the search before spotting one of these sentinels. At least, he was one of Death Killer’s particular friends, and he was apparently watching a pass through the hills.

The scout and Red Knife approached quite near to him, but Cody would not let his companion speak to the sentinel.

“Wait! Let us see if there are more, as I have told my red brother,” he observed, and they went on to another path. Sure enough, there, grimly camped beside the way, was a second brave, likewise one of those who associated more closely with Boyd Bennett, the renegade. Again they went on, going cautiously now, for it was past sunrise, and found a third watchman.

These plainly were not sentinels placed to guard particularly the camp itself. Those were much nearer the village. These red men were stationed thusly for a particular purpose.

“Is my red brother satisfied that the Long Hair spoke truly?” asked the scout of the young brave.

“Pa-e-has-ka is of single tongue. He does not lie. But Red Knife will first go to Chief Oak Heart and ask him if, by his instruction, these men were sent to bar the way to the lodges of the Sioux. If the great chief knows naught of it, then must Death Killer explain.”

“Tell Oak Heart to remove these guards and Long Hair will appear before him as he promised the White Antelope,” said Cody seriously.

Red Knife solemnly shook hands with him. Although the young brave had, by his own confession, killed Dick Danforth, the scout had been forced to make use of him. Now he gave him a word of warning:

“Although Red Knife is now Long Hair’s friend, and Long Hair has given him of his own strong medicine that Red Knife might be a man among his people, there is still a feud between them. It was Red Knife’s hand that killed the young white chief, whom Long Hair loved. When next we meet let Red Knife beware.”

“It is just,” admitted the Indian solemnly. “Let us go.”

He led Cody then to the hidden path which would enable the scout to pass all of Death Killer’s sentinels and, indeed, most of the guards of the village, and so ride almost into the encampment itself without being seen. Then, without a word further, the young brave turned his face toward his father’s lodge.

Buffalo Bill sat down and smoked his pipe while he watched him along the trail into the valley. He could watch Red Knife for a long distance before the young man came out upon the bluff which overlooked the valley where the encampment lay. Until that time he could not be seen from below.

Suddenly Buffalo Bill saw a figure among the rocks near the path which Red Knife was following. It was of another Indian, but the scout could not see the man’s face—not even with the aid of his field-glasses. Red Knife seemed totally unconscious of the other’s presence until suddenly the stranger leaped before him and stood in his path.

“Hello!” muttered Cody. “What’s all this?”

It was evident that the two redskins conversed excitedly. What they said, of course, the scout could not even guess. Indians are usually so self-repressed that the scout could not judge at this distance whether they spoke angrily or in the most pleasant way together.

It seemed, however, as though the strange redskin tried to urge Red Knife to wait, but the young brave was determined to go on down into the valley. At last he seemed almost to break away from the other and push on toward the edge of the bluff. Cody knew that neither of the actors in the drama below could be seen from the village.

Red Knife was determined, and left the one who had accosted him. The latter shrank back and watched him for a moment. Then suddenly Cody saw him gather himself, jerk the tomahawk from his belt, and swing the weapon high in the air!

Cody caught himself from crying out, but he did leap up as the fatal blow fell. The strange Indian cast himself upon Red Knife’s back and clove the unconscious red man’s skull with a mighty blow of the hatchet. Red Knife went down in a heap!

Cody pulled himself together and, through the glass, watched the traitor stoop over the fallen man, strip the scalp from his head, and then dart away among the rocks. Steeped in guilt as he was, the scout knew the villain would not remain near the scene of his atrocious act. Therefore he risked going down to the place himself.

Poor Red Knife was truly disposed of. The hatchet had killed him instantly. And all the hopes Cody had based upon his good offices were dissipated at once.

The scout stood there for some time and communed with himself. Should he risk going on into the village now? Or should he await some favorable opportunity of undermining Boyd Bennett’s power before putting himself within the bandit’s grasp?

CHAPTER XXXVIII.
WHITE ANTELOPE’S PERIL.

There was much disturbance in the encampment about this time, as Buffalo Bill had seen when making his observations from the high peaks about the valley. The Indians ran to and fro like ants, and runners frequently went out, or came in by the northern roads. This meant surely that Oak Heart was communicating with the other chiefs, and the scout feared that, stirred up by Boyd Bennett in his character of medicine chief, the Sioux leader was preparing for another attack like that on Fort Advance.

Rumors ran rife among the Indians regarding the movements of the bluecoats, and the numbers of them who had come to bury the dead whites after the recent ambush in which Oak Heart himself had taken part. The old chief, believing that Lieutenant Danforth was coming to attack his encampment, had taken part in this sanguinary struggle himself.

Now certain warriors brought strange rumors into the village. It was said that Pa-e-has-ka was on the war-path, too. And that he was leading the whites to the encampment. So spoke the Death Killer, the white medicine chief of the Sioux, who was gaining great influence with the young men of the tribe.

“Pa-e-has-ka is my foe,” he said bitterly, “and I sought to bring him captive here, or to slay him with his friend; but the White Antelope freed him, and sent him back to his people to carry Oak Heart’s warning. What has been done? Do not the white men come in force into the Indian country?

“The White Antelope turned a panther loose upon the trail of my red brothers. And he told her that he would return and come a prisoner again into Oak Heart’s village, and to his lodge. Has he come?”

“No!” answered many voices.

“But the warriors come in and tell how Pa-e-has-ka has killed their comrades, scalped their brothers, and laughed at them for squaws. Will the Sioux braves let the paleface dog longer kick dirt in their faces? Is he not now near their village, and yet no warrior brings in his scalp, because he is under the protection of the White Antelope?”

A murmur arose from the old men about the council circle.

“Let my medicine braves seek his trail and bring him alive into the presence of the great chief, and the Death Killer will show him how the Pa-e-has-ka will weep like a squaw when he is bound to the torture-stake.”

This speech of the renegade excited the Indians to frenzy. There was no longer any possibility of restraining the young men. A hundred warriors took the trail with the avowed intention of bringing in the Long Hair.

When Red Knife was found dead upon the bluff overlooking the camp there was considerable wonder expressed. The unfortunate scion of the Crow family had lost caste, it was true, but why he should have been killed by the supposedly lurking white man—the Red Knife had gone from the camp unarmed—even the redskins themselves could not understand. As the murders increased Bennett grew louder in his objurgations against Long Hair.

From the hour of his disappointment upon the gory field where Danforth and his band had met their doom, the renegade had thirsted for revenge upon the scout. He had secretly despatched a noted warrior to meet and kill Buffalo Bill on his return; but having not again seen or heard of this brave, Bennett feared that he had come to grief at the hands of the old Indian fighter.

The medicine chief did not wish Buffalo Bill to really appear before Oak Heart and the old chiefs of the tribe. He was not at all sure what the outcome of such a venture might be. Indians admire bravery and boldness above all other virtues, and Bennett feared the dashing scout might influence the tribe against him, too.

For defending the scout and permitting him to go free upon his pledge to return, the renegade had not forgiven the White Antelope. Yet he knew the influence she held in the tribe, that upon account of her having been born with yellow hair, and growing up far more beautiful than any maiden of the Sioux, she was regarded as a favored child of the Great Spirit, and that should he cross her will he might lose the power he had gained over the tribesmen.

He had hoped, too, to win the Indian maiden for his lodge, when he first became familiar with the tribe; but she had treated his advances with disdain, and this was a second reason why he felt revengeful toward her. To get any redskin to aid him in a plot against White Antelope, he knew would be impossible; yet he did not despair of either conquering the proud girl, or getting rid of her altogether. At least, he desired to keep her away from the camp and the council if Buffalo Bill were brought in; otherwise, she might disturb all his plans and aid in the release of the white man.

Therefore the medicine chief watched the teepee of the white queen keenly. When he saw her mount her pony and gallop out of the village, and past the guards which encircled it, Boyd Bennett followed secretly. White Antelope, accustomed to going where and how she pleased, and having unbounded confidence in her own prowess, rode to the top of a ridge some distance from the encampment.

The young brave who sentineled this high strip of ground was much in love with the beautiful daughter of the chief, and with her before his eyes he forgot all else. So wrapped was the young man in the contemplation of the girl that he forgot his duty. A form suddenly bounded from behind a rock near-by, an iron hand gripped the youth’s throat and bore him backward out of sight, and the long knife in the murderer’s hand struck home—to the heart.

It was over instantly. No sound—only a gasp, and the death-rattle in the brave’s throat. Then, with the knife, the murderer made a quick incision in a rough circle in the scalp, about the size of a dollar, and with his teeth tore off the dead warrior’s scalp-lock.

Seated there by the side of his victim the slayer looked upon him with real pleasure, while he muttered in a sinister tone:

“More blood! Ah! I love it! This shall be another death laid to the wiles of Buffalo Bill. Now for the White Antelope, and then——

“There she comes! Now to catch her as she passes!”

He crouched behind his rocky shelter as he spoke, while the White Antelope, seemingly somewhat despondent, came riding slowly back toward the village. In truth, she had ridden to see if she could spy the coming of the Long Hair, who had promised to return. That strange man had gained a wonderful hold upon her mind. And, beside, she had a great secret to impart to him.

Suddenly the girl uttered a cry of alarm and tried to wheel her pony to dash away, for to her side had sprung the form of Boyd Bennett. But his rough hand effectually shut off her scream, he seized her in his arms, and, dragging her from the frightened pony’s back, he darted down a defile, unseen by any of the Indian guards.

CHAPTER XXXIX.
A CRY FOR HELP.

In a large cavern penetrating a pile of rocks, rising to an elevation that commanded a view of the Indian village, sat Buffalo Bill. He had a strong field-glass, and for two days he had been studying the camp, and all that went in or came out of it.

He had seen many things which led him to know that Boyd Bennett was as two-faced with his Indian friends as he had been with the whites. This murder was not the first the medicine chief had done.

“Well, I’ll never get them down finer than I have them now,” he was saying thoughtfully. “I wish I had Texas here to send back word to Captain Keyes. A knowledge of the exact situation of the village and just how many warriors old Oak Heart has might be of inestimable value later—if I don’t get away again!”

The great scout intended to go into the village and boldly face the renegade. He had hoped by lingering about the place in secret to catch the medicine chief unawares, and so put him out of the way before delivering himself to the tribe. For it was Boyd Bennett alone whom the scout feared. He had a secret possession which he believed might save him from death at the hands of the Sioux, providing Bennett was not there to use his influence as medicine chief against him.

As he came to this final desperate decision, however, Buffalo Bill saw the renegade come into view among the rocks, and in his arms he carried the struggling figure of the White Antelope. Catching sight of the scout, the girl shrieked in English:

“Long Hair! Save me! save me!”

The renegade turned his bloodshot eyes upon the scout. He shrieked with ungovernable fury at him and gibbered:

“Raise your hand, Buffalo Bill, and I will kill her!”

Buffalo Bill raised his rifle and sighted pointblank at his old foe. But the scoundrel held the girl before his own body, besides threatening her with his upraised knife. At another time—or given another person than the White Antelope—the scout would have risked one of his wonderful shots and perhaps brought the bandit chief down before he could have done his captive harm. He hesitated, however, for he had great reason for desiring to save the girl’s life. The fluctuation of a hair’s breadth in his aim might put the rifle-ball into her body instead of Boyd Bennett’s.

Therefore the scout, with a groan, dropped his gun. The girl shrieked again, and in a moment Bennett leaped behind a boulder and fled along a secret path, entirely hidden from the scout’s station.

Buffalo Bill heard the girl’s heartrending shrieks as she was carried swiftly into the hills. They appealed to him strongly, and, quickly girding himself for the chase, he followed on the trail of the abductor.

The object of the bandit’s mad act Buffalo Bill did not realize. Bennett’s bloodthirsty killing of the sentinel—and formerly of Red Knife—seemed to point to the fact that the man’s brain was turned. Why he had fled now from the encampment with the chief’s daughter was a deep mystery, unless he was indeed mad.

The scout’s mind, however, was given up mainly to planning for the release of the girl and the overcoming of her captor. Boyd Bennett seemed to be alone in this abduction plot, and the scout felt rejoiced that at last it seemed he was to meet the fellow with something like an equal chance.

The principal thing now was to not give Bennett start enough to hide in the rocks. Buffalo Bill could hear the scrambling of the man with the girl in his arms, although for some time he could not see him. Not until they rounded the spur of the mountain and arrived upon the farther slope did the scout obtain a glimpse of the object of his pursuit.

Then, to his bitter disappointment, he beheld Boyd Bennett, still lugging the girl, running down the hill toward a thicket, near which was tethered a horse, saddled and bridled! As he ran the renegade—now a traitor both to the reds and the whites—uttered a shrill “coee!” and immediately a horseman appeared from behind the thicket. It was one of the outlaw’s old gang, Buffalo Bill made no doubt, and he had been here in waiting, with the extra horse for his chief and the girl.

White Antelope no longer struggled in the fiend’s arms. Buffalo Bill knew that she had fainted and lay limply across Bennett’s saddle as he put her up and mounted in such haste. But the scout was too far away now for a shot. The two villains started their horses down the slope and were quickly out of sight, and all this without a single redskin being aroused!

Plainly Bennett had planned this coup with great cunning. He had placed his own braves in positions to bar Buffalo Bill from the valley where the camp lay, but had allowed one of Oak Heart’s braves to bar one exit. That brave Cody had seen the scoundrel kill and scalp, so leaving a plain path into the encampment if the scout wished to go that way.

But two strong desires led the scout upon a different trail. His interest in White Antelope was no small interest. Happenings of late had really increased it, indeed. And Boyd Bennett must be run down!

Afoot as he was, the scout hurried after the two outlaws and their fair-haired captive, for by keeping doggedly at it a man may run down a horse. Providing the outlaws had no fresh horses and their destination was far away, Cody felt confident that he would overtake them even though he continued afoot.

But chance favored him. Bennett and his companions followed a trace through the mountains which passed within a few miles of the valley in which Buffalo Bill had left Chief, his big white horse. The scout left the trail long enough to obtain his mount, which, having fed well and being rested, was as eager for the trail as his master.

Back to the bandit’s trail the scout rode, and the white stallion flung mile after mile of the rocky way beneath his feet. Bennett and his companion had not tried to disguise their trail. Evidently they felt either sure of no pursuit, or considered themselves a match for Buffalo Bill. Bennett probably did not think that the Indians themselves would miss White Antelope until the trail was stale and he would be too far away with the girl to be overtaken.

The pursuer came upon the place where the trio had camped at noon. They had boldly built a fire and cooked food, and Cody even found the marks of the girl’s moccasins in the soft ground beside the trail. Perhaps she had shrewdly stepped there when her captors were not looking, hoping that their trail was being followed. At another place she had torn some beadwork from her garments and flung it on the ground.

“She’s a sharp girl, all right,” said Cody to himself. “And if she has confidence in my following and saving her, I swear it shall not be misplaced!”

Before night, however, the scout received a shock which made him almost despair. The trail he was following came down into a great valley through the middle of which flowed a broad river. On the river’s bank the hoof-marks of Bennett’s mount and his companion’s were joined by those of a dozen other horses!

“They’ve been caught, by thunder!” was Cody’s first thought.

Then he saw that this supposition was entirely wrong, and his heart sank. These were not unshod Indian ponies. Nor could they be a party of peaceful travelers who had joined Bennett and his friend. It was the rest of the gang. The outlaws had here joined their leader, and, instead of following two scoundrels, the scout was up against the entire gang—and single-handed!

Then did he wish that he had sought out a part of Captain Keyes’ command and brought them on this hunt for the bandit leader and his helpless captive. He shuddered to think of what might be White Antelope’s fate among these ruffians. He could not go back now for help; and yet, if he overtook the gang, what could he, a man alone, do toward getting the girl free?

Yet Buffalo Bill, the Border King, had spent years of his life in taking chances. He had been up against as serious odds before, and had come out on top. He did not hesitate for a single instant, but crossed the river at the ford, and followed the hoof-prints of the gang up the opposite bank of the river.

If they were making for their rendezvous, well and good. He would at least learn one—perhaps the principal—hiding-place of the gang, and later could bring a party to overwhelm them. Meantime, he would trust to luck and a merciful Providence to assist him in obtaining White Antelope’s release unharmed from the villainous crew.

CHAPTER XL.
THE FREIGHT-TRAIN.

The sun was sinking like a great globe of fire, seemingly at the very foot of the broad valley which, from its head, spread forth miles upon square miles of verdant lawn, crimson and yellow groves, the leaves of which blushed before the cold finger-touch of winter interspersed with patches of hemlock and spruce, now, as ever, green. Through the valley flowed a broad river, joined here by several mountain brooks which tumbled down from the heights on either hand to swell the main current, which entered the vale from the mouth of the broad cañon on the north. A deeply rutted wagon trail came out of the cañon as well as the river. For miles this trace wound along the riverside, hemmed in by gigantic cliffs on the tops of which the bighorn sheep looked like specks to the traveler below, and which were so high and so close together in places that it was twilight at noon in the bottom of the gorge!

Indeed, back in the cañon it was already night when the sun was but setting out here in the valley. Therefore the “mule-skinners” cracked their blacksnakes and shouted many objurgations to their patient animals, desiring to reach the open and make camp outside the cañon before darkness finally settled upon the valley. The creaking of the wagon wheels and the cracking of the whips, with the voices of the mule-skinners, made music a mile up the cañon.

It was a heavy wagon-train. First rode the captain on a gray mare with a bell on her neck. With her tethered near the wagons the mules could be turned loose at night; they would never desert the camp as long as the gray mare remained faithful.

The wagons of the train were linked together—five or six great, lumbering, canvas-topped vehicles, with eight or ten span of mules hauling on each section. There were three of these sections in the train, six men to a section, the captain, and the cook who rode behind on another saddle-horse, leading a pack-animal which bore the cook-tent and some of the camp equipment.

When the captain reached the mouth of the cañon and beheld the pleasant, sunlit valley he turned and uttered a loud “coee! coee!” which brought the cook and his packhorse trotting forward. The valley looked perfectly safe to the captain of the train, and he selected an indenture in the river-bank where the cook and he set up the tent, and, as fast as the wagons came up, they deployed off the trail so as to make a horseshoe figure around the camping-place, the open part of which was toward the river.

This precaution was always taken whether they saw Indian signs or not. And at night rifles were issued to the men and a strong guard mounted. Each man “packed” a couple of guns at his waist all day, anyway.

The selection of this low piece of ground as the camp was not wise, however. An enemy could ride to the edge of the low, sloping bluff which surrounded it on three sides and pop bullets over the wagon tops into the enclosure, shooting from one side those who strove to guard the other line of the camp.

For days, however, the party had seen no signs of redskins. Small scalping-parties would fight shy of the wagon-train; for twenty well-armed whites were bound to be respected by the Arabs of the plains, especially as the train crew was sure to be armed with the quickfiring guns which the Indians so feared.

After the sun set the evening was short, for it was late fall now. The air grew chill; in the midst of the camp the men built a rousing fire, aside from that over which the cook pottered, and around this they gathered and told stories, cracked rude jokes, or basked silently in the warmth of the flames, resting from the toil of the day. So unconscious were they of aught but their immediate surroundings that they did not see several horsemen who topped the nearest rise to the west, and overlooking the camp.

It was now deep dusk, but the horsemen were silhouetted against the sky-line so plainly that had any of the freighters chanced to glance that way they must have seen the figures. Only for a moment were they in view, however. The leader of the group spoke sharply, but in a low tone, to his mates, and all pulled their horses about and disappeared quickly beyond the ridge.

Later, and afoot, two of the party came again to the summit of the ridge and reconnoitered. The freighters’ camp lay calmly under the starry sky, the fires burning briskly, the mules champing the grass of the plain contentedly, occasionally a laugh or a sharp word echoing across the valley between the calls of the night-birds.

The wind wandered down from the heights and shook the canvas covers of the wagons as though trying to arouse the men to the danger that threatened them. Coyotes whined in the distance, sniffing the herd, but too cowardly to advance until on the morrow the freight-train should have passed on. Then they would come boldly in and fight over the scraps remaining. And, perhaps, there would be greater booty for the scavengers of the plains to fight over!

The men scouting about the freighters’ camp numbered the unconscious men and noted their arms and how the camp was arranged. There was a high river-bank. The captain of the train had ordered the arrangement of the wagons partly because he was eager to obtain water; but there was a high bank to the river here, and a narrow beach below it. Men afoot could creep down this bank and, sheltered from the camp, approach it and attack from the riverside. Even a sentinel stationed on the very verge of the bank would be little likely to apprehend the coming of such an attacking force, unless he chanced to be expecting it.

The captain of the train set one of his watchmen on the bank above the river, however, and to keep warm the rifleman walked back and forth, pacing a beat some twenty yards long. This would have been all very well had the crew believed there was a particle of danger threatening the camp. But so confident were they of peace that they did not even drive the mules down from the higher ground where they were feeding. A party of a dozen reds—if they could have loosed the gray mare—might have made off with the entire herd.

There was a shelter tent for each six men, while the cook and the captain shared the fourth canvas. At ten o’clock, under a black-velvet sky pricked out with the brilliant but distant stars, the camp was as quiet as the grave—that is, providing one could imagine some of the occupants of the grave sleeping their long sleep “loudly.” Aside from these snores, however, and the champing of the horses and mules, there was little sound to break the silence. There was a sentinel pacing a short beat on the inland side of the camp; but, it being cold when the wind swooped down and flapped the loose canvas, he got in behind the chain of wagons and was not so much use as a guard. Along the river-bank paced the other sentinel, whistling under his breath, and staring off across the black, smoothly flowing water, in which the stars were mirrored.

Wide-awake as he was, this second guard heard nothing when a single figure slipped down the river-bank beyond the camp and toward the cañon’s entrance, and in a stooping posture sneaked along toward him. This figure lay low upon the shore when the guard walked that way. When the guard turned the prowler arose again and kept just behind him, but below the bank, until both reached about the middle of the beat the sentinel was following.

Then, softly as a cat, without as much as scratching a button or rattling the rifle in his hand or the guns in his belt, the stranger darted up the bank, and, stooping low, hurried to the smaller tent in which slept the captain of the train and the cook. Evidently the stranger had picked this tent out before dark, and shrewdly guessed who occupied it. Lifting the flap softly, he crept in and lowered it before the guard on the river-bank turned. The other guard was standing facing the opposite way and saw nothing.

Once in the darkness of the tent, the stranger coolly squatted on his haunches, laid down his rifle, and drawing out a match-safe, scratched a lucifer and held it up so that the sputtering flame might cast some radiance over the interior of the tent.

The pungent odor of the sulfur got in the nose of one of the sleepers, and he sneezed. He sneezed a second time and sat up suddenly, blinking his eyes in surprise at the figure squatting inside the tent. This was an utter stranger to him—a man with long hair, a military hat, buckskin coat, and riding breeches and boots. And he was armed like a pirate—belt stuck full of guns and with a big bowie. He smiled cheerfully at the amazed and sleepy individual, however.

“Hello!” he said. “Which one of you is the captain?”

“Heh?” murmured the startled one.

“Who’s the boss?”

“I—I’m the cook.”

“Then the other feller is the boss?”

“I—I reckon so. Say, Billings!” and he suddenly punched the other man in the ribs. “Wake up! We’re surrounded!”

“Shut up, you fool!” exclaimed the visitor, slapping his palm suddenly over the second man’s mouth, for it opened to emit a yell before his eyes were fairly ajar. “It’s all right. What did you want to startle him for?”

“Who the devil are you?” demanded the cook.

“And how’d you git here?” cried the other man.

“I’m Cody, and I belong just now to the command at Fort Advance. You’re in about as dangerous a position as a score of men can be and get out of it alive, and I’ve sneaked into your camp to help you.”

“Injuns!” groaned the cook, turning pale.

“There ain’t a red within forty miles,” declared Buffalo Bill, for he it was.

“Then what’s the matter?” sputtered the captain of the freight crew. “I’ve set guards over the camp. We’re all right.”

“Your guards are a lot of use, ain’t they?” sneered the scout. “They’re out there walking up and down like two wooden men; but they didn’t see me get by.”

“But, for Heaven’s sake what is the matter?”

“You’ve got worse than Injuns after you.”

“What can that be?”

“Boyd Bennett’s gang of hold-up men.”

“Git out! Bennett’s left the country.”

“He’s j’ined an Injun tribe,” added the cook. “Become a squaw man.”

“Well, he’s out yonder with about a dozen of the p’izenest ruffians that it’s ever been my fate to run up against,” declared Buffalo Bill. “And from what I could overhear lying out there on my belly in the grass, they’re pretty near ready to stampede you!”

“Oh, Lord!” groaned the cook.

But the captain of the crew was no coward. He was awake now, and he leaped up, ready to fight for his own life and help to defend the lives of his mates and the valuable property entrusted to him.

“Mr. Cody, you take command,” he urged instantly. “You are a better man than any one in this entire party—that I’ll swear to. I have shown my incompetency already by placing my guards so carelessly that you could creep into my very sleeping tent without being apprehended.”

“Many a man has made the mistake of being too confident when there were no signs of trouble,” said Buffalo Bill. “But you had no knowledge of these outlaws being near you, of course. Although, it was quite by chance that they did not blunder into your midst, I fancy. There are fewer of them than there are of your men; but if they had caught you with your pants down it would have been ‘Good-by John!’ for you all. This is as bloody-minded a gang of cut-throats as infest this Western country.”

“So I have heard said of Bennett and his men. But I thought they had left the Overland Trail.”

“They are not on the old lay just at present,” Cody explained. “In fact, I am following them for an entirely different reason. And if we have the luck to beat the devils, I’d be thankful for any help you could give me toward capturing the whole gang and rescuing a prisoner they hold.”

“A prisoner?”

“Aye, and a girl—God help her!”

“Great heavens! a woman in the hands of those ruffians?”

“Yes.”

“Who is she?”

“White Antelope, the daughter of old Oak Heart, the Sioux chieftain.”

“Oh, thunder! a squaw!” exclaimed the captain of the train crew in disgust.

“She’s just as precious to the old redskin as the daughter of a white man is to him, I s’pose,” said the scout sternly. “Besides, her release means a great deal to me—and to Major Baldwin of Fort Advance—and, perhaps, to the entire white settlers of this part of the country.”

“Well, well! I can’t afford to quarrel with you over a red squaw,” said the other lightly. “You help us, and we’ll help you.”

“I am here for the purpose of helping you,” said the Border King, with some stiffness of manner, for the other’s tone had jarred upon him.

CHAPTER XLI.
“ON GUARD!”

“First of all,” said the captain of the freighters, “I want you to take command, Cody, as I said.”

“No, no!” the scout hastened to reply. “I would not take that upon myself.”

“I insist.”

“No. I must be free myself to act in this other matter I speak of. If I see a chance to run off the girl while you fellows are handling the outlaws, I must do so.”

“And leave us for a redskin?”

“That is it,” returned Cody seriously. “My duty is first to her at this time.”

“But that is nonsense, man! People of a blood should stick together. Let the red squaw go.”

“She’s got white blood in her better than either yours or mine, sir!” snapped the scout.

“Oh! she’s a half-breed?”

“She is. But I am not here to discuss White Antelope. Time is passing. I will advise you to the best of my ability in this fight; but I cannot accept the responsibility of command.”

“All I can do, then, is to rouse up the other boys and make ready to receive boarders.”

“But there is more than one way of doing that,” said Cody, with a smile which the other did not see in the dark tent.

“Heh?”

“No use in rousing out the other men in a way to show the outlaws you are expecting them.”

“Oh, shucks! are they watching us already?”

“They sure are. All I feared in making my way to your tent was their sharp eyes. I knew what your guards would be.”

“You don’t have a very high opinion of us mule-skinners, then?” said the captain, rather sharply.

“I have a very poor opinion indeed of men who will be careless on this trail,” said Buffalo Bill sternly. “Recklessness is never bravery.”

“Huh!” grunted the other.

“Cook, you creep out at the rear and speak to the sentinel at the back of the camp. Keep close to the ground and tell him to have a care. Let him step across and speak to the guard by the river—casually, remember.”

“All right, sir,” said the cook, recognizing the tone of authority.

“Then you creep over to the farther tent and awaken the boys carefully. The captain here had better attend to the other two. Go on your hands and knees, boys! And don’t startle anybody. Have they got arms with ’em, or are they in the wagons?”

“Oh, they’ve got their rifles. I’m not quite a fool,” said the captain.

“Glad to hear that,” the scout returned, and did not stop to explain whether he was rejoiced to hear that the men were properly armed, or that the captain was not an entire ignoramus!

It was too serious a situation for the man to take open offense, however. He, as well as the cook, did Cody’s bidding without further remark. They crept from tent to tent, keeping well in the shadow, while the first guard, warned by the cook, went across and warned the man pacing the beat by the river.

Buffalo Bill was pretty confident that the outlaws would wait until the sentinels were changed at midnight before attacking. That was the best time for such a movement, for the new guards would be sleepy, and the other men would have just settled into heavier sleep.

When the gang had been awakened the captain reported to the scout. Thus far none of the boys had come out of the three larger tents, and they were warned to keep under cover until they received the word.

“You don’t want to have your mules stampeded far,” said the scout. “When the sentinels are changed, let one of those coming off duty step out and lead in your bell-mare, and hobble her inside the line of the wagons. Then you’ll be sure of her, and, even if the long-ears do run away, they’ll come back again, come daybreak.”

The cook’s fire was already out, and Cody warned them to let the other one burn down as low as it would. The more shadowy the camp was the better the freighters could move about without attracting the notice of any watching outlaws.

Cody remained in the little tent with the flap pinned back, and the cook and the captain came to him and reported their missions accomplished. Midnight came—it was not a long wait—and the sentinels went to the tents and appeared to awaken those who were to relieve them. Cody had particularly instructed the man who was to go to the river-bank. One of the others brought in the gray mare. The camp settled down to apparent quietude and peace again.

“Now, boys, to your places,” whispered the scout to the cook and the captain. “Signal your men, captain; be ready to fling on the fire a heap of that light stuff yonder when you hear me hoot, cook! All right!”

The captain crept out once more and scratched with his finger-nail upon the canvas of each tent. At that the freighters began to wriggle out from under the canvas and crawl on their bellies to shelter beneath the wagons. Cody knew that the first fire of the outlaws would be aimed at the tents. Boyd Bennett and his villains would expect to thus kill or seriously wound several of the sleeping freighters and throw the others into utter confusion.

Buffalo Bill remained no longer in the small tent himself. He crept down to the river-bank, and he and the sentinel saw each other. Cody expected a part of the attacking party would approach in the way he had come to the camp, only from the other direction.

And this was a good guess. The outlaws—or several of them—dismounted and came along under the bank. In fact, so sure were they of catching the encampment asleep, that the scout heard their footsteps. They did not take proper care in disguising them.

“Now, mister!” Buffalo Bill exclaimed, under his breath to the sentinel near him.

Instantly this man dropped down in the grass, the other guard fell flat, there was a sudden pounding of horse’ hoofs down the ridge from the south and west. Then:

Bang! bang! bang!

A volley of rifle-shots tore through the tents inside the wagon-line. Instantly the shrill yell of Buffalo Bill, the Border King, answered the shots defiantly. The sound had often struck terror to the hearts of his red foes, and it was not unknown to Boyd Bennett and his comrades.

“That hell-cat, Cody, is here!” screamed Bennett.

The cook flung the light brush on the fire. It blazed up almost immediately, giving the men under the wagons a chance to see any of the outlaws that might venture into the camp. But none of them reached the inner circle. As those afoot sprang up the bank from the riverside, Cody and the man with him shot them down, or drove them shrieking with fear out of rifle-shot.

Pandemonium reigned for a few minutes, however. Although Boyd Bennett yelled his warning, the gang did not give over the fight so easily. They poured round after round of bullets into the camp; but at first they did not realize that they were being answered from beneath the wagons rather than from the tents.

Several of their ponies were shot down. Although the mules were stampeded for a ways, the ruffians could make no good use of this fact. Instead of catching the camp unawares, they were themselves ambushed, thanks to the Border King!

“Escape, men! We are undone!” shrieked Boyd Bennett, at last.

He had seen four of his men fall never to rise again, and two others had lost their mounts and had to spend precious moments in catching two of their dead comrades’ horses. Back the decimated party fled over the ridge.

The freighters poured in volley after volley upon the retreating outlaws. But the captain would not let them mount such horses and mules as they could catch and follow the crew. In this he got square with Buffalo Bill for the scout’s sharp words.

In the height of the fight, after seeing that the freight crew were more than a match for the outlaws, Buffalo Bill had slipped down under the river-bank and had run at his best pace toward the spot where the outlaws had been encamped earlier in the evening. There he had seen White Antelope tied to a sapling so that she could not escape while her captors tried their nefarious scheme of robbing and murdering the freight-train crew.

Believing that Bennett would leave nobody to guard the girl, the scout was bent upon reaching the place first and releasing her.

And this much he did accomplish: he reached the place first. But almost as soon as he had recognized Buffalo Bill’s yell, Boyd Bennett spurred back toward the bound girl. He feared the scout would do exactly the thing he was attempting. Knowing that Cody must have followed them here for the express purpose of saving White Antelope, he feared the shrewdness of his enemy.

Cody found the spot. A camp-fire burned low, but revealed the girl writhing in her bonds at one side. The scout bounded to her side just as the thunder of Bennett’s horse sounded down the hill.

“All right, White Antelope! ’Tis I—the Long Hair!” whispered the scout. “My horse is not far away. I will save you—— The devil!”

The scout broke off with a savage exclamation. He had hoped to slash through the girl’s bonds and carry her to his horse, which he had left in a thicket not far away. But for once in his life the scout had made a terrible oversight!

Chief had picked up a small pebble in his hoof late that afternoon, and Buffalo Bill had got down and pried it out with the point of his bowie. He had stuck the knife into a sheath which hung to his saddle-bow, and had forgotten it until this very instant. He had nothing with which to cut the girl’s bonds.

Already the chief of the bandits was almost upon him. Boyd Bennett rode down the hill yelling like a fiend.

“Fly!” murmured the girl. “They will kill you.”

“Curse it! I am foiled for the time. But, remember, White Antelope, I am near you and will release you yet, and serve your enemy as he deserves!”

With these words the scout dropped to all fours, and, as stealthily and silently as a wolf, crept away in the darkness.

CHAPTER XLII.
THE AVENGER.

The gang of outlaws had been depleted by five. One had fallen on the river-bank, and four others had either been killed or so badly wounded that they fell captive to the freighters on the side of the ridge. There were but eight who gathered about the spot where White Antelope was left tied, when the fight was over.

And they feared pursuit and a worse thrashing than they had already endured. They clamored to be led away from the place, and Boyd Bennett, gnashing his teeth in impotent rage, was forced to agree.

Every man of them had a fear of Buffalo Bill, the Border King. How he could have gotten ahead of them, and been in the teamsters’ encampment when they made their attack, added to the superstitious veneration in which the outlaws had begun to hold the great scout. Heretofore they had held Boyd Bennett as a better man than Cody; but now they began to doubt.

Besides, several of them did not approve of his bearing away the Indian girl from her village. While Bennett had posed as the medicine chief of the Sioux, they were all sure of being treated well by the savages. Some of them had taken Indian wives and were living in ease and plenty—the lazy, irresponsible existence of the “squaw-man.”

Boyd Bennett’s unhappy attachment for the chief’s daughter had brought the gang together again, and old-time loyalty had caused them to answer his command. But they now believed that they had lost more than they should gain. All the Sioux would be down upon them, and so they would be at enmity with every man they met in the forest and on the plain, both red and white!

White Antelope showed plainly that she would never yield to Boyd Bennett’s demand and espouse him. While he was with the Indians and wielding so much influence as Death Killer, the medicine-man, she had spurned his advances. Much more did she hold him in contempt now.

And Boyd Bennett, too, was acting very strangely. Evil ways and evil desires were turning the man’s brain. He acted without judgment. Now he unloosed White Antelope, caught her up to his saddle, and rode away with his men without as much as looking for traces of Buffalo Bill in the vicinity, or learning if in reality the freighters were inclined to follow up their advantage and push the attack.

They swam the river and made for another exit from the valley. But their horses were pretty well done up, and they could get only a spurt of speed out of them now and then. Besides, Boyd Bennett’s own mount refused after a time to carry double. This necessitated one of the other ruffians carrying White Antelope before him on his saddle.

The chance afforded the chief villain an escape from certain death. The party were aiming to leave the valley by the way the broadening river flowed; but they were some distance from the river’s side. Through the uncertain light of early morning they did not see a tireless white horse carrying its rider down the opposite bank until they reached a ford, through which the stallion splashed to the side of the stream on which the bandits rode.

It was the avenger on the villain’s trail; but they did not suspect that again Buffalo Bill had ridden ahead of them. Chief was tireless.

The scout ensconced the horse behind a thicket, and wormed his way out into the open where he could draw bead on anybody passing along the river trail. It was a long shot, but the scout had succeeded in making more ticklish ones in times past.

By and by the band of tired horsemen loped along the trail. The light was too uncertain for Cody to distinguish one man from the other; but he saw one riding ahead and carrying the girl before him, and he believed it must be Bennett. He did not think the fellow would let the White Antelope out of his own bloody hands.

Therefore he took sight—deadly sight—at this man, and shot him through the head!

A yell rose from the bandits as the rifle exploded and the man pitched off his mount. It was answered by Buffalo Bill’s eery war-whoop. The seven remaining bandits knew who had fired the fatal shot.

But, although the immediate captor of the girl had fallen, she had no time to urge the pony to one side and thus escape. Buffalo Bill saw his mistake in a moment. With a wild yell Boyd Bennett spurred to the side of the horse which White Antelope sat, and threatened her with drawn bowie as the whole cavalcade shot down the river trail and put a brush-clump between them and the scout’s rifle. When they appeared again they were out of rifle-shot.

“Seven of them left,” muttered Buffalo Bill. “I thought I had that devil that time. But let him wait—let him wait!”

He mounted Chief once more and rode for a time in the wake of the bandits. But, fearing that some of them might slip off their horses and lay in wait for him, he turned aside into the hilly country and so saw the refugees only occasionally from the summits of certain hills which he climbed. He kept them from resting, however, during the forenoon. By midday the desperadoes’ ponies were completely worn out.

Had they not been so fearful of the scout the seven men might have shown fight. They were equally well armed with Buffalo Bill, and some of them were good shots. But Boyd Bennett thought only of escape with the girl, and his mates were in a blue funk, anyway.

They came at noon to a deserted Indian encampment. It was a hunting-camp, the braves evidently being out in the hills after game and having left nobody but the squaws on guard. The squaws had gone into the bush after late berries. Therefore, there was none to balk the bandits.

There were no ponies, or the men would have left their fagged mounts and stolen those of the red men. But in the river lay two good-sized canoes. Abandoning their ponies the outlaws seized these boats, forced White Antelope into the leading one with Boyd Bennett and two others, and the four remaining men entering the other boat, both were pushed off and paddled down the stream.

Cody beheld this move from a hilltop, and immediately rode down to the river. Had he crossed the paths of any of the Indians—they were not Sioux, but he knew the tribe—he might have obtained their help. Alone, however, he came to the river-bank. The canoes were far out in the stream and going down rapidly with the current and the force of the paddles. The scout saw the White Antelope on her knees in the forward boat, her arms stretched out to him. Her mute gesture for help spurred him on to a desperate attempt!

Chief had come far now without much rest, but he was able to make one more spurt. Down the river path the scout thundered, racing to catch up with the canoes. There was a high bluff across the river, offering no landing-place. On this side the bank was low. Even if the canoes were paddled near the opposite shore, the scout’s rifle would carry a deadly ball that distance. In coming near, and into sight, however, he gave the bandits a chance to try their marksmanship upon him.

But this risk the brave scout took. For the White Antelope’s sake he was venturing his life.

He forced Chief to top speed until the brave old horse came out upon a cleared space just ahead of the two canoes. The bandits began to pop at him with their rifles; but shooting from a sitting position in a trumpery little canoe was no easy job.

Both craft were overloaded, anyway. Two men were supposed to be the full complement of the cargo of each. So the craft rode low, and the least movement might tip them over. One man in the forward boat, and two in the latter, turned their attention to the scout and his white horse; but their bullets flew wide of the mark.

The scout, however, paid no more attention to the whistling lead than he would have to so many buzzing flies. He dismounted from Chief, and, standing out deliberately on the river-bank, raised his rifle and took aim at the leading paddler in the rear boat. He did not shoot at those with White Antelope in the other canoe. First he would reduce the numbers of the gang.

Crack!

The heavy rifle spoke no louder than a pistol across the flat surface of the water. With a yell the man dropped his paddle, turned a face all gory upon the scout, and then pitched out of the canoe!

Strangely enough he did not tip over the vessel. Another caught up his paddle. They tried to urge the craft to the foot of the steep bluff. But now the current had caught the light canoe in a fierce grip, and to swerve it was not easy.

Crack!

Just as a second man was drawing bead as well as he could upon the undaunted scout, the rifle dropped from his hands, and he fell backward into the bottom of the canoe. The craft dipped dangerously and all but went over. As it righted the scout fired a third time. Plunk the ball went through and through the body of the canoe!

The water began to run in at both holes, and the canoe sank. One of the remaining men, in complete panic, threw himself overboard and swam for the shore. The other continued to paddle desperately.

A double report sounded. The rifleman in the forward boat had stood up and taken a better aim at the scout. The latter’s shoulder was plowed just under the skin by the ball. But Cody’s own bullet sped straight to the desperate paddler in the second canoe, and the man fell sideways, shot through the lungs; the canoe tipped completely, and man and canoe went to the bottom together.

Meanwhile, the fourth man in that boat had reached the strand. It was a narrow beach and offered no shelter for him. He scrambled up the steep bluff like a crab making for its hole. But when he was half-way up, and his body against the yellow sand made an excellent target, the scout’s gun spoke again.

Sprawled out, and screaming, the fellow fell all the way back to the shore, and there, squirming with the agony of the wound which was in a vital part, he rolled into the river, and the black current swept him swiftly down-stream.

He passed the first canoe that had been retarding, while the rifleman tried a second particular shot at the scout. The drowning man yelled for help. He even snatched at the gunwale of the canoe as he was swept by.

Instantly Boyd Bennett seized a pistol from his belt and deliberately shot the drowning man through the head. Perhaps, if the latter had seized the canoe, he would have overturned it and sacrificed the four other lives; yet it was a desperately cruel act!

Meanwhile Cody had leaped aside, escaping the second shot of the rifleman in the remaining canoe; and then, before the man could sit down and the canoe could shoot ahead, he dropped him cleanly with a ball through the heart!

In five minutes the bloody battle was over. But two of the bandits were left alive. The other five had sunk to the bottom of the river, while the remaining two, and the White Antelope, were being carried swiftly down the stream, and by a current now so powerful that they could not steer to the bank on either side. Just below were the worst series of rapids on the entire river!

CHAPTER XLIII.
MAN TO MAN AT LAST.

Buffalo Bill knew the peril which threatened the two bandits and the girl quite as soon as they knew it themselves. But he was handicapped a bit now by his wound, which bled profusely. He had to wait to bind it up roughly, so that the blood would stop flowing, before he could pay much attention to the endangered trio in the canoe.

Ere then the craft was swiftly speeding down the river, going almost as fast as an ordinary horse could trot. Buffalo Bill whistled Chief to him, sprang into the saddle, and galloped down the trail. It was some minutes before he overtook the boat.

There was no danger then of anybody aboard it shooting at him. Boyd Bennett in the stern and his last comrade in the bow were having all they could handle in steering the craft. Rocks and snags began to crop up in the current, and they were now tossed this way, then that, while the foaming water boiled almost into the frail craft!

Buffalo Bill, intent on saving White Antelope’s life at any cost, unslung his lariat and made ready to cast the endangered men an end if the canoe came near enough to the shore. For the sake of assisting the girl he would have given up his vengeance on the outlaws.

However, when he cast the rope, although it fell across the boat, Boyd Bennett, with a scream of rage, threw it off.

“You madman!” yelled his companion, glancing over his shoulder.

“Mind your paddle!” roared Bennett.

“My God! I’ll take help from anybody,” cried the other.

Cody coiled his rope to swing it again, this time intending to aim ahead of the canoe so that the other man could catch it. But Bennett saw his intention, and he drew in his paddle, grabbed his pistol, and presented it at his comrade’s back. White Antelope was lying down in the canoe, knowing that this was the safest place for her.

“You touch that rope!” shrieked the bandit leader, as the lariat whistled through the air again, “and I’ll send you to Hades!”

The man glanced fearfully over his shoulder at the words, and saw the threatening pistol.

“Look out!” shouted Buffalo Bill, for his cast had been true, and the coil of the lasso was circling just over the man.

The fellow was too scared of the pistol to watch the loop, and it settled fairly over his head. With a shriek he tried then to get out of it, but it was too late. The canoe darted suddenly into a cross current, shooting off from the shore, and the rope was pulled taut.

Buffalo Bill could not have released the rope from his saddle-bow in time to save the unfortunate outlaw, nor could he force Chief nearer the water. The noose was about the man’s neck, and with an awful jerk the rope literally snatched him out of the canoe!

Had the girl not been lying down at the moment his body would have carried her likewise into the river. It was by mere chance that the canoe did not overturn; but it righted and sailed on with its freight of two. The other outlaw was dead before Buffalo Bill could drag him ashore. His neck had been broken.

The scout’s interest lay, however, in the fate of the two remaining in the canoe. He cast the dead man loose and spurred hard down the path, trying to keep up with the frail canoe now shooting the rapids.

It was a perilous journey; yet Boyd Bennett, ruffian though he was, exercised the greatest ingenuity in managing the canoe. The scout could not but admire this in the fellow.

It seemed impossible, however, that the canoe and its living freight could get through the rapids intact. The water boiled madly about the craft. It was flung hither and yon, and at times it was so racked by the opposing forces of the current that Buffalo Bill, on the bank, could hear the wood crack.

Boyd Bennett’s glaring eyes did not turn toward his enemy throughout all this trial. He watched each black-ribbed rock or floating snag against which his craft might be hurled. Nor did he speak a word to the girl lying in the bottom of the canoe.

She knew as well as he that any movement on her part would add to their danger, and, although she might now leap overboard—she was free—it would mean certain death. So freedom tantalized her. She could only escape at the peril of her life!

She saw Boyd Bennett’s glowing eyes occasionally cast upon her a basilisklike glance. There was madness in them, she knew. The brave girl, used as she was to battle and the chase, shrank from this terrible foe. And she was helpless!

The canoe swung around rocks, which she thought surely they must hit; it just escaped collision with logs and drift-stuff in the most marvelous manner, and all the time Boyd Bennett sat holding the paddle as a steering-oar, his black eyes glaring out of his death’s-head face, impassive, yet all alive to the dangers of the run.

Spray broke over the side of the canoe and drenched the girl. The craft seemed to fairly throb and jump with the motion of the water.

Once an eddy seized them. Despite all Bennett could do the canoe shot into this whirlpool, and they made several rapid revolutions before the man saw his way out, and thrust the canoe between two ragged jaws of rock, and so escaped!

On and on fled the boat, while Buffalo Bill urged his mount along the river path. He could barely keep up with it. Each moment he expected to see it overturned, and both passengers tumbled into the raging current.

At last the more quiet river below the rapids came into view. Here the stream widened and the current quickly became sluggish. In the midst of the stream was a wooded island, its sharp upper end, consisting of an outcropping ledge, dividing the river into two channels just at the foot of the white water.

The canoe, as it shot out of the smother of spray, chanced to take the channel nearest to the bank on which Cody urged his horse. This was an oversight on Bennett’s part, but he had been too anxious to get out of the rapids at all to attend to where the canoe finally went.

Cody saw his chance, and, although Chief was well winded now, he yelled with delight. He saw what appeared to be the finish of the race—and in his favor.

“I’ve got you now, Boyd Bennett!” he shouted.

The bandit at last turned his eyes upon him, and then glanced around. He saw Cody’s meaning. The canoe was drifting so near the scout that the latter could either shoot, or rope him. And the long island forbade his getting away.

But the villain was not yet to his last card. His mind was keenly alive to the situation, and he lost no points in the game.

“Not yet, Bill Cody—not yet!” he shrieked, and with a single thrust of his paddle, turned the canoe’s nose toward the island.

“Hold, or I fire!” cried the scout, raising his weapon and drawing bead upon the bandit.

Boyd Bennett drove the canoe into the rocky ledge which masked the end of the island. Like paper the frail craft tore apart, and both he and the girl were flung into the stream.

Buffalo Bill’s bullet flew wide of its mark that time! White Antelope was in as much danger as the bandit—perhaps more—for the scout did not know whether the girl could swim or not, and the current was still quite swift and the water deep.

But White Antelope soon showed what she could do in the river. Cold as the water was, the instant she came to the surface and saw Boyd Bennett’s arms stretched out for her, she threw herself backward and dove again to the bottom of the river! With a yell the bandit flung himself after her, and again just missed the scout’s bullet. The scoundrel seemed to bear a charmed life. Buffalo Bill was unable to hit him. Although they were man to man at last, it was a question still who would come out winner in the game.

CHAPTER XLIV.
THE FIGHT TO GAIN THE ISLAND.

White Antelope sank to the bottom of the river; then, unlike ordinary swimmers, she did not move in a straight line, but shot off at a sharp angle, and endeavored to make the shore where Cody was, while still under water. But Boyd Bennett was quite as cunning. He cut across her path, and, as the girl came shooting in a long slant to the surface of the river, he reached and caught her by the shoulder.

White Antelope screamed and sought to wrench herself away. Cody had flung aside his rifle and urged Chief down into the stream. The white horse was already belly deep in the flood, picking his way intelligently, while his master, rope in hand, prepared to fling the loop to the Indian maiden.

But before Cody could make the cast, Bennett had grabbed the girl and thrust her under the surface again. White Antelope went down gurgling, and the cruel hand of the bandit chief held her fast. With an oath the scout seized a revolver and aimed at the black, sleek head of the scoundrel.

“Hold your fire, Bill Cody!” cried the bandit again. “Hold your fire, or I’ll drown this girl—as sure as you live, I will! She’s mine, and, by Heaven, you sha’n’t take her from me—unless it’s her dead body!”

“You devil, you!” roared the scout. “You are drowning her!”

“I surely will if you don’t put up your gun!”

“Let her up!”

“Put away your gun!”

The scout was obliged to do so. If he shot the scoundrel the latter might sink, his clutch still upon the White Antelope, and neither of them rise again until the breath had left both their bodies!

Boyd Bennett saw the scout put the gun back into his belt. He then dragged the girl up by her long, golden hair, and with her in his arms—she was now totally unconscious—he struck out with his free hand for the island. The scout seemed helpless. There was nothing he could do to stop the foe or free the girl. The situation stumped Buffalo Bill completely!

All the scout could do was to wait, hand on gun, for some chance to aid his cause. While Bennett struggled in the river with the girl he dared not fire for two reasons. One, already stated, was that he feared the man would sink with his burden and both be drowned; the other was that he feared his pistol-ball might wound the girl as well as Bennett.

And now it was not altogether sure that the scoundrel could make the shore of the island. He was weaker than he had been, and the burden of the girl bore him down. There was a current set off from the island on this side, and he had this to fight. And fight he did—with a bravery which Cody could but admire. He breasted the current, and fought inch by inch the downward drag of the river. It was too much for him, however.

Suddenly the bandit almost lost his hold upon the girl. Cody believed he was about to give her up and save himself, and he prepared to force Chief into the deeper current and so swim out for her. He swung his lariat again, too, that it might be ready for emergency. But, although Bennett was carried down-stream and the shore of the island was rapidly receding from him, he still clung to the Indian maid.

“Look out for the rope, Boyd Bennett! Catch it!” sang out the scout, believing that now the fellow would certainly rather save his life and lose the girl than lose both his own and her lives. But a sputtering shriek came back from the maniac:

“Fling your rope if you dare, Bill Cody! I’ll kill her if you do—mark that!”

“Don’t be a fool, man. You can’t save her and yourself.”

“Then we’ll both drown,” returned Boyd Bennett, with the determination of a still fearless man.

“I’ll give you your freedom!” roared Cody, at desperate straits now.

“I’ll not take it of you. If I die she goes with me—ah!”

A sudden eddy seized the man and swung him toward the island. He had evidently stored some remaining energy, and this he now put forth. He seemed fairly to leap forward in the water which was over his head near the bank. But he caught at a drooping tree-branch and held on.

Now, could Cody only have reached him, Boyd Bennett would have been at his mercy. But only for an instant did the weakness overpower him. He swung in shoreward, his feet found footing on a ledge of rock, and in another minute he clambered up out of the water, and, with the unfortunate girl still hanging limply over his shoulder, passed out of the scout’s sight!

The island was well wooded. It contained about half an acre and was long and narrow. It was so long that from the bank to which Cody had again turned his mount, he could not see whether the bandit found some immediate way of leaving it, and so reaching the farther shore of the river, or not.

There was no time to waste for Buffalo Bill, therefore. He must press after the man and the girl, giving the former no time to recover his strength, and, perhaps, make his escape from the island.

But Chief could not help his master across the deep water to the ledgy island. Nor could Buffalo Bill make it encumbered by his heavy accouterments. That was not to be considered for a moment!

He dismounted and let Chief go free. The old horse had done his share well, and as soon as he was relieved of the saddle and bridle, he lay down and rolled as though to get the cramps out of his body. The water of the river was ice-cold.

It even made Cody shrink when he contemplated it. His only way of reaching the island was by swimming, and against that current, and with the chill evening coming on, the scout might well hesitate. But not for long. What must be done would better be done quickly, and the Border King was well inured to exposure and cold. He threw aside his ammunition-belt and his weapons. His coat, waistcoat, and outer shirt went likewise. Off came his riding-boots, and then in his undergarment, and with his bowie between his teeth, he plunged into the flood and essayed the venture.

Whether he was being watched from the island by his enemy, Cody did not know. But this was the only way he saw to get at Boyd Bennett and the girl. He was matching his life against the bandit’s now, in the last desperate act of the series which had followed the abduction of White Antelope early the day before.

CHAPTER XLV.
WAR TO THE KNIFE.

And, indeed, Boyd Bennett was almost at his last gasp when he dragged himself ashore and put the nearest clump of brush between him and the water, thus hiding his future movements from the sharp eyes of the Border King. There the man fell upon the meager sward that clothed this part of the island, and lay, gasping like a great fish just out of its element, almost helpless with exhaustion. The White Antelope, had she recovered consciousness and power of action during those first few minutes, might easily have escaped from her captor. But she had come nearer being drowned than was at all pleasant. She lay so still and white where Bennett had flung her upon the ground, that even he, hardened villain that he was, feared his usage of her delicate body had been too much for the spirit that inhabited it, and that the breath was already sped from the girl.

But not for some minutes did Bennett think thus. He could barely recover his own breath at first. He was chilled through and through by the icy water. His clothing clung to him like lead. He had lost most of his weapons during his struggle in the river; but his bowie and a pistol remained—the latter, of course, useless in its present condition. His ammunition was saturated, too. He had but his knife to depend on, was he attacked.

And at that thought the bandit chief started to life! Attacked, indeed! There was a relentless enemy on his trail. He, too, knew that it had come to the final trial of strength between he and the Border King. His death, or William F. Cody’s, must mark this island as a tragic spot forever.

The great scout, he knew, would never give up while life remained in his body. As for Bennett himself, he was pushed now to the last extremity. He was bereft of all his associates. He had seen them killed one by one, by fate, or by the relentless arm of Buffalo Bill. He had lost caste with the Sioux, over whom he had obtained so great an influence during the past few months. And all for what? For this White Antelope—a half-breed girl—a woman who hated him, and who considered herself, though of mixed blood, too good for him.

He gnashed his teeth in rage as he thought of this, and his rage somewhat aroused him. He crawled to the girl and shook her. Her body was limp—and oh, so cold! It well-nigh frightened Bennett to touch her. Could it be that she was already dead?

He tore open the doeskin blouse that draped the upper part of her person and bared her bosom. His hand sought her heart and felt a timid flutter there. She was still alive!

Yet, how to warm that spark of life into full flame? He had nothing in which to wrap her; his own clothing was saturated. But in his hunting-shirt he carried a carefully stoppered bottle, and in this receptacle were several sulfur matches. These were as precious as gold to him now. He crept about the little plateau of the island, gathering twigs and dry branches and rubbish. This light stuff he heaped in a pile, and then, before he dared light the pyre, he found and broke up larger wood and made ready a roaring heap which, a few moments after he touched his match to it, blazed several feet into the air.

The sun was going down, and this bonfire warded off the coming chill of night. He basked in the heat himself, feeling grateful for every leaping, scorching flame. He dragged the girl within the radiance of the fire and chafed her hands and her forehead, and removed her torn moccasins and held her small, beautifully formed feet to the fire. These ministrations he performed with some little tenderness; but, although the girl sighed and her lips parted, and her chilled body seemed to respond to the warmth of the fire, she did not open her eyes.

Suddenly Boyd Bennett started to his feet with an exclamation of rage. He had entirely forgotten something during these minutes. What was Buffalo Bill about?

He ran through the bushes and appeared upon the edge of the river looking toward the side where Cody had been. There was the big white horse, divested of saddle and bridle, cropping the grass on the bank. There, too, Bennett saw most of Cody’s clothes and accouterments—a neat pile of them. But where was the man himself?

The bandit was inspired instantly with fear that he had overlooked his enemy too long. Had he been given time to cross to the island?

And where else could Cody be? For what other reason would he have removed his clothing and arms?

“The devil is swimming the river!” muttered the bandit.

The sun was setting, and it was already growing dusky on this side of the island. Boyd Bennett cast his keen glance over the troubled surface of the water, seeking the bold swimmer. He was not aware that at the moment he parted the bushes to step out on the shore, Cody, in midstream, had seen him, and had sunk beneath the surface, leaving scarcely a ripple to show where he had gone down.

And once in the depths the scout had swum as strongly as he could for the island. The current swept him downward, and he was some yards below Boyd Bennett’s position when he finally had to come up for air. His head bobbed above the surface as sleek as a seal’s or an otter’s—and looking much like that of the latter animal. Only to get a breath did the scout remain at the surface, then he sank beneath again.

Although Bennett did not actually see his head, he caught the ripples on the surface as Cody went down. He saw that there was no eddy there, and he suspected instantly what had caused the disturbance on the water. With an oath he ran along the edge of the island until he came opposite the spot.

In a minute Cody came up again for air. With a yell Bennett sighted him. The scout was this time much nearer the shore—and he was much nearer his last gasp than before, too! Crossing the river he had found all the task promised from the other side. It was not only a long swim, but it was an arduous swim.

“I’ve got you now, Bill Cody!” roared the bandit, shaking his fists above his head in an abandonment of rage. “I’ve got you now!”

Had Buffalo Bill had breath to do so he might have told him that the river had a bigger mortgage on him. The current was pulling him down-stream with a power that taxed his utmost strength to counteract.

“You’re my meat!” bawled Bennett. “Let me get my hands on you, you hell-hound!”

Cody bore all this in silence. He was struggling to gain a foothold near the shore. Once his feet found bottom, but then the current tore him away and he had to fight to get back. Bennett ran along the shore and stood over him, his face aflame, his eyes blazing like coals, his lips fairly frothing.

Cody finally made the shallow again and stood upon his feet. That was a blessed relief! He was head and shoulders out of the water, and now he took the knife from between his teeth and held it clutched firmly in his right hand.

“I’ve got you!” bawled Bennett, fairly dancing up and down on the shore. “Come ashore and I’ll have your scalp! I’ll cut your heart out! I’ll slice you into cat’s meat! And if you don’t come ashore the river will get you. Ha! ha! ha! Bill Cody is between the devil and the deep sea this time!”

And the scout thought that this was a pretty true statement of the case. For, if ever there was a fiend incarnate, it was Bennett at this juncture. And the river was as wicked and dangerous as the sea could possibly be. The scout was indeed between two perils—and neither would give him a chance for his life.

The moment he waded within striking distance Bennett would attack him. And the river dragged at him continually.

But, at least, the scout could parley. He had breath enough to say:

“Boyd Bennett, you and I have many an old score to settle. Give me footing on that bank. You have your knife; I have mine. Let us try conclusions fairly.”

“What! Give you a chance to play some scurvy trick on me—when I’ve got you dead to rights?” cried Bennett, and laughed long and loudly.

Cody edged a step nearer to the shore.

“Be a man!” urged the scout. “You’re as good as I am.”

“I’m better—curse you!”

Cody gained another foot.

“Let us try conclusions, blade to blade. Give me a show, man!”

“It’s war to the knife, and the knife to the hilt between us—that’s true, Bill Cody!” gritted out the man. “But you shall not be given a chance. I’ll kill you in cold blood—or see you drown in this river. Mark ye that!”

Cody crept a few inches nearer.

“Come! You are rested. You’ve got your strength back. I’m chilled to the bone. But don’t kill me as you would a dog, Bennett!” urged the wily scout.

“A dog you are, and a dog’s death you shall die!”

Cody stooped a little now so as to appear still to be in deep water. But he had gained considerable. The fellow’s rage and excitement made him overlook this cunning.

“A chance; just a foothold on the bank—for God’s sake!” cried Cody.

“Not much; I won’t! You die where you are—or drown!”

Boyd Bennett stooped, and holding his own bowie with grim clutch, made a pass at the scout. The latter dodged—and made another foot.

“Give me a show!” cried the man in the water, apparently at his last gasp.

“No, no! I’ll have your life—and now!”

Again the bandit made a thrust. At the moment Cody flung his body forward, and his left hand clutched a tree-branch which overhung the river. At last he had a stable hold upon terra firma. With a shout he dragged himself in toward the bank, and, in turn, lunged at his antagonist. So unexpected was the blow that he came near catching Bennett in a vital spot. As it was, the point of the scout’s bowie slit his enemy’s sleeve from wrist to elbow and brought the blood beneath!

“You devil!” yelled Bennett, leaping back, smarting with pain.

It was just the chance Cody wished. He bounded out upon the rocky shore. His own war-cry resounded through the island. All his weakness dropped from him like a garment. At last he was before his foe, and they were evenly matched—man to man and blade to blade!

“Guard yourself, you scoundrel!” cried Buffalo Bill, the Border King. “It is war to the knife, and the knife to the hilt, as you yourself have said. Your life or mine—which is the better man! One of us, Boyd Bennett, shall never leave this spot alive!”

CHAPTER XLVI.
AND THE KNIFE TO THE HILT.

All the time Buffalo Bill had been standing in the shallow water parleying with his enemy, he had been regaining his breath and his strength, both sadly depleted by his swim across the river. Now he had leaped ashore almost as fresh and strong as Bennett himself.

His leaping ashore had quite startled the bandit; but he did not give back after his first cry of surprise and pain. He, too, was armed with a bowie. They were indeed equal, and the bandit was no physical coward.

Colonel James Bowie, of Texas, invented a terrible weapon of defense and offense when he gave the world the heavy hunting-knife which bears his name. It is a long, slightly curved blade, having a razor-sharp two-edged point and a heavy back. It is fitted with a handle and guard, and is always carried in a sheath. It can be thrown with great precision by the old-time “knife-fighter”; but it is at close quarters that the true wickedness of the weapon comes to light.

In a fight with these knives death must surely result—many times to both antagonists; surely to one. One stroke does it; there is no need of a second if the first really gets home. A strong blow would sever a man’s head from his body!

Both the scout and Boyd Bennett were familiar with the use of the great knife. Facing each other, left foot forward, stooping slightly, they circled about each other like two cocks looking for a chance to strike. The men’s eyes were fastened upon each other, like the eyes of pugilists. In the expanding and contracting of the eyeball they saw the intent of their antagonist to make a move.

Crouching, the two shifted about on the rocks. The ground was not good for such cautious work; but one did not know it better than the other. It was as fair to Bennett as to the scout.

Both men feinted, but did not come to close quarters. They began to breathe heavily, not so much from exhaustion as from excitement. The wind hissed between their locked teeth. Their eyes were like those of mad beasts. Their bare feet shifted on the rocks with a shuffling sound, but otherwise they were noiseless in their tigerlike movements.

Suddenly, with a shriek like a wildcat, Boyd Bennett leaped at his foe. He thought he saw an opening. This was what the scout intended, and he gave back just a little. But before Bennett was upon him the other glided to one side and struck sharply at the man. The blades clashed and sparks flew from the steel. At the same moment the men clutched each other by the left wrist, and at last the issue was really joined!

There they stood panting, foot to foot and breast to breast, their fingers locked about each other’s wrists like steel bands, the knife-blades “slithering” against each other, every muscle in their bodies as tense as steel wires. The pressure of blade against blade was all that kept the men apart. If one gave an atom in an endeavor to stab his foe, he would open his own breast to the knife. This was a foregone conclusion. The pressure of knife against knife seemed a frail barrier; but that was all that lay between the two men and sudden and awful death!

The man who made the first reckless move, or the one whose bodily forces first gave before the strain, was the one who ran the greatest peril. To the cool man, the brave man, the man with iron nerve and an undaunted patience—to him would come victory!

Knowing this, Buffalo Bill took the only advantage that remained to him. His own mind was calm, his brain steady, his vision unclouded by hot rage. His emotion was a sort of cold fury, as deadly as the steel blade, the handle of which he clutched. At last he had his enemy before him—within his grasp—face to face and steel to steel!

And so he taunted him, knowing that Bennett’s brain and heart were already afire with hatred.

“You’ve no girl now to conquer, Boyd Bennett!” the scout hissed. “You’re not robbing the cradle now. Look out! Another mistake like that and I’ll have you!”

“Curse you, you’re a dead man already!” cried the bandit.

“I’m as good as a dozen dead ones. Don’t fool yourself. Ah!”

“Not yet!”

“But almost—almost, my boy! I’ll get you the next time. My brave Death Killer—medicine chief of the Sioux! Ah-ha, you villain! You’ve played that game to the end, too.”

Bennett fairly gnashed his teeth and put forth furious endeavors to break down his antagonist’s guard.

“Save your breath, man,” said Cody, knowing that his advice would have exactly a contrary effect upon Bennett. “I’m only playing with you yet.”

“It’s the worst game you ever played, Bill Cody!”

Cody thought so himself, but he smiled back into the other’s eyes, and the man’s rage grew.

“I’ll get you yet!” roared Bennett.

“But not that way,” muttered the scout. “Ah! Now we have it!”

With a sudden turn of his wrist he almost brought Bennett to his knees. Both men clung so tightly to each other’s left wrists, however, that little advantage was to be gained by sudden twists. It was the steady pressure of steel against steel that would finally gain the day. One arm must be stronger than the other—one foot more skilful—one eye more true.

“This is a bad end for you, Boyd Bennett!” began Cody again.

He was scarcely panting himself; but the other was breathing hard, gnashing his teeth, rolling his eyes, like a veritable madman. He screamed with rage at this remark of the scout’s, and the froth flew from his lips. If ever a man was mad, Boyd Bennett was that person.

“And all for what?” quoth the scout. “What did you make by it? The girl would have nothing to do with you. Had you remained in Oak Heart’s camp you might have finished me. But not that way!” guarding himself from a furious lunge of the other’s knife.

“No, no, my boy! You made a grave error. Back there you had some power. You might have had the upper hand over me. Now I have it!”

“Not yet!” roared Bennett.

“Oh, yes, I have! I’m only playing with you, I tell you. When I am ready I’ll put you where the dogs won’t bite you! Ah! how’s that?”

Boyd had made a furious lunge; and his hand had slipped on Cody’s wrist. Quick as lightning the scout slipped aside, broke from the death-grapple, and slit the point of his knife up Bennett’s upper arm, making a deep, ugly wound. The blood fairly spurted from the severed artery. It was then but a matter of a few minutes before Bennett would be helpless, unless he managed to finish Cody first.

They circled about each other again, watchful as cats. Once or twice they tried to grapple, but it amounted to nothing. Bennett’s wound was troubling him sorely. The blood was running in a stream from the point of his elbow.

“Say your prayers—if you have any to say, you scoundrel!” exclaimed the scout sternly. “For you pay for your murders and atrocities here and now! If you have killed that poor girl by your brutal treatment, you pay for it in short order.”

Bennett leaped in at him. The scout gave back a bit, and suddenly his foot slipped on a wet slab of rock. He fell to one knee. With a yell of delight, the wounded bandit flung himself upon him.

It was not the scout’s finish, however. Cody had a wealth of reserve force yet. He flung himself forward to meet Bennett’s charge, caught his left wrist and the weight of the man’s body upon his left shoulder. The scoundrel’s stroke overreached, and the pit of his stomach came in heavy contact with his antagonist’s shoulder-bone.

That antagonist rose up suddenly and pitched Bennett clear over him. The man landed on his head and shoulders, but, as though made of India rubber, he bounded to his feet and faced Cody again.

He was panting for breath, his face was covered with blood, and altogether he was a most terrible looking object. He had no intention of giving up the fight, however. With a yell, he flung himself once more at Cody—but this time wildly.

“’Tis the end at last, Boyd Bennett!” sang out the clarion voice of the Border King.

The villain knew it. His eyes rolled, his teeth chattered, his mouth was agape as he reentered the fray. Their left hands were locked again, and the knives clashed. Steadily Cody forced his man back, back, back—until a tree-trunk kept him from going farther. From a crouching position the two men gradually stood erect. The pressure of Buffalo Bill’s bowie against that of his antagonist became a force that the latter could not meet. His arm went slowly back until the elbow struck sharply against the tree-trunk.

With an awful scream of rage and deadly fear the fellow’s fingers relaxed upon the handle of his bowie. The blade clattered to the ground. He clutched feebly at Cody’s throat, and then——

It was indeed the knife to the hilt! Boyd Bennett slipped to the ground and lay there, dead!

CHAPTER XLVII.
THE CONQUEROR.

Buffalo Bill turned his eyes from the bleeding corpse of his enemy, staggered to a near-by boulder, and dropped upon it to rest. His own strength was far spent. Besides, the wound he had received in his shoulder, aggravated by his long, cold swim and the violent exertions of the past few minutes, had broken out bleeding afresh. Boyd Bennett would never know how near he came to being victor himself in this awful battle!

As for the consequence, he dropped upon the rock, exhausted and ill. The hardiest and most seasoned veteran comes to the end of his tether at last, and for thirty-six hours Cody had been riding hard, and fighting hard, and swimming hard—and all without bite or sup! There had been no time for the preparation of food when he left his cave in the mountain to follow Boyd Bennett and the White Antelope, and since that time he had neither dared shoot game nor had he seen the time to cook and eat.

And that which fairly quenched his spirit now was the thought that he seemed to have taken all this hard labor upon his shoulders for naught. True, his old-time enemy was finally dead. Boyd Bennett, the outlaw of the Overland Trail, the Death Killer of the Utah Sioux, would never again trouble mortal man—unless his spirit came back to haunt the scenes of his bloody deeds.

But Buffalo Bill had not put forth all this effort merely to best this old-time foe. First of all, he desired to save the White Antelope, but he seemed to have failed in this. Boyd Bennett had plainly carried his threat into execution. He had actually drowned the unfortunate girl. It had been that thought, more than any other, that had nerved Buffalo Bill to drive the steel home into Bennett’s heart!

“All gone now—the last of the three!” muttered the scout, passing his hand across his shaking lips. “And such horrible deaths for all! Death by the bullet and the fall from the cliff. Death by the war-club and tomahawk. And now death by the river—and the hands of a cursed villain. Horrible! horrible!”

These enigmatical remarks, uttered aloud, drowned a rustling in the bushes behind him. Suddenly a light hand fell upon his shoulder. The scout did not start—his nerves were too steady. But he glanced at the small, brown hand, and then looked up along the arm, turning his head until he looked full into the face of the White Antelope. There his gaze hung, while his lips remained speechless for the moment.

“Pa-e-has-ka has killed his enemy and mine. This makes the White Antelope and Long Hair friends.”

She held out her hand to him, and the scout took it, still in a daze.

“By holy!” he muttered. “I sure thought she was dead.”

“What is it my white brother mutters?”

“I reckoned you were drowned, White Antelope,” repeated Cody.

“Nay. I held my breath under the water. But that wicked man came near to drowning me.”

“I should say he did!”

“Then he would have revived me; but I remained as though unconscious, for I feared him.”

“You’ll have need to fear him no more.”

“Ah! it was a good fight! I watched. The Long Hair is indeed a great chief.”

Cody shuddered and glanced away. He did not like to think of the daughter of Oak Heart’s white wife viewing with satisfaction such a terrible battle as that which had just cursed this spot.

“The Long Hair is cold. Let him come to the fire yonder and dry his body and rest.”

“I don’t care if I do. I feel like I was frozen clear to my marrow. You’ve got a fire, have you?”

“Death Killer made it to dry us by. Now you shall have it,” she said.

The scout basked for some minutes in the heat of the fire, which White Antelope heaped with fresh fuel. But he could not remain inactive for long. His perturbed mind, relieved by the discovery of the girl’s safety, instantly fixed upon other worriments.

Her absence from the encampment of the Sioux would have long since been noted. Oak Heart would be troubled by her absence. And they were a long way from the valley in which the Indian village lay.

Besides, they were marooned on this island in the middle of the river. The canoe was wrecked, and Cody shrank from making that long swim to the mainland again. Besides, he doubted the girl’s ability to accomplish such a task.

There was nothing to eat on this island, however, and food they must have before long. At least, the scout felt the need of it.

So he rose up very quickly from his reclining posture and went to the side of the island which faced the river-bank from which he had swum. It was already twilight, but he glanced sharply up and down the bank for some wandering party that might help them. The Indians might be searching for their canoes; he could not expect any of the freighters to come down so far as this, for the main trail turned off some miles above.

But not a soul appeared. The only living object on the river-bank which he saw was Chief, quietly grazing.

“Then our hope lies in you, faithful old horse!” cried Cody, and he uttered a shrill whistle.

The white horse raised his head, whinnied, and trotted down to the water’s edge. Buffalo Bill gave the call which he used when he desired Chief to come to him. The dumb brute understood, but he pawed the gravel at the river’s edge and seemed to hesitate. The distance across was wide, and the sullen current was strong. He had already been in it and had been almost swept away.

Buffalo Bill repeated his call. The horse threw up his head, neighed intelligently, and trotted down the riverside to the lower end of the island. There the current was not so swift. Without hesitation, this time, the noble horse plunged into the flood and swam with head high, and occasionally neighing at his master, toward the island. Being untrammeled by saddle or bridle, the creature handled himself remarkably well in the current, and forged ahead without being swept much out of his course by the stream.

When he came near the shore, however, Buffalo Bill was forced to rush in, cling to Chief’s mane, and guide the horse to land. There the brute climbed out and shook himself like a great dog.

“Ah! the white chief has control over even the ponies,” said the Indian maid, in admiration.

“And lucky he does,” muttered Buffalo Bill to himself. “Without old Chief we’d be roosting here till kingdom come!”

But he had to give the horse time to breathe before setting him at the current again. It was no easy pull across. Finally he led the white horse down into the water and gave the girl a boost upon his back, where she straddled him, clinging to his thick mane.

“Let him have his head,” Buffalo Bill commanded. “He won’t need any guidance, but will bring us both safe ashore.”

He urged Chief into the deep water, and swam by his side himself, resting a hand now and then on the beast’s shoulder, and encouraging him with his voice. Tired as they both were, man and beast found the pull tremendous. They were carried some distance down the river, but that did not so much matter. Only the water chilled Cody to the bone, and he had visions of rheumatism, that fell disease that lays hold upon the woodsman early in life because of exposure and privation.

It was somewhat of a battle to reach the shore, but they accomplished a landing at last, and White Antelope leaped down from Chief’s back and patted him.

“A brave horse, and worthy of carrying a brave man like Long Hair,” she declared.

“Give him a night’s rest,” said Cody, “and he’ll carry us both back to your father’s village.”

“The Long Hair was going there to redeem his pledge to me when I chanced to spy him?” queried White Antelope.

“I certainly was snooping about, looking for a chance to get through Bennett’s line of guards.”

“But you had been killing and scalping Oak Heart’s braves?”

“Not a one. I was there waiting for a chance to keep my promise to you,” said Buffalo Bill emphatically. “This renegade white was the fellow who was quietly knocking your young men in the head and scalping them. He was as bloodthirsty a wretch as ever went unhung. He’s dead now, thanks be!”

“Then Oak Heart will receive you with more friendliness,” said the girl.

“I dunno how friendly he’ll feel,” muttered Cody. “But I’ll take you back safe in the morning.”

They hastened to build a rousing camp-fire, and as soon as his undergarments were dry the scout put on his outer clothing and accouterments. Then with his rifle he stole away to a place where he had noted the marks of many creatures that had come down to drink, and there, just as the moon rose, found a doe with her fawn and shot the youngster. So they had a much needed late supper of roast kid. After which Cody insisted that the girl sleep.

As for himself, he sat up the livelong night, or paced the river-bank to keep awake. Just before daybreak he awoke the girl, and while she cooked breakfast he obtained an hour’s repose.

As they started from the river’s brink to ride ’cross country toward the range in which Oak Heart’s camp was situated, White Antelope said:

“My father’s braves will be out searching for me, mayhap. If they see White Antelope in the charge of a white man, they may try to shoot him. They may believe you were he who stole me away.”

“I’d been thinking of that,” said Cody reflectively. “I don’t want to get popped over for the wrong man, that’s sure. I reckon I’ll have to change my appearance a little.”

“How will the white chief do that?” she demanded, over his shoulder. She was riding behind him on the saddle.

“We’ll see when we come to that cave I’ve been staying in. I reckon I’ve got something there that may help me out. And I believe we shall be able to reach it without being molested.”

Chief bore them tirelessly all that day and far into the night. When they halted and built their fire they were within a few hours’ ride of the cave in the mountain from which Cody had overlooked Oak Heart’s camp. Seventy-two hours before he had left it to chase Boyd Bennett and rescue the Indian maiden. Much had happened since then both to the scout and in the Indian encampment.

CHAPTER XLVIII.
THE PLEDGE KEPT.

There was much excitement in the village of the Sioux. The white queen, the idolized daughter of Oak Heart, had ridden away from her teepee and had not returned. Then came the discovery of the death of the young brave on the ridge, and the deed was set down to the credit of the hated Long Hair.

These mysterious murders that had been committed so near the encampment had wrought upon the tribesmen greatly. It seemed as though Long Hair possessed some supernatural power. He flitted, seemingly, from place to place without being seen, and killed the Sioux almost in the confines of the encampment.

While the chiefs were in council a horse was seen approaching from a mountain defile, down over the ridge, where the young brave had been found stabbed to the heart. Upon the back of the horse were two persons, one of them apparently a great chief in full war-dress; the other was White Antelope herself.

The strange chief rode directly down into the village, not deigning to more than grunt a salutation to the guards, and the girl refused to make any explanation, either. Straight to the council-lodge the chief rode, and, there dismounting, the two entered, the young girl leading the way.

The Indian is stoical and Spartan, but Oak Heart was fond of his remaining child. He was moved now by her unexpected recovery, and as she ran to him he allowed her to take and hold his hand. The old men nodded, too, for they believed that the White Antelope was “good medicine.” The strange chief, however, they did not know, and they eyed him with suspicion as well as curiosity. Finally the White Antelope arose and stepped into the circle, and there made her voice heard by all in the lodge.

“The Sioux are a wise people; their chiefs are wise; their old men are wise, but sometimes even the wise are mistaken. They make mistakes. They welcome into their tribe one who stung and bit like the viper warmed in the bosom. Such a viper has been warmed in the bosom of the Utah Sioux!”

The old men grunted and looked at each other. Some glanced covertly at the place where the medicine chief, Death Killer, should have sat. He was not present.

“This one came with a false tale to my father, the great chief, Oak Heart, and told a tale which sent the Sioux on the war-path. They fell upon the palefaces and killed them. The palefaces were not searching for the Sioux village; they were searching for a wicked paleface to punish him. Ah! he was two-tongued—and his tongue was sharp as a knife.

“The White Antelope speaks the truth to you. This traitor was in the councils of the Sioux, but with his own hand he was murdering our young men. See! The still, red scalp of Po-ca-his-ta, torn from his head by the traitor this very day. And this—as other—murders he would have had the Sioux believe were done by Long Hair, the paleface scout.

“Long Hair was sent to tell his big chief of my father’s warning, and to bring people to bury the dead. Long Hair said he would return. Long Hair is of a straight tongue. He is here!”

Instantly the strange chief standing so motionless in their presence threw the war-bonnet aside and dropped the corner of the blanket which muffled his face. Buffalo Bill stood revealed. A deep murmur ran around the lodge, and it was half of surprise, half of admiration for the bold paleface who had redeemed his word to the White Antelope. Fearlessly the scout stood before his redskin foes, his eyes fixed upon the face of Oak Heart.

“It is well,” said the old Sioux. “The Long Hair’s life was forfeit when he was held by Death Killer. He has gone to his people; he has returned as he said. Now he must die.”

But Buffalo Bill never changed color. White Antelope started forward, her richly tinted face paling. It was a moment before she controlled herself and stood calmly to speak as an Indian should.

“Let the White Antelope speak!” said Oak Heart quietly.

The girl, in rapid, burning words, related her capture by Boyd Bennett and his death at the hands of the scout. The treachery of the renegade was proved. Buffalo Bill had been the medicine chief’s prisoner. Why should the Sioux hold the captive of a creature so dishonored?

Her plea evidently made some impression, but all eyes turned upon Oak Heart, and at length the old chief spoke.

“The Long Hair is a mighty paleface chief. He has trailed the red man to his village, and his belt is heavy with the scalps of my braves. He came here under the war-bonnet of a Cheyenne chief, and has saved the White Antelope from death.

“But the Long Hair has long been a foe to the Sioux. It was he who brought help to the white soldiers in the fort when we would have beaten them. It was he who took them ammunition. It was he who stole our ponies.

“The Long Hair has ofttimes looked on death. He is not afraid of death. He must show my warriors how a brave man can die.”

For the first time since entering the lodge, Buffalo Bill spoke:

“It is true, Oak Heart, that I have been your foe, and the foe of your people of late. It was not always so. When the Sioux would dwell at peace with the paleface, were content to live and hunt in these mountains and not fall upon and kill the white soldiers, Long Hair was their friend.

“When the Wise Woman lived and her wisdom guided the tribe, the Sioux remained at peace with the paleface. But now worse councils prevail among you, and your young men go out to battle and are slain. And what do you gain? The palefaces are as numberless as the leaves of the forest. When you kill one, two come in his place; where you kill two, a dozen appear. Take the word of one who has smoked in your lodges and heard wisdom from your old men. The Long Hair tells you to bury the hatchet and smoke the peace-pipe with the white chiefs. Then shall you have content and your bellies be filled, and your young men shall grow up and be great hunters and your young squaws live to bear children.

“Long Hair has spoken. If the Sioux kill me, it is but one white man dead. But how many will strike the trail of the Sioux to avenge my death? The Sioux have already lost many braves. Let them be content; blood enough has been spilled. Is it not so?

“Remember, too, oh, Oak Heart, how Long Hair has sat in your lodge and talked with you and the Wise Woman before the Great Spirit took her. Here!” he drew from his hunting-shirt a sacred tomahawk pipe with a broken edge. “Here is the pledge given to Long-Hair long ago by the Wise Woman, and by Oak Heart. Then was Oak Heart’s mind single; he was not full of wiles and thoughts of evil against the white men and against Long Hair. This was the pledge that Long Hair and the Sioux should never be at enmity. And has the enmity been of Long Hair’s seeking? Nay! The red men started to slay. The Long Hair must go with his people. Has he done wrong?

“See! Must Pa-e-has-ka die?” and he held up the trophy again.

A deathlike silence had fallen upon the lodge. The old chief was greatly moved, and for an Indian—especially a councilor—to show emotion is a disgrace. Perhaps, too, his mind was filled with thoughts of the Wise Woman, of whom Buffalo Bill had spoken so feelingly.

Years before, when Oak Heart was a much younger man, the tribe had raided far to the south, by the waters of a great river. They had come upon a ranchman and his family, killed him, flung his body into the river, and taken his wife, a beautiful white squaw, captive. None but the son of the ranchman—a mere child—escaped. He had been found and cared for after the massacre by Buffalo Bill.

The white squaw’s brain had been turned by the horror of that time. She wandered about the encampment in a dazed state. The Indians have a great awe of those who are insane, believing that the finger of the Great Spirit has touched them. She was cared for tenderly and brought north with the tribe.

She was a skilful woman with herbs and simples. She nursed the wounded warriors; she helped the women in travail; she cared for the children and the young squaws. She was much beloved. Her influence, even before her mind cleared, became one for great good in the tribe.

Slowly she grew normal once more. Years had passed. Instead of golden tresses, her hair was as white as the snow upon the mountain peaks. Yet she was still a young woman and good to look upon. Oak Heart loved her. He had treated her with the utmost respect and kindness. She had lived so long among the redskins that she had lost all distaste for them, and had imbibed many of their religious beliefs. She was unutterably opposed to the warring of the tribe with the whites, however.

Her husband and children were dead—and the past was dead. She espoused Oak Heart so as to retain her influence over him and over the tribe, for the good of the whites. It was after that that Buffalo Bill met the Wise Woman and knew who she was. But he had never told her that her son was alive, for fear that the knowledge would do the poor woman more harm than good. Also, she had a child by Oak Heart—the White Antelope. But she died when the girl was small.

Possibly thoughts of the dead woman moved the old chief. Besides, the peace-pipe was a sacred pledge. He suddenly rose, threw around him his blanket, and, standing in the midst of the lodge, spoke impressively:

“The Pa-e-has-ka is a friend to Oak Heart. When the hatchet shall be buried between the red men and the palefaces, they shall be brothers again. But now the palefaces are on the trail of my people; so let the Pa-e-has-ka hasten from us and join his own tribe. Not one of my braves shall follow him. Oak Heart has spoken.”

There were murmurs about the lodge, but no chief at the moment put his objections in words. Buffalo Bill found the White Antelope’s hand seeking his own. She acted more like a modest and timid white girl than ever before.

“Let the white chief come with me,” she whispered. “I have something to show him.”

The amazed scout went with her out of the grand lodge and was taken to her own teepee.

CHAPTER XLIX.
CONCLUSION.

The wondering Indians allowed the White Antelope and Long Hair to pass. Inside the teepee an old woman kept watch and guard. A figure lay upon a heap of furs. It moved as the scout entered, raised on its elbow, and a weak voice exclaimed:

“By the nine gods of war! Thanks be it’s you, Cody! I thought you’d never come, though this dear girl here swore you would, as you had promised her.”

To see one whom we believe dead—aye, have seen lying stark on the field of battle and believe to have been buried there—rise up suddenly and confront us is indeed a shock. Buffalo Bill fell back a step, exclaiming:

“Dick Danforth!”

“’Tis I, old faithful! Thanks to this girl—who is the whitest Injun God ever made—I am alive, the sole survivor of my unfortunate party.”

“Dick, I saw you lying on the field of battle,” declared the scout, taking his hand. “How came you here?”

“She brought me back to life. She found there was life in me. I had got a terrible crack on the head. She and the old woman brought me here, and I have been hidden in this teepee ever since. I’m a whole lot better now, Cody. I believe I could ride a horse.”

“And the White Antelope has cared for you?” cried the scout.

“She has, indeed.” Then the young man whispered: “Isn’t she beautiful? And how glad I am, old man, that you stayed my hand that day when I would have murdered her!”

“Ho, ho!” muttered the scout. “Sets the wind in that quarter? I must tell you two young people something before more mischief be done.”

He seized the girl’s hand and drew her forward to the side of Danforth’s couch.

“White Antelope,” he said in English, “do you remember that I told you once I knew your mother?”

She nodded, watching him with bright eyes.

“She was a lovely woman. She was a white woman. It was true she was Oak Heart’s wife, but she had been espoused before by a good and great white man. He was killed by Oak Heart’s people, and for a time your mother was stricken by the mercy of the Great Spirit with forgetfulness.

“When she came to herself she believed that her husband and her son were dead. She became Oak Heart’s squaw. But her son was not dead. I had saved him from the Indians, and he lived to grow up——”

Danforth raised himself up with a great cry.

“You do not mean it! It is impossible!” he cried. “This girl——?”

“Is your sister. White Antelope, this young man is your elder brother—and a mighty fine fellow you’ll find him. Your mother was the finest woman I ever knew, and your father, Dick—God help him!—was once the finest fellow in the world!”

The scout choked and was silent. He was thinking of that awful, convulsed face of the Mad Hunter as he fell backward from the summit of the bluff, with Texas Jack’s bullet in his brain!

“He—he is my brother?” murmured the girl, her eyes shining.

“That’s what he is,” said the scout, recovering himself and speaking heartily.

She went to Danforth and put both her hands in his. The young fellow suddenly pulled her down to him and kissed her on the lips.

“That’s the way white brothers and sisters greet each other,” he said, with a weak laugh. “When can you get us away from this camp, Cody?”

That was a question easier to be asked than answered. But the excitement over the letting of Cody himself go free aided them in their attempt. The chiefs were murmuring against the decision of Oak Heart. The old man was fighting for his supremacy as head chief of the tribe. He could not even see the White Antelope, and shut her out of his lodge.

This piqued the wayward girl. She was the more ready to go with her new-found brother, as he was ill and needed her. But she only agreed to go with him to Fort Resistence and then directly return. But Dick Danforth said confidently:

“Let me once get her away from the influence of these bloody redskins, and I’ll wean her away from them. I know what will please a young girl like her. I’ll take her to San Francisco, Bill. Thanks to you, I’ve some property of my own left of my poor father’s estate. And isn’t she a beauty! Won’t she make ’em sit up and take notice at the Bay?”

Under cover of the night the scout and the Indian maid helped the wounded Danforth upon a horse, and the three wended their way from the encampment. They were not followed—or, at least, were not overtaken—until they reached Captain Keyes’ command. Then they were hurried on under an escort to Resistence. White Antelope made no objection to going, her brother was so weak and needed her so much.

Indeed, the wily young fellow remained an invalid so long that his sister became half-reconciled to civilized clothing and to white people before they took the long journey to San Francisco, where Dick went to spend the furlough allowed him by the department.

The scene changes once more to Fort Advance, some days after that on which Buffalo Bill, the Border King, had set out on his dangerous mission to the village of the Sioux. It is a little past sunrise, and a horseman is descried taking the trail from the cañon toward the fort. He is mounted on a great white charger that comes like the wind.

The rider looks pale and jaded, and his buckskin attire has seen hard usage. But he is recognized by the sentinel over the gate, and his cry is repeated about the fort:

“Here comes Buffalo Bill, the King of the Border!”

Waving his battered hat in response to the shout, Buffalo Bill rides straight to the open gate, enters, and dismounts before Major Baldwin’s door. An orderly seizes his bridle-rein, and the major comes forth and grasps the scout’s hand with the words:

“Thanks be to God for seeing you again alive, Cody! When Keyes told me you were safe, I felt like ordering a feast to celebrate the occasion. And they say the Sioux are ready for peace?”

“I believe they are. Oak Heart has pretty much lost his grip on the tribe, and is an outcast. But the new powers-that-be have seen the fallacy of trying issues again with us.”

“We certainly believed you dead one while, Cody.”

“And it was a close shave not to be this time, sir.”

“You have won out as usual, Bill, with flying colors.”

“Yes, Major Baldwin. I went to Oak Heart’s village with the firm determination to get Boyd Bennett if it cost me my life. That scoundrel had been a thorn in my side too long. I got him. He’s dead. He’ll do no more harm this side of the Great Divide!”

“A good piece of work, Cody. And I understand that old maniac, the Mad Hunter, who attacked Keyes, is dead, too?”

“That is so. But I am sorry for his end. I tell you in confidence, major, that the man was Dick Danforth’s father—though I never suspected it until I saw his face close to. The Indians were supposed to have cracked him on the head and flung him into the river years ago. The crack on the head was sure enough. But he wasn’t drowned. His end has come now, poor fellow.”

“And Dick wonderfully saved!”

“He is, indeed—and has found a sister.”

“Ah, Cody! That was a joker you kept up your sleeve a long time,” said the major.

“True. I knew the boy’s hatred for all savages. I did not know about his poor mother and this girl until I had really instilled some of the boy’s hatred into his mind myself. I feared for him to know the truth. Yet I wanted to save her from the savages. Providence performed what I could not.”

“True.... But those scalp-locks, Cody?” asked Major Baldwin, pointing to the string of ghastly trophies hanging from the scout’s belt.

“Oh, those are the roofs of the braves who tried to raise my hair. I intended to have a rope made of them to hang Boyd Bennett with, but I’ll have them made into a bridle for you, instead, major.”

“All right, scout. Thank you for the gift. And now you are free. Report to me in full when you have rested,” and with another hand-clasp the major let him go.

Many other hands were waiting to clasp that of the Border King. It was some time before he could break away and find Texas Jack in the scouts’ quarters.

But times of rest were few and far between for these hardy men of the frontier. One tribe of red men were scarcely subjugated for the time when another would rise up to kill and slay. It was not long before Buffalo Bill was performing more daring deeds to add to his fame upon the border.

THE END.

Say, Boys!

How’d you like to own your own bronc’? How’d you like to be an expert at lassoing and branding? How’d you like to ride the rolling prairies in search of lost stock, and perhaps have an adventure or two with certain bad men who did not like you because you were on the side of law and order? How would you like it?

Well, we all cannot go west and be cowboys, but we sure can pay 15 cents for the stories in the Western Story Library, and find a good, comfortable spot, and immediately imagine ourselves riding with Ted Strong and his broncho boys, sharing their adventures, their hardships and pleasures.

Ted Strong and his pals are lovable fellows—every one of them, and you will do well to make comrades of them.

Ask your dealer to show you a copy of the Western Story Library.

STREET & SMITH CORPORATION
79 Seventh Avenue New York City

WESTERN STORIES ABOUT
BUFFALO BILL

Price, Fifteen Cents

Red-blooded Adventure Stories for Men

There is no more romantic character in American history than William F. Cody, or as he was internationally known, Buffalo Bill. He, with Colonel Prentiss Ingraham, Wild Bill Hickok, General Custer, and a few other adventurous spirits, laid the foundation of our great West.

There is no more brilliant page in American history than the winning of the West. Never did pioneers live more thrilling lives, so rife with adventure and brave deeds as the old scouts and plainsmen. Foremost among these stands the imposing figure of Buffalo Bill.

All of the books in this list are intensely interesting. They were written by the close friend and companion of Buffalo Bill—Colonel Prentiss Ingraham. They depict actual adventures which this pair of hard-hitting comrades experienced, while the story of these adventures is interwoven with fiction; historically the books are correct.

ALL TITLES ALWAYS IN PRINT

1—Buffalo Bill, the Border King | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
2—Buffalo Bill’s Raid | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
3—Buffalo Bill’s Bravery | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
4—Buffalo Bill’s Trump Card | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
5—Buffalo Bill’s Pledge | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
6—Buffalo Bill’s Vengeance | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
7—Buffalo Bill’s Iron Grip | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
8—Buffalo Bill’s Capture | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
9—Buffalo Bill’s Danger Line | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
10—Buffalo Bill’s Comrades | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
11—Buffalo Bill’s Reckoning | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
12—Buffalo Bill’s Warning | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
13—Buffalo Bill at Bay | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
14—Buffalo Bill’s Buckskin Pards | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
15—Buffalo Bill’s Brand | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
16—Buffalo Bill’s Honor | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
17—Buffalo Bill’s Phantom Hunt | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
18—Buffalo Bill’s Fight With Fire | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
19—Buffalo Bill’s Danite Trail | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
20—Buffalo Bill’s Ranch Riders | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
21—Buffalo Bill’s Death Trail | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
22—Buffalo Bill’s Trackers | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
23—Buffalo Bill’s Mid-air Flight | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
24—Buffalo Bill, Ambassador | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
25—Buffalo Bill’s Air Voyage | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
26—Buffalo Bill’s Secret Mission | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
27—Buffalo Bill’s Long Trail | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
28—Buffalo Bill Against Odds | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
29—Buffalo Bill’s Hot Chase | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
30—Buffalo Bill’s Redskin Ally | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
31—Buffalo Bill’s Treasure Trove | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
32—Buffalo Bill’s Hidden Foes | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
33—Buffalo Bill’s Crack Shot | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
34—Buffalo Bill’s Close Call | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
35—Buffalo Bill’s Double Surprise | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
36—Buffalo Bill’s Ambush | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
37—Buffalo Bill’s Outlaw Hunt | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
38—Buffalo Bill’s Border Duel | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
39—Buffalo Bill’s Bid for Fame | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
40—Buffalo Bill’s Triumph | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
41—Buffalo Bill’s Spy Trailer | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
42—Buffalo Bill’s Death Call | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
43—Buffalo Bill’s Body Guard | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
44—Buffalo Bill’s Still Hunt | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
45—Buffalo Bill and the Doomed Dozen | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
46—Buffalo Bill’s Prairie Scout | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
47—Buffalo Bill’s Traitor Guide | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
48—Buffalo Bill’s Bonanza | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
49—Buffalo Bill’s Swoop | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
50—Buffalo Bill and the Gold King | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
51—Buffalo Bill, Deadshot | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
52—Buffalo Bill’s Buckskin Bravos | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
53—Buffalo Bill’s Big Four | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
54—Buffalo Bill’s One-armed Pard | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
55—Buffalo Bill’s Race for Life | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
56—Buffalo Bill’s Return | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
57—Buffalo Bill’s Conquest | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
58—Buffalo Bill to the Rescue | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
59—Buffalo Bill’s Beautiful Foe | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
60—Buffalo Bill’s Perilous Task | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
61—Buffalo Bill’s Queer Find | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
62—Buffalo Bill’s Blind Lead | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
63—Buffalo Bill’s Resolution | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
64—Buffalo Bill, the Avenger | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
65—Buffalo Bill’s Pledged Pard | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
66—Buffalo Bill’s Weird Warning | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
67—Buffalo Bill’s Wild Ride | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
68—Buffalo Bill’s Redskin Stampede | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
69—Buffalo Bill’s Mine Mystery | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
70—Buffalo Bill’s Gold Hunt | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
71—Buffalo Bill’s Daring Dash | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
72—Buffalo Bill on Hand | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
73—Buffalo Bill’s Alliance | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
74—Buffalo Bill’s Relentless Foe | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
75—Buffalo Bill’s Midnight Ride | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
76—Buffalo Bill’s Chivalry | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
77—Buffalo Bill’s Girl Pard | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
78—Buffalo Bill’s Private War | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
79—Buffalo Bill’s Diamond Mine | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
80—Buffalo Bill’s Big Contract | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
81—Buffalo Bill’s Woman Foe | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
82—Buffalo Bill’s Ruse | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
83—Buffalo Bill’s Pursuit | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
84—Buffalo Bill’s Hidden Gold | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
85—Buffalo Bill in Mid-air | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
86—Buffalo Bill’s Queer Mission | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
87—Buffalo Bill’s Verdict | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
88—Buffalo Bill’s Ordeal | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
89—Buffalo Bill’s Camp Fires | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
90—Buffalo Bill’s Iron Nerve | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
91—Buffalo Bill’s Rival | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
92—Buffalo Bill’s Lone Hand | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
93—Buffalo Bill’s Sacrifice | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
94—Buffalo Bill’s Thunderbolt | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
95—Buffalo Bill’s Black Fortune | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
96—Buffalo Bill’s Wild Work | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
97—Buffalo Bill’s Yellow Trail | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
98—Buffalo Bill’s Treasure Train | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
99—Buffalo Bill’s Bowie Duel | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
100—Buffalo Bill’s Mystery Man | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
101—Buffalo Bill’s Bold Play | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
102—Buffalo Bill: Peacemaker | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
103—Buffalo Bill’s Big Surprise | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
104—Buffalo Bill’s Barricade | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
105—Buffalo Bill’s Test | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
106—Buffalo Bill’s Powwow | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
107—Buffalo Bill’s Stern Justice | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
108—Buffalo Bill’s Mysterious Friend | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
109—Buffalo Bill and the Boomers | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
110—Buffalo Bill’s Panther Fight | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
111—Buffalo Bill and the Overland Mail | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
112—Buffalo Bill on the Deadwood Trail | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
113—Buffalo Bill in Apache Land | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
114—Buffalo Bill’s Blindfold Duel | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
115—Buffalo Bill and the Lone Camper | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
116—Buffalo Bill’s Merry War | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
117—Buffalo Bill’s Star Play | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
118—Buffalo Bill’s War Cry | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
119—Buffalo Bill on Black Panther’s Trail | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
120—Buffalo Bill’s Slim Chance | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
121—Buffalo Bill Besieged | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
122—Buffalo Bill’s Bandit Round-up | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
123—Buffalo Bill’s Surprise Party | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
124—Buffalo Bill’s Lightning Raid | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
125—Buffalo Bill in Mexico | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
126—Buffalo Bill’s Traitor Foe | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
127—Buffalo Bill’s Tireless Chase | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
128—Buffalo Bill’s Boy Bugler | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
129—Buffalo Bill’s Sure Guess | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
130—Buffalo Bill’s Record Jump | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
131—Buffalo Bill in the Land of Dread | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
132—Buffalo Bill’s Tangled Clue | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
133—Buffalo Bill’s Wolf Skin | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham

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The person who has only a moderate sum to spend on reading matter will find this line a veritable gold mine.

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Transcriber’s Notes:

Punctuation has been made consistent.

Variations in spelling and hyphenation were retained as they appear in the original publication, except that obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

The following changes were made:

p. 17: when assumed for unintelligible word (volunteer when you were)

p. 34: means assumed for unintelligible word (wonderful means of)

p. 69: wise scout assumed for unintelligible words (the wise scout had)

p. 77: to assumed for unintelligible word (blow to Oak)

p. 120: done assumed for unintelligible word (was done. It)

p. 120: officer assumed for unintelligible word (the officer descried)

p. 226: flung assumed for unintelligible word (mother flung him)

p. 228: unintelligible word(s) deleted (he feared and)

p. 292: a assumed for unintelligible word (seemed a frail)

p. 306: can assumed for unintelligible word (man can die)

p. 314: Dick assumed for unintelligible word (And Dick wonderfully)

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Table of Contents

- Transcriber’s Notes:

- Buffalo Bill, the Border King

- IN APPRECIATION OF WILLIAM F. CODY (BUFFALO BILL).

- CHAPTER I. RUNNING THE DEATH-GANTLET.

- CHAPTER II. THE BORDER KING.

- CHAPTER III. THE KING OF THE SIOUX.

- CHAPTER IV. BUFFALO BILL’S PLOT.

- CHAPTER V. THE DESPERATE VENTURE.

- CHAPTER VI. THE DASH OF THE SCOUTS.

- CHAPTER VII. THE ACE OF CLUBS.

- CHAPTER VIII. FACING DEATH.

- CHAPTER IX. BREAKING THROUGH THE RED CIRCLE.

- CHAPTER X. THE RIDE TO THE RESCUE.

- CHAPTER XI. A BUSY HALF-HOUR.

- CHAPTER XII. A FLYING FIGHT.

- CHAPTER XIII. THE CHASE OF THE WHITE ANTELOPE.

- CHAPTER XIV. A STARTLING DISCOVERY.

- CHAPTER XV. THE TREASURE CHEST.

- CHAPTER XVI. THE BANDITS OF THE OVERLAND TRAIL.

- CHAPTER XVII. A FRIEND IN NEED.

- CHAPTER XVIII. THE RACE WITH DEATH.

- CHAPTER XIX. DANFORTH’S HAND IS STAYED AGAIN.

- CHAPTER XX. A DOUBLE CAPTURE.

- CHAPTER XXI. THE CAVE IN THE MOUNTAIN.

- CHAPTER XXII. THE NIGHT PROWLERS.

- CHAPTER XXIII. MORE THAN THEY BARGAINED FOR.

- CHAPTER XXIV. CHASED BY THE FLAMES.

- CHAPTER XXV. THE TELLTALE CROW.

- CHAPTER XXVI. THE MASSACRE.

- CHAPTER XXVII. “THE DEATH KILLER.”

- CHAPTER XXVIII. THE WHITE ANTELOPE INTERFERES.

- CHAPTER XXIX. A GIRL’S WORD.

- CHAPTER XXX. THE MAD HUNTER.

- CHAPTER XXXI. BUFFALO BILL’S GREAT SHOT.

- CHAPTER XXXII. THE BORDER KING’S PLEDGE.

- CHAPTER XXXIII. TRACKING THE MAD HUNTER.

- CHAPTER XXXIV. RED KNIFE LOSES HIS “MEDICINE.”

- CHAPTER XXXV. THE SEARCH FOR NEW MEDICINE.

- CHAPTER XXXVI. THE MAGIC CUP.

- CHAPTER XXXVII. THE TRAITOR.

- CHAPTER XXXVIII. WHITE ANTELOPE’S PERIL.

- CHAPTER XXXIX. A CRY FOR HELP.

- CHAPTER XL. THE FREIGHT-TRAIN.

- CHAPTER XLI. “ON GUARD!”

- CHAPTER XLII. THE AVENGER.

- CHAPTER XLIII. MAN TO MAN AT LAST.

- CHAPTER XLIV. THE FIGHT TO GAIN THE ISLAND.

- CHAPTER XLV. WAR TO THE KNIFE.

- CHAPTER XLVI. AND THE KNIFE TO THE HILT.

- CHAPTER XLVII. THE CONQUEROR.

- CHAPTER XLVIII. THE PLEDGE KEPT.

- CHAPTER XLIX. CONCLUSION.

- Transcriber’s Notes:

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE