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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 ***




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






Transcriber’s Notes:

Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).

Additional Transcriber’s Notes are at the end.

       *       *       *       *       *




Buffalo Bill, the Border King


  OR, REDSKIN AND COWBOY

  BY Col. Prentiss Ingraham

  Author of “Buffalo Bill”

  [Illustration]

  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

       *       *       *       *       *

  _Adventure Stories_
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  _Western Stories_
  _Love Stories_
  _Sea Stories_

All classes of fiction are to be found among the Street & Smith novels.
Our line contains reading matter for every one, irrespective of age or
preference.

The person who has only a moderate sum to spend on reading matter will
find this line a veritable gold mine.

  STREET & SMITH CORPORATION,
  79 Seventh Avenue,
  New York, N. Y.

       *       *       *       *       *

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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