There was a short struggle, but no cry, as the scout's hand grasped the red-skin's throat, and then all was still, the Indian pony lariated near, not even stopping his grazing.
Throwing the red-skin's blanket over his body, Buffalo Bill moved away a few paces to where the pony stood, and called to the next herder in the Sioux tongue to come to him.
The unsuspecting warrior obeyed, and the next instant found himself in a gripe of iron and a knife blade piercing his heart.
"This is red work, but it is man to man and in a few days the whole band would make a strike upon the settlements," muttered the scout, as he moved slowly toward the position his enemy had left at his call.
As he reached the spot he saw the third warrior standing on his post and boldly walked up to him, when again the same short, fierce, silent fight followed and Buffalo Bill arose from the ground a victor.
The fourth, and only remaining guard he knew was over under the shadow of the hill, and thither he went.
Arriving near he did not see him, and looking around suddenly discovered him asleep at the foot of a tree.
"I'd like to let you sleep, Mr. Red-skin, but you'd wake up at the wrong time, so you must follow your comrades to the happy hunting-grounds," he muttered, as he bent over and seized the throat of the Indian in his powerful gripe.
The warrior was almost a giant in size, and he made a fierce fight for his life.
But the iron hold on his throat did not relax, and at last his efforts ceased and his grasp upon the scout, which had been so great he could not use his knife, weakened and there was no more show of resistance.