But, with their fagged ponies, the Indians could not escape the well-mounted scouts. They were ridden down, one after another, until only one man was left toiling far ahead on a spent horse up the mountain.
“I know him,” shouted Buffalo Bill, who had taken the leadership in the pursuit. “He is the chief, Evil Heart. Let no man but myself follow him. There is an old account to be settled between us, and I will settle it now, hand to hand, with this!”
The king of the scouts flourished a tomahawk which he had taken from one of the Shawnee braves whom he had slain.
In deference to their leader’s command, the other scouts held back, and Buffalo Bill on his fine mustang pursued the Shawnee chief at a gallop. But soon the track became so rough that he had to slacken his speed to a trot, and then to a walk.
The foothills had now been left behind, and the way wound steeply up into the mountains beyond.
From time to time Buffalo Bill lost sight of the man he was following, for the track, with a sheer cliff on one side, had many turnings. Yet he was confident that he would catch up with Evil Heart before long, for he had noted how tired the horse of the chief was.
Presently the trail became so rough and encumbered with bowlders that his own mustang could barely keep its footing, and he was thinking of dismounting and following on foot, when he came suddenly on the dead horse of the Indian.
It had stumbled over a rock and fallen, breaking its leg. Evil Heart had then promptly stabbed it to death with his knife and fled onward on foot.
Buffalo Bill had too much affection for his own animal to expose it to the same risk, so he dismounted, ordered the faithful animal to stand still and await his return, and then ran up the trail at a good speed.
Turning the next bend in the cliff he saw the Shawnee ahead of him, not more than five hundred yards away.