“Take care of it,” said he. “If I don’t get in there, I shan’t need it any more. If I do—I’ll make music with it when they’re on the run among the hills.”
Buffalo Bill started out, determined to climb the cliff. But the instant he was seen near the face of the rock bullets rained at him. That Providence which seems ever to shelter and protect the bravest when cowards fall must have shielded his breast, for he was evidently a target for at least twenty marksmen.
Coolly he dropped back.
“Climbing just now in the face of a leaden hailstorm isn’t in my line. But I’ve got the dot on one fellow. I’ll take the rifle again, Steve.”
Hathaway handed over the rifle to him.
The latter went on to tell Steve that he had seen one gun flash from the limb of a pine which almost overhung the spot where they had first stood.
“I’m going to creep for him,” said Buffalo Bill. “If I can get him between me and the sky, he’ll be dead meat after my rifle sings her song.”
The scout crept from rock to rock under the bushes for some little time, while the scouts and soldiers kept the men above occupied, for the former fired every time they saw a gun flash.
This shooting, however, was entirely at random, and there was no certainty of their hitting a man.
But when the border king’s rifle was heard to crack at last, almost simultaneous with the report came a shriek of agony.