He leaped from his own mustang as he spoke, but Red Cloud kept his place in the saddle.
“No, my brother,” he exclaimed. “I did but jest. I might as well take my tomahawk and bury it in your head as let you mount this beast. He would surely kill you, for he is very savage to all but myself.”
By this time Buffalo Bill’s blood was up, and he was determined to mount the Indian’s mettlesome animal.
“Here is a fair offer, Red Cloud,” he exclaimed. “If your wounds are quite well, will you try to mount my mustang and ride him? He is not fierce, but he will certainly shake you off gently to the ground if I give him the word to do so. And if you cannot keep your seat on him you must let me try to mount your beast.”
The Indian’s spirit was aroused by this challenge. He eagerly accepted it, feeling confident that he would be able to sit the mustang without any difficulty. Like his white companion, he was used to conquering any animal he met.
He dismounted and approached the mustang, which cocked up its ears suspiciously and looked inquiringly at his master.
Buffalo Bill said: “Steady, old girl!” The mare kept as quiet as a lamb while the Indian mounted her, and allowed him to ride her gently up and down.
“Ugh! Do you call her troublesome?” the redskin exclaimed. “I never rode a gentler horse.”
Buffalo Bill smiled and gave a low, peculiar whistle. Instantly the mare stopped her quiet gait and began to rear and buck violently.
The Indian clung to the saddle with great skill and resolution, but the animal suddenly stopped its plunging and rolled gently on the ground, shaking him off and depositing him gently in the long grass of the prairie.