The Indians seemed to be shortening the distance from their prey at every stride, but Wild Bill bent over in his saddle and whispered to his mustang: “Get up, old man!”
It was the first effort he had made to urge the animal to greater speed, and immediately he exerted himself to the very utmost, drawing slowly away from the Indians for the next three or four miles.
But there was a limit to the mustang’s power of endurance, if not to his will.
The Indians were nearly as well mounted as Wild Bill, and their steeds were comparatively fresh. One of them in particular—a spotted animal—kept gaining all the time. The others were strung out behind in a long line for a distance of more than a mile, but they were all riding as hard as they knew how, for they wanted to be “in at the death.”
The brave riding the spotted horse was armed with a rifle, and as he drew within a hundred yards he occasionally sent a bullet whizzing unpleasantly close to Wild Bill.
The scout saw that this Indian must be stopped, or a stray shot from his gun might do fatal harm to his mustang or himself.
Suddenly reining up his horse and wheeling him around, Wild Bill raised his rifle to his shoulder and took a quick aim at the brave.
The Indian was not more than sixty yards off, and as Wild Bill’s rifle cracked he reeled and fell from his saddle.
Without waiting to see whether his enemy was dead or only wounded, the scout wheeled his horse around and fairly flew in the direction of Fort Larned.
He would have liked to stop and take a few shots at the other Indians as they came dashing toward him, but he realized that his first duty was to carry a warning to the fort. He had no right to play with his life when such a duty as that was placed upon him.