Buffalo Bill stood about ten paces off, with his Remington to his shoulder. The arrow soared far into the air, and then, when the momentum was exhausted, came down swiftly, turning round and round with an erratic motion.
Bang!
Buffalo Bill’s rifle cracked when the feathered missile was about ten feet from the ground.
The Indian chieftain stooped and picked up the shattered shaft, with a cry of amazement.
“See,” he exclaimed, “the bullet has broken the arrow!”
The other Indians gathered round, surprised out of their ordinary gravity and reserve. They handled the broken arrow as children would handle a new top, and looked at Buffalo Bill as if he were a magician.
They had never seen such shooting before, and they regarded it as something beyond the scope of merely human skill. There must be some witchcraft in it.
Buffalo Bill struck while the iron was hot.
He knew the Indian character thoroughly, and he immediately began another harangue about the terrible results that would ensue to their tribes unless they immediately consented to bury the hatchet and return to their villages and live in peace.
While the Indians were hanging in the wind, anxious to do as he counseled, and yet unwilling to abandon their blood lust, they saw a column of dust approaching across the prairie.