The girl was very pale, and there were signs of recent weeping. But a look of relief came into her lovely countenance when her eyes fell on the king of scouts.
“You are Mr. Cody, are you not?” she asked, as she came up to him with outstretched hand.
“Yes, and how is your father?”
“I do not know. I haven’t seen him for over an hour. I—am afraid——” She paused, and looked tremblingly at the chief, who was standing, grimly, by the door.
“Trust in me,” the scout whispered. Then he turned, and a revolver was pointed at Thunder Cloud’s head. “I am sorry to again place myself in opposition to you, chief,” he said sternly; “but it’s a case of white blood against red. You must give up this girl’s father.”
The Apache chief’s eyes flashed savage defiance. “Never,” he replied, and with a quick movement his hand went to the tomahawk at his belt.
Buffalo Bill fired, but to wound, not to kill. The bullet struck the hand that was gripping the handle of the tomahawk, and the grip instantly relaxed. But the Indian never flinched. Not a cry issued from his lips.
“Must I kill you, or will you surrender?” demanded the king of scouts coldly.
The head of a white man showed itself above the hole in the floor. Sybil Hayden saw the head, and uttered a shriek of fear.
Instantly Buffalo Bill whirled, and at the same instant a tomahawk whizzed, and a pistol shot rang out. The Indian’s weapon, hurled with the left hand, went wide of its mark, and the bullet failed to do more than graze the scout’s scalp.