Buffalo Bill was trapped, and death by bullets or arrows, or by a drop into the cañon, seemed to await him, for even though he slew the foremost of his foes he could not escape the other Red Feathers hurrying to their aid.
Nevertheless, he stood defiantly on the swaying structure as the Indians hacked at the ropes which held it at the ends. His threatening revolvers kept the Red Feathers from rushing out upon him, yet it was soon apparent that they desired to have him as a prisoner, rather than drop him into the cañon or riddle him with their gold-headed arrows.
One of them, apparently a chief, put up his hand, shouted something that stopped the work of cutting the ropes, and stepped to the end of the bridge at the farther side. Buffalo Bill did not know it, but the chief was old Fire Top.
What the feathered chief said Buffalo Bill did not comprehend, beyond the fact that his gestures told he wanted the white man to surrender; the language was one the great white scout had never heard, though he was familiar with many Indian dialects.
He threw his revolvers down on the bridge, and followed them with his hunting knife. It was suicidal to do anything else. The Red Feathers had him at their mercy.
Then he held up his empty hands, palms outward, in token of peace and submission.
A yell of triumph burst from the throats of the bedizened Indians, and the chief who had spoken stepped out on the bridge to secure the discarded weapons, while his warriors on the shores set arrows to their bows and stood ready to slay the white man if he showed treachery.
Old Fire Top was a glittering fellow, shining with ornaments of gold and silver, and with a breastplate of gold which nearly covered his bosom and glittered brightly in the sun. It was native gold, fashioned rudely by Indian hammers; in its center shone that rayed image of the sun.
“Gold must be cheap as clay round these parts,” was the scout’s reflection. “I wonder where they got it all. It’s a good thing for them that the white men over yonder at Skyline don’t know about it, and it stands them in hand to keep the secret close.”
It was a thought which caused him to realize how great was his peril. Only by killing the white men who fell into their hands, and covering these mountains with a pall of terror, could the Red Feathers keep from the outer world all knowledge of the wonderful stores of gold which it seemed they undoubtedly possessed.