“It must work. We need a few moments more before we make a dash for the cañon.”
“But that gal——”
“I’ll ’tend to her,” exclaimed Buffalo Bill. “Signal the reds to keep back.”
Again Texas Jack raised his hands and made the well understood sign. But the Indians hesitated. They saw White Antelope still riding toward the supposed chief and the scout, crying to her father to answer her.
“Keep on for the cañon, Jack!” muttered Buffalo Bill beneath his breath.
He jerked his horse to one side, turning to meet the Indian maiden. As she rode down toward the scouts, her golden hair flying in the wind, her lips parted, her eyes shining, she was indeed a beautiful creature. Her beauty alone would have made any old Indian hunter withhold his hand. And Buffalo Bill had a deeper reason for wishing no harm to befall the half-breed daughter of Oak Heart.
“What is the white chief, Pa-e-has-ka, doing with Oak Heart?” the girl cried in Sioux, urging her pony toward the scouts.
Buffalo Bill was riding with the rein of the claybank horse lying upon its neck, and guiding him with his knees. His rifle lay across his saddle, the muzzle pointing in the direction of White Antelope as she rode near. He did not raise his voice, nor change the expression of his face, for the scout knew that he was being closely watched by the crowd of redskins in the background. But into his voice as he spoke he threw all the threatening, venimous tone of a madman thirsting for blood.
“The White Antelope, like her father, Chief Oak Heart, is in my power. Do not make a single motion to show that you are startled, White Antelope, for if you do my first bullet shall be driven through your heart, and my second shall cleave the heart of your father!”
These words, spoken with such wicked emphasis, seemed to come from a veritable fiend instead of the placid-looking white scout. The White Antelope’s great eyes opened wider, and she half stopped her pony.