However it was, it danced about a good deal, and champed at the bit, and seemed to give the stoical chief considerable trouble. Twice it started for the gate, and the soldiers headed it off. Likewise Oak Heart drew it in hard with his hand on the bridle. It seemed as though the chief had no expectation of leaving the fort until his white captors were ready.
But that was all the savage cunning of the chief. It was his cunning, too, perhaps, that made the horse so nervous. He doubtless slyly spurred him with his toe or heel, and kept the animal on the qui vive all the time.
Oak Heart could follow Buffalo Bill and Texas Jack with his eyes, and he doubtless understood—now, at least—just what they were about. Suddenly the White Antelope came into view, riding like the wind down upon the two scouts. Oak Heart’s face did not change a muscle, but just then his mount made a sidelong leap, and when he became manageable again the black charger was just within the open gateway.
Several moments passed. The white men’s attention was strained upon the little comedy being enacted by the two scouts and the Indian maiden. They could not hear, of course, but they could imagine that the situation had become mighty “ticklish” for the scouts, knowing Buffalo Bill’s objection to injuring the Sioux maiden.
It was at this minute that the black horse made a final charge through the gateway. Two men were knocked down, and Oak Heart threw himself over to one side of the galloping horse, shielding himself with its body from the guns of the surprised white men in the stockade.
His wild yells had already apprised White Antelope of the deception. Buffalo Bill had disarmed her, and the two scouts spurred on toward the cañon.
The hearts of the watching people at the fort were in their throats. A general cry of dread burst from them as they saw the Border King and Texas Jack turn abruptly toward the cañon. The Indians saw the act, too, but for a few seconds did not comprehend it. They were slower than White Antelope in understanding that the supposed warrior with Pa-e-has-ka was a white man in disguise, and that the person careering across the plain on the black charger was the real Oak Heart.
The signals of Texas Jack in his character of Oak Heart had drawn many of the Indians away from the cañon’s mouth toward the place for which the supposed chief and Buffalo Bill seemed to be aiming. There were very few left in the path of the reckless scouts. Yet those few must be settled with.
There were no mounted warriors near the cañon entrance. The great scout had chosen his place of attack wisely. And there were few ponies in the vicinity, anyway—not over two dozen at the most. The earlier stampeding of the ponies had almost entirely dismounted Oak Heart’s braves. The ponies that might follow, should the scouts get through safely, neither of them feared, mounted as they were on such splendid animals.
“Let ’em out, Jack!” cried Buffalo Bill, as they made directly for the cañon.