“I hear you!” returned Texas Jack, smiling recklessly, and settling himself more firmly in his saddle.
The two were off like frightened deer. For some moments the Indians were almost dumb with amazement. Then the war-whoop of Oak Heart was answered by wild cries from all about the field. The reds knew that the Border King had outwitted them, and as one man the mob of redskins made for the entrance to the cañon, firing as they ran.
The scouts did not return the fire. They kept their bullets for targets nearer the path their horses followed. The nearer Indians were converging swiftly at the mouth of the cañon.
Behind, and nearest to the scouts, came Oak Heart and White Antelope, who had waited to join her father. But neither of them were armed. When Buffalo Bill snatched the revolver from the girl’s belt he had made a good point in the game, for she was an excellent shot with the small gun—for an Indian.
Suddenly The Border King raised his rifle, and shot after shot rang out. He fired at the Indians directly in front of him, gathering to bar the way. There were now a score of them near enough to be dangerous.
The repeating rifle sang deadly music, for several of the braves fell. With the last shot from Buffalo Bill’s weapon, Texas Jack’s gun took up the tune and rattled forth the death notes. They were now close to the group of reds, and the shots forced the Indians to scatter.
Instantly the scouts slung their guns over their shoulders and drew the big pistols from the saddle-holsters. With one of these in each hand, the scouts rode on.
Theirs was indeed a desperate charge, and, although now hidden by the nature of the ground from the bulk of the Indians, the encounter was visible from the fort.
The chorus of wild yells, the rattle of revolvers, the heavier discharges of the old muzzle-loaders of the redskins, and the resonant war-cries of the scouts themselves, were heard by the besieged. The Border King and Texas Jack were having the running fight of their lives. Would they get through alive?
Suddenly a chorused groan arose from the white onlookers, while a shriek of exultation came from those Indians who saw the incident. Buffalo Bill’s horse gave a sudden convulsive leap ahead, then fell to his knees. The scout loosened his feet in the stirrups, and, as the brave Buckskin rolled over upon its side, dead, the scout stood upright, turning his revolvers on his foes. Texas Jack, on the white charger, tore on into the mouth of the cañon.