Under the horse’s neck he had a very clear view of the girl on the pony in front, although she could not easily aim at any vital part of the scout in the position in which he hung from Chief. As the young squaw turned sidewise to larrup her pony again with the quirt hanging to her wrist, Buffalo Bill took a snap shot at the quiver of arrows at her back.
It was a perilous shot—if he did not wish to harm the girl. Few marksmen would have dared try it. William Tell was a bungler, indeed, as compared with some of the marksmen of our great West, and William F. Cody was, in his day, the best of them all!
His pistol ball sped true. The thong from which the quiver hung was severed, and if the hot lead seared the girl’s shoulder in passing it did no more!
The quiver fell to the ground; but the girl had still a remaining arrow—it was already upon her bowstring. She turned swiftly to drive it home—perhaps into the heart of the great white horse that bore her enemy so swiftly.
Buffalo Bill realized the danger to his noble steed. He sprang upright into the saddle, the smoking pistol still in his hand. His appearance as a fair target attracted the Indian maiden’s aim. She drew the arrowhead to her ear.
But the white man’s pistol spoke before she could release the feathered shaft.
Crack!
The long-barreled revolver spit its death-dealing bullet, and the smoke enveloped Buffalo Bill’s head for a moment and then passed away.
Twang!
That was the snap of the bowstring. But the arrow flew wildly in the air, over the scout’s head. The bullet had severed the deer tendon of which the string was made just as the girl released the shaft. Buffalo Bill had taken another desperate shot—and had won. The bow was put out of commission, but the bullet had not touched the fair user of the bow.