Slowly he approached, wholly unconscious of danger until within a few feet of his foe, then his eyes fell upon the dark object in his path. Before he could draw back or utter a cry of alarm, the scout was upon him, his iron grasp upon his throat.
One, two rapid knife thrusts, and the Indian sentinel was “off duty forever.” But the almost noiseless struggle had caught the quick ears of the yet wide-awake Sioux around the camp fire.
In alarm they sprang to their feet, one to fall dead across the burning logs, a bullet in his brain, another to utter his dying war whoop as a leaden messenger from the scout’s repeating rifle pierced his heart.
Bounding from his covert with a wild, prolonged, and ringing war whoop, one well known on the border, the scout rushed upon the two remaining redskins, but in dismay they had turned to flee, for their unseen foe had every advantage, and rapidly through the timber they darted to seek safety.
A long, shrill whistle then pierced the grove as the horseman sped after them. Then another shot leaped from the scout’s rifle, and a fourth warrior fell to the ground in death agonies, while, brought to bay, the remaining redskin turned to meet his enemy. Raising his rifle, the savage fired hastily upon his rapidly advancing foe.
But his aim was untrue, as a wild war whoop from the pursuer at once assured him, and the next moment the two met face to face, armed with their glittering knives.
The Indian warrior, a man of herculean frame and strength, might have given Buffalo Bill a desperate encounter, but, just as their knives clashed, there came a rapid clattering of hoofs, and from the dark timber-dashed Midnight, neighing loudly, as he rushed to the side of his master.
Believing a host of horsemen were upon him, the Sioux brave uttered a whoop of terror, and, before the scout could prevent, had darted away and disappeared in the thicket.
“Old comrade, you have frightened that redskin almost to death,” laughed the scout, as Midnight halted beside him.