“In Satan’s name, who are you that knows me?” cried the outlaw chief, his face turning ghastly pale, as he reined back his iron-gray mare upon her haunches.
“I’ve known you for some time,” the scout shouted. “You are the fiend I crossed knives with once on the Rio Grande.”
An incredible fear seemed to fall on Ricardo, his knife fell from his nerveless hand, and his horse would have bounded away had not Buffalo Bill seized the bridle and hurled the animal back.
Then Ricardo’s revolver flashed its fire. He saw he had missed the scout, and the weapon went up for another shot.
But Buffalo Bill, leaning over, gripped him by the throat and knocked the weapon aside.
“Here, La Clyde, this fellow shall not cheat the gallows,” he cried, and two troopers instantly seized the ruffian, while the remainder of the outlaws broke in wild confusion and darted away to seek safety in flight.
Even as Buffalo Bill did this a bullet fired by one of the men struck the outlaw, and he fell as if dying.
The outlaws were fleeing, avenging foes were upon their track, but before darkness settled upon the scene many had fallen beneath the pistols and sabers of the troopers.
At length night came on, and the sounds of suffering were heard in the motte, for around a large camp fire the troopers had placed the wounded.
At another fire near by stood General Canton and his officers, discussing the battle, and wondering at the absence of Buffalo Bill, who, when last seen, was in hot pursuit of the flying renegades.