There was one glance of wild eyes toward the negro, gigantic in form, black as ink, and gliding rather than seeming to walk toward them, and with yells of fright they sprang for their ponies.
There was not a moment of hesitation, and their cries told the story of their stampede and terror, for loud was heard in their own tongue:
“The black spirit! The evil spirit of the Big Horn!”
Leaping upon their ponies, here and there two braves upon the back of one horse, leaving their camp outfits, saddles and all, they started off as fast as they could mount.
They could be seen lashing their ponies furiously, and looking back in terror, and were all soon spread out as they sped up the valley.
Then Black Bill was seen by the amazed and watching scouts to start in a run after them.
This added to their flight and terror, and the blows falling upon the worn-out ponies could be distinctly heard by the wondering scouts.
The scouts could hardly restrain from a cheer, but Buffalo Bill said:
“Remember, boys, we are scouts of silence on this trail.”
Not an Indian was now visible, the last one having turned a bend in the valley that shut them out of sight.