The Indian was large and powerful, and though taken wholly by surprise put up a tremendous fight. He could not let out the warning yell that gurgled in his throat, but the sound of the struggle in the small growth attracted the attention of a group of bucks at the nearest fire. Snatching up brands, these fellows ran to investigate.
“Snarlin’ catermounts an’ ther ring-tail heifercats, Buffler, ther hull kerboodle’s bruk loose kerwallop! Knock ther red on ther head an’ git yer guns!”
The scout bent his antagonist backward, and with a blow of his fist put the savage temporarily out of commission.
“Back across the brook, Nick, and then leg it up river to the horses!” he said, crashing through the brush and leaping across to the thick growth on the opposite bank.
For Nomad it was hard to resist a volley at the oncoming reds, but orders were orders when they came from Buffalo Bill, and he bounded after his leader.
The Indians plunged into the thicket and found the buck just regaining his senses and yet unable to comprehend his condition. A few paused to question him, while others scurried about in the willows, looking for some sort of enemy.
The scout and trapper made good time up river, but suddenly saw outlined against the sky, on the bank above them, several horsemen. Instantly they crouched low and waited. To continue up river they must pass almost at the feet of these horsemen who seemed to be waiting for them or else watching events below.
“They are all about us, Nick,” whispered the scout.
“Waugh!” returned the trapper. “One on ’em got his goozelet squoze till I’m gamblin’ he cyant chew buffler gravy ter-night, nohow.”
The torch bearers were coming nearer along the stream, apparently having discovered the tracks the pards had made in jumping across.