Two seconds more and those leaden messengers would pierce his body.
In his hazy struggle to reclaim his mind the scout had dropped his hands helplessly into the water at his sides. Now both came up suddenly, sending a shower, and at the same instant he threw himself sidewise with a great splash.
Four rifles cracked as one, and as many bullets cut the spray where the scout had stood.
The marksmen had been startled and confused by the manœuvre, and blazed away together at the spot they were holding on. But the scout was not there, and before they had recovered from their surprise he was bounding up the bank like a deer.
Two other shots went wild, and then Buffalo Bill’s revolvers got busy from somewhere in the underbrush along the bank, and the four riflemen and the one who had pronounced the death sentence ducked for cover.
In spite of their wetting the scout’s revolvers were in working condition.
“One! two! three!” he shouted, sending as many bullets into the bushes after the tumbling, panicky thugs, who had heard Buffalo Bill’s reputation as a shot.
“Here, Bear Paw, lively now!” called the scout to his horse, as he darted into a dense thicket. The intelligent animal hastened after his master.
As the scout was swinging into the saddle an Indian appeared before him and said:
“Come, Pa-e-has-ka.”