He noted the course Panther Pete was taking, and saw that he would pass along a thread of trail that led beneath some bluffs not far off.
The scout drew back, and then, descending, he hurried to put himself on top of those bluffs.
By this time Panther Pete was quite near, coming on at an easy jog of his horse. There was nothing in his appearance to tell of the pain he suffered, for his head was throbbing, nor of what he had gone through, nor of what he was now trying to do.
But Buffalo Bill saw his chance, a desperate one, and made ready for it, crouching on the bluff. He could have shot Panther Pete without difficulty, but he did not want to do that; he wanted to take him alive.
When Panther Pete’s horse passed beneath him, Buffalo Bill crouched for the spring.
“I’ll stop your deviltry right now,” said the scout, in a rage, as he leaped at the desperado whose clever masquerading as his double had brought disgrace on the honored name of Buffalo Bill.
He hit the horseman fair, in that leap; and Panther Pete went over sideways, out of the saddle, and fell to the ground, with the dauntless scout falling on top of him.
The horse gave a jump, and then ran, frightened by what had occurred.
Buffalo Bill set his fingers to the throat of Panther Pete, who was too stunned by that sudden onslaught and fall to make much resistance.
“Surrender!” was the sharp command.