“Remember, no breaks!” he warned, when he saw the eager light in Hatfield’s eyes. “I’m licensed to shoot you, if you try any.”
Deland rode straight toward the firing, until he came within a comparatively short distance; and then he concealed his horse in a thicket and crept forward on foot, taking with him his precious “grip,” containing the rain-making materials so dear to his heart. He never let that out of his hands for long.
The outlaws had drawn together, finding one point from which they could fire best down into the hollow where Wild Bill and Buffalo Bill had taken concealment.
They could see nothing now but the rocks there, but they were shooting, nevertheless, hoping to hit something.
Deland was able to take advantage of this, the attention of the outlaws being drawn to that barricade of stones; and he crawled close up to them, being higher than they were, on the ridge behind them.
As he looked down he saw ten of the rascals, lying there behind the rocks, with their rifles pointed down at another group of rocks some distance below and on the opposite side of the narrow trail.
As he thus looked over, exposing himself, a rifle flamed in the barricade, and a bullet cut through his hat. He dropped flat, with remarkable celerity.
“Great floods!” he gurgled. “That rifleman came nigh gittin’ me. I’ll have to look out, or I’ll have my precious skull perf’rated. Wonder who’s doin’ that shootin’?”
It took him some time to make out; and he did not thoroughly understand the situation until he saw one of the outlaws walk out toward the barricade, waving a white flag, and saw Buffalo Bill come forth to meet him.
The outlaws had discovered that the scouts held Panther Pete a prisoner, and they wanted to confer, and negotiate for his release.