The scout started off on the trail of the mustang; and though, when he got away from the gate, other horse trails interfered, he was yet so skillful that he picked out that of the mustang from among them and continued on, finding that it led toward the hills.
The house was out of sight, and he was on a long, grassy level, when, looking up, he saw the Indian riding slowly toward him. Only one look was needed to show that this was the identical Indian who had been at the gate. He seemed to be either returning toward the house, or else, having seen that he was being followed, he had ridden back to ascertain the meaning of it.
“A word with you,” shouted Buffalo Bill.
The Indian drew rein at a little distance, and sat in silence, regarding the scout with distrust.
“You were up there at the gate a little while ago?”
The redskin did not answer.
“Tell me if that isn’t so, and if you didn’t talk there at the gate with the man who lives in that house?”
The question seemed to throw the redskin into an unaccountable rage. He drove his mustang forward without an instant’s warning, and, drawing a short rawhide whip, he aimed a blow at the scout’s face.
Though the movement was so unexpected, the scout was not caught napping. For as the enraged redskin tried to ride Buffalo Bill down and strike him in the eyes with the whip, the scout caught the mustang by the head and nose, jerking its head round, and it went over in a heap, as if shot. The thing was done so quickly and cleverly that the Indian was thrown from the mustang’s back; and his right foot got caught under the falling horse.
The fall jarred a grunt from him; and then he tried to pull his foot out, but the scout leaped toward him now, drawing his revolver.