He had not known what form old Nomad’s interference in his behalf would take, but he had fully expected that Nomad would make an effort of some kind; and for that effort he was prepared and had waited.
He pulled his hands free now, for the cords hung but loosely on his wrists, and with the knife that was in his boot leg he cut the cords that held his ankles.
The disguised white man had sprung to his feet when Nomad made his mad charge.
The next motion of the scout brought out the hidden pistol from his hunting shirt, and with it he took a shot at the painted figure of the renegade, toppling him over with a bullet through his shoulder. Then Buffalo Bill leaped to the assistance of the other prisoners; and with a speed that defied description he cut them free.
“Move lively!” he whispered. “That’s Nomad. Run, while the redskins are frightened! This way!”
He jumped from the vicinity of the camp fire, and led in the flight that followed, striking straight out into the darkness.
Old Nomad, shining like fire and yelling like a band of coyotes, his revolver spouting fire and lead, and old Nebuchadnezzar snorting like a wild horse, charged straight across and through the camp, scattering everything.
Not an Indian stayed to oppose the daring trapper; all were in flight toward the river.
If the disguised white man who was their leader suspected that this was a shrewd trick, and the character of it, he was in no condition to make it known, or to rally his demoralized followers; for, with that bullet in his shoulder, he had fallen to the ground, and lay stunned and groaning.