With this, Biddon wheeled his horse quickly around, and vanished from his place with the speed of lightning, while ours almost simultaneously shot ahead like an arrow. An instant after, I heard the faint discharge of guns, and, looking back, saw a host of savage forms pouring hastily from the timber. [Illustration: “Looking back saw a host of savage forms.”] “No need of hurrying. They are not mounted,” I called out to Nat, who has hurrying his horse to the utmost. “I don’t believe it,” he exclaimed, still speeding furiously onward. “Go it, Todd! you’ll fetch up at Fort Laramie,” yelled Biddon. The latter drew his horse into a steady canter, and indulged in several loud laughs at the flying fugitive. Nat continued his mad career until he had gone a good distance, when, seeing how far behind he had left us, he reined up and awaited our approach. The savages, in the meantime, were hurrying on in pursuit. I know not what led them to expect any success in this chase, for, as remarked, not one was mounted. They may have had little faith in the speed or bottom of our horses, and trusted they would be able to run us down. Biddon half turned in his seat, and, looking back a moment, asked: “Do you see that red, diggin’ like all mad off on one side? The one as is tryin’ to surround us?” I glanced back and answered in the affirmative. “Do you want to see a red drop in purty style?” I answered again in the affirmative. “Wal, jis keep yer peeper on him.” So saying, he raised his rifle, without checking the speed of his horse, took a quick aim along its long barrel and fired. To my astonishment, the Indian mentioned uttered a wild shriek, and springing high in the air, fell to the earth. “He’s done for,” remarked the trapper, quietly. “While I fodder my iron, ’sposen you try your hand.” I raised mine to my shoulder, and pointing it toward a conspicuous savage, pulled the trigger. As might be expected, I came about as near to him as I did to Nat, in front. “It will take a long time for me to accomplish that feat,” said I. “Wal, yer goes agin.” And again was the fatal rifle discharged, and again did a savage bite the dust. Still the pursuers maintained their ground, seemingly determined to overtake us at all hazards. They were separating and scattering over the prairie, with the evident intention of hemming us in. At this moment we came up to Nat. “Why don’t you run?” he asked, impatiently. “They’ll shoot us all afore we know it.” He had scarcely finished his words, when the pursuers did fire, and with an uncomfortable effect, too. The bullets were plainly heard whistling through the air beside us, and one actually cut its way through the upper part of Nat’s hat, some eight or ten inches from the crown of his head. He dodged nervously, and jerking the hat off his head, held it up to view. “Just look there!” he exclaimed, indignantly, putting his finger through the orifice. “What of it?” gruffly asked Biddon.