Some justified their blunders; some extolled their skill, which had only been defeated by the most extraordinary ill luck; but all agreed in awarding the honors of the day to valiant Bulboo--whatever that might mean--whose club had brought the exhausted man down. Now, as Bulboo was a half brother to Strong Arm, this result was generally satisfactory, and was probably considered a proof of approval of the ordeal on the part of those unseen powers which guide the destinies of men. However this may have been, the victor had certainly gained caste and influence by his success, and the thought at once occurred to Buffalo Bill that if anything more could be attempted in behalf of the prisoner in the short time which remained for action, this was the most promising field for effort. Running Water could do nothing, and the proud Black Panther could not even be approached directly by the white men, to whom he had evidently conceived a hatred; but Bulboo, satisfied with his exploits, might, perhaps, listen to the voice of mercy, for a “consideration,” and be made the medium of a new communication with, and further overtures to, the imperious Black Panther. Buffalo Bill, in younger days, had been an amateur artist, and he was still a ready, if not very correct, draftsman with the pencil. Seated under a tree, with his knee for an easel, he drew on the blank leaf of a letter a picture of a prancing horse saddled and bridled, with a tolerable likeness of Bulboo at his side, holding him by the reins. Then he sketched two other horses, similarly caparisoned, eight or ten guns, two kegs, and made a rather bungling attempt to represent a box of clay pipes and a pile of blankets. Having completed this picture writing, he watched his opportunity when Black Panther was at a distance, and then he dispatched Congo to ask the chief if he would come and see his white brother once more for a few minutes, and would bring the great warrior Bulboo with him. Running Water was seated on the grass, smoking his reed pipe and watching the proceedings of those around him, and when he saw the negro approaching he motioned to him to go back, and pointed to the place where the boats were moored, as an intimation that the strangers ought now to depart. But these inhospitable gestures were evidently made more in sorrow than in anger, and as Joe insisted on coming forward, and began to speak, the chief, by a quick motion of the hand, signified to him to sit down on the ground, with his back to the crowd, of whom but few, if any, were near enough to hear what might be said. Congo obeyed, and then delivered his message as intelligibly as he could. “My brother is not wise,” replied Running Water. “He is free now. By and by he may be tied to a tree.” “Guess notty,” replied Congo. “Come--be goody, Mr. Running Water. You great chiefy.”