Many reports had been received from scouts familiar with the Indians which showed that an alliance was being arranged between several of the tribes with the object of going on the warpath in numbers strong enough, as they imagined, to enable them to bid defiance to Uncle Sam’s troopers, even though the latter were armed with the quick-firing “devil guns” so much feared by the redskins. The scout who was riding across country was, with one exception, the most remarkable man of his class at that time in the West. He was none other than our old friend Wild Bill, and it need hardly be added that the exception alluded to was his great friend and comrade, Colonel William F. Cody, better known as “Buffalo Bill,” the king of the scouts. As he rode along, mounted upon a magnificent mustang, Wild Bill was a splendid, fearless figure that it would have done the heart of any brave man good merely to look upon. In person he was about six feet one inch in height, and, as has been described by his friend, General George A. Custer, “straight as the straightest of the Indian warriors whose implacable foe he was.” He had broad shoulders, well-formed chest and limbs, and a face strikingly handsome. His sharp, clear blue eyes were used to looking any man straight in the face, whether that man were friend or foe. His nose was a fine aquiline, and his mouth well shaped, with lips partly concealed by a handsome mustache. His hair and complexion were those of a perfect blond--fair as a Saxon viking. He wore the former in long, flowing ringlets, which fell carelessly over his powerfully formed shoulders. Riding his horse as if he were part of the animal, he looked a perfect type of physical manhood. He had galloped for about twenty miles, when he stopped on a small hill overlooking a valley through which a river ran. He cast a quick glance around the landscape to see if any foes were in sight, and his eyes immediately fell upon a band of about fifty Indians not more than a third of a mile away. They saw him almost at the same moment, and immediately jumped on their horses, from which they had dismounted with the idea of watering them in the river, and gave chase. Wild Bill waited until they came near enough to enable him to see what tribes they belonged to, and whether they were dressed in their war paint. When he had satisfied his doubts on those scores, and found out that they were really on the warpath, he hastily turned his mustang to make a ride for life. But before he galloped off, he lifted his rifle and shot the foremost of the Indians through the head. As the brave tumbled from his horse, his comrades gave a yell of rage. Wild Bill responded by turning in the saddle and waving his sombrero toward them defiantly. They fired a scattering volley, but the bullets whizzed harmlessly around him. Riding over uneven ground, the Indians could not take accurate aim.