The scout was riding a splendid mustang, and the gallant animal fully understood what was expected of him. He knew that it was a ride for life, and that he must put forth his greatest speed to save his master from death and himself from an Indian owner--a fate terrible to any decent horse. He crossed a wide ravine and tore along the valley toward Fort Larned. Reaching a ridge beyond, Wild Bill looked back for a moment and saw that the Indians were tearing after him. They rode at great speed, and many of them were evidently well mounted. “Their own ponies can’t travel like that,” said the scout to himself. “They must have done some raiding before this, and got hold of some of the settlers’ animals. The rising we’ve been looking for has broken out, sure. Them folks at the fort must be put on their guard, whatever happens. I guess the whole country will be ablaze in a couple of days.” If he had been mounted on a fresh horse, Wild Bill would have had no doubt of the outcome of the race; but his mustang, splendid animal though he was, had already ridden far, and showed signs of flagging. The Indians began to gain on their quarry for a time, and then the mustang made a spurt and shot ahead again. But the effort was too great for him, and he could not keep up his speed for long. When he had run about three miles farther, half a dozen of the Indians had crept up to within two or three hundred yards, while several of the other braves were not far behind. Now and then they fired at him, but their rifles were of inferior quality and their aim was bad, so that neither the scout nor his horse was touched. The Indians seemed to be shortening the distance from their prey at every stride, but Wild Bill bent over in his saddle and whispered to his mustang: “Get up, old man!” It was the first effort he had made to urge the animal to greater speed, and immediately he exerted himself to the very utmost, drawing slowly away from the Indians for the next three or four miles. But there was a limit to the mustang’s power of endurance, if not to his will. The Indians were nearly as well mounted as Wild Bill, and their steeds were comparatively fresh. One of them in particular--a spotted animal--kept gaining all the time. The others were strung out behind in a long line for a distance of more than a mile, but they were all riding as hard as they knew how, for they wanted to be “in at the death.” The brave riding the spotted horse was armed with a rifle, and as he drew within a hundred yards he occasionally sent a bullet whizzing unpleasantly close to Wild Bill. The scout saw that this Indian must be stopped, or a stray shot from his gun might do fatal harm to his mustang or himself. Suddenly reining up his horse and wheeling him around, Wild Bill raised his rifle to his shoulder and took a quick aim at the brave. The Indian was not more than sixty yards off, and as Wild Bill’s rifle cracked he reeled and fell from his saddle.