“If you attack the white soldiers, you will surely die. They are armed with rifles which cannot miss. You know how many of your braves lost their scalps in the fight at Fort Larned. Many more will bite the dust now unless you go back to your tents in peace and bury the hatchet. “What can you gain by fighting against the white man? You know that you are always beaten. I cannot count on my fingers the number of times I have seen your braves scattered and shot down by the white soldiers, as the clouds are driven before the wind.” Buffalo Bill’s harangue, delivered in a stern and impressive tone of voice, seemed to shake the warlike resolution of the Indian chiefs. They were all old warriors, and each one of them could remember previous occasions when he had fought against the white man and been hopelessly beaten. “What are these new rifles that cannot miss?” asked the Crow chief, after talking with his comrades aside. “Give us a proof of their wonderful power, and perhaps we may believe your words.” “Here is one of them,” replied the border king, tapping his own weapon as he spoke. “Show me what it can do,” demanded the Indian. Buffalo Bill noticed that the Indian had a bow and a quiver full of arrows slung on his back. A daring thought came to him. It seemed impossible to execute, but he determined to try it. It was the only way he could think of to save Uncle Sam’s troopers from an attack by their overwhelming enemy. “Shoot an arrow into the air as far and as hard as you can,” he said, “and I will cut it in halves with a bullet as it falls backward and comes whizzing down to the ground. My rifle cannot miss, and you will find, if you attack our camp, that the rifles of the white soldiers cannot miss, either.” The Crow looked at him in amazement for a moment, and then took his bow from his shoulder, fitted an arrow to the string, and shot it into the air with all the force of which he was capable. Buffalo Bill stood about ten paces off, with his Remington to his shoulder. The arrow soared far into the air, and then, when the momentum was exhausted, came down swiftly, turning round and round with an erratic motion. Bang! Buffalo Bill’s rifle cracked when the feathered missile was about ten feet from the ground. The Indian chieftain stooped and picked up the shattered shaft, with a cry of amazement. “See,” he exclaimed, “the bullet has broken the arrow!” The other Indians gathered round, surprised out of their ordinary gravity and reserve. They handled the broken arrow as children would handle a new top, and looked at Buffalo Bill as if he were a magician. They had never seen such shooting before, and they regarded it as something beyond the scope of merely human skill. There must be some witchcraft in it. Buffalo Bill struck while the iron was hot.