By and by Buffalo Bill set out alone, intending to steal along the base of the mountains which girt the valley, hoping to come on something which would aid him. He had two reasons now for wanting to get into the town which he was sure existed. The child was there, and so was the baron. Toltec Tom had so apparently deserted him that he concluded not to trouble about the fellow, unless fate threw the latter in his way. The great scout had proceeded nearly a mile when a sudden outburst of yells behind him, accompanied by a cracking of rifles, told him that his friends had been attacked. He began to backtrack at once, to assist them in this emergency, when he discovered that some Red Feathers had got in between himself and the camp. Suddenly he found himself between hills, on the edge of a cañon, with no way of crossing but an Indian footbridge of ropes, a thatching of ropes and reeds—a swaying, flimsy structure, hanging over the cañon and reaching from side to side. There was no time for hesitation, and Buffalo Bill rushed upon the swaying bridge, in an effort to cross. In the middle of it he halted and drew his revolvers. By apparent intention, he had been driven upon that bridge by the Indians who had chased him, that he might be corralled, for other Indians now appeared in the path on the other side of the cañon, closing in on him there, as the others were closing in on him from the rear. On each side Indians dashed to the ends of the bridge and began to hack at the ropes. Buffalo Bill was trapped, and death by bullets or arrows, or by a drop into the cañon, seemed to await him, for even though he slew the foremost of his foes he could not escape the other Red Feathers hurrying to their aid. Nevertheless, he stood defiantly on the swaying structure as the Indians hacked at the ropes which held it at the ends. His threatening revolvers kept the Red Feathers from rushing out upon him, yet it was soon apparent that they desired to have him as a prisoner, rather than drop him into the cañon or riddle him with their gold-headed arrows. One of them, apparently a chief, put up his hand, shouted something that stopped the work of cutting the ropes, and stepped to the end of the bridge at the farther side. Buffalo Bill did not know it, but the chief was old Fire Top. What the feathered chief said Buffalo Bill did not comprehend, beyond the fact that his gestures told he wanted the white man to surrender; the language was one the great white scout had never heard, though he was familiar with many Indian dialects. He threw his revolvers down on the bridge, and followed them with his hunting knife. It was suicidal to do anything else. The Red Feathers had him at their mercy. Then he held up his empty hands, palms outward, in token of peace and submission.