Rixton Holmes, standing perilously on the shelf, looked down, and he gave a wild laugh as his eyes fell on the king of scouts, Bart Angell, and Carl Henson. “The jig is up,” he shrieked. “Myra Wilton is going into eternity, and I am going to follow her. I lose and you don’t win.” “I am going to fire,” said Henson in a husky whisper. “I—I can’t stand this.” “Wait,” sternly commanded Buffalo Bill. “If there is any shooting to be done, it must be done by me.” As he ceased speaking, Holmes raised the limp form of the girl above his head. “Down she goes,” he yelled, and, dazed with horror, Carl Henson started back, his rifle held in a nerveless hand. It was a frightful moment. Buffalo Bill, whose wits had not deserted him, did not fire, though he might have done so. He realized that a shot would not save the life of the girl, for her form was held directly over the precipice, and that she would fall the instant a bullet entered the brain of the fiend who held her. Therefore, instead of firing, he leaped into the cove, braced himself, and raised his hands. There came a savage shout from above, and the next instant the villain fell back on the ringing rocks with Wild Bill on top of him. The intent of the tall scout had been good, but it did not suffice to bring the girl from a position of deadly danger to one of safety. The sudden descent of Wild Bill from above the shelf caused Holmes to relax his grip on the form of his victim. Her senses had returned a moment before Holmes lifted her above his head. As the villain fell over under the weight of the savagely excited scout, she slipped over the edge of the precipice. But she did not fall to the bottom. She clutched at the uneven surface of the side wall as she went, and halfway down her belt caught on a projection, and she hung there, head and feet pointing downward. Her terrified eyes met the upturned gaze of the palefaced king of scouts. “Raise yourself if you can,” he shouted encouragingly, “and grip that rock that has caught you.” The attempt was made and was a failure. The girl was too weak to exert more than a small portion of her normal strength. “Rest a bit and try again,” counseled the scout. “If you can hold on a few minutes, I’ll get you onto solid ground.” “Can’t I do something?” said Carl Henson, his handsome face twitching with agony. “Yes,” was the quick response; “you can run to the ponies, where Holmes left them, and get the reatas.” The young man was off like a shot, but he never went as far as the spot where the ponies had been secured. On his way he met Bart Angell. The big backwoodsman had the reatas in his hand. “I reckoned as how they’d shore be needed,” he said to Henson, “an’ so I jest naterally made a bee line fer ther ponies without axin’ Cody’s permission.” When Henson and Angell reached the cove Myra Wilton had succeeded in gettin’ her hands on the rocky projection, and Wild Bill was standing on the narrow shelf above.