Suddenly the scout grew rigid in his saddle. The next moment he had lifted himself high in his stirrups, and was peering ahead at the object that had flashed before his eyes. The dust whirled and eddied about the object so that, for a few moments, the scout was not sure of what he saw. When Bear Paw had brought him closer, every doubt faded. Perry was before him, and directly in the course of the charging steers! Four stakes had been planted in the earth, so as to form a square. In the centre of the square lay Perry, flat on his back, arms and legs stretched out. Each wrist and each ankle was fastened to a stake. The cattleman’s torture, as he lay helpless between the stakes, hearing the stampeding herd draw closer and closer, must have been intense. What was there the scout could do? While Bear Paw continued to race on, Buffalo Bill once more lifted himself in his stirrups and shouted for Wild Bill and Dunbar. The dust was so thick he could not see either of the men, and the noise was so great his voice could not travel far. If anything was done for Perry, it must be the scout alone who did it. There was but one move open to him. This was to fling himself forward and get between the approaching steers and the helpless man roped to the stakes. Just what could be accomplished by this move was problematical. There was absolutely no other way, however, by which even possible aid could be given to Perry. It was a time when seconds counted. Half a minute brought the scout in the position he had settled upon, and he pulled Bear Paw to a sharp halt. He was between the rancher and the moving dust cloud--the cloud from whose forward edge pushed the foam-flecked nostrils and the wide horns of the charging leaders. Turning half around in his saddle so as to face the steer, the scout lifted the gun from the saddle horn. Could quick work with the rifle save Perry, or would that rushing tide of steers overwhelm Buffalo Bill and the unfortunate cattle baron? Even as this momentous problem flashed through the scout’s brain the rifle was at his shoulder. Sping! The hoarse roar of the gun echoed suddenly against the background of noise caused by the steers. One of the animals pitched forward. Swiftly the scout worked the breech mechanism and forced a fresh cartridge into place. Sping! Another steer went down. He picked the animals off the edge of the herd, so that those behind had to swerve farther and farther to the right in order to find clear ground. Sping! coughed the rifle; clatter, clatter, sping! Six shots emptied the magazine, but the last two bullets dropped steers in such a way that those behind tumbled over the slain, so that there was a horrible tangle of living and struggling animals, rolling and floundering on the plain.