Thunderbolt was almost upon him when, with a prick of the rowels, he whirled Bear Paw aside. The longhorn tore on, the tip of one branching horn missing Bear Paw by no more than an inch. Nomad’s rope shot through the air and the noose dropped on the steer’s head. It seemed as though it must surely close around the steer’s neck. Thunderbolt, however, by a flirt of the head, caused the menacing coil to fall into the trail. Old Nomad roared in a strange outburst of disgust and admiration. “Looket thar! Thunder an’ kerry one! Say, Buffler, did ye see how he got out from under? Tork erbout yore knowin’ steers, I reckon he heads the percession. Watch yer eye! He’s game, an’ he’s comin’ at us ag’in.” Thunderbolt seemed to have settled on Buffalo Bill as the one foeman most worthy of his valor. Whirling around on his hind hoofs, he bellowed and started like a cyclone for the scout. Then Nomad, watching with all his eyes, saw something he had never seen before. The king of scouts, noose in hand, rushed at Thunderbolt. Both horseman and steer were going head-on toward each other, and neither seemed to have the least notion of dodging. When they were almost together, Bear Paw, who had not his equal in all Texas for jumping, went into the air like a bird suddenly taking wing. He passed clean over the charging steer, and at the same moment the scout dropped his own noose. The stout hempen coil encircled the steer’s neck. The scout had barely time to halt Bear Paw and turn and brace the horse for the shock that followed. The impact, when the rope was all payed out, was terrific. Bear Paw’s hind hoofs were jerked into the air. What might have happened, had the rope held, is problematical. But the rope broke from the saddle and Red Thunderbolt raced on with the loose end flying. “Waal, sufferin, whipperwills!” boomed the old trapper. “I never seen ye do nothin’ like thet afore, Buffler! Et was some great, et was so. An’ Thunderbolt got enough. He’s sizzlin’ erlong to’rds the open, an’ mighty glad, I opine, ter git erway from sich a jumpin’, rope-throwin’ pair o’ marvels as you an’ Bear Paw.” “He’s got my rope!” yelled the scout. “Let’s follow him!” With that, both riders raced around the foot of the hill. The scout and the trapper were no more than a moment racing around the foot of the hill; but when the trail around the turn was before them, there was not a trace of Red Thunderbolt, and no sign of the man whose wild shout had first claimed the attention of the pards. “Hyar’s a go!” muttered Nomad, pulling Hide-rack to a halt, and screwing up his face into a puzzled frown. “Whar’d thet steer hike ter, Buffler?” “He’s made a getaway through some gully,” was the answer. “I reckon there’s no use hunting for him, pard. A steer as knowing as he is can be trusted to keep away from us. That was a good rope of mine,” he added regretfully. “Thunderbolt must have pulled on it like a locomotive to tear it away from the saddle.”