With their leader dismounted, and apparently hurt, for Red Dick was seated beside his dead horse, the Indians hardly knew what to do, and, as they drew nearer and nearer to the mysterious scout, they gradually checked the speed of their horses, until the smaller party, consisting of a dozen braves, came to a halt, and with wondering eyes and wild gestures, seemed to be holding a council of war. This was what Buffalo Bill had expected. As soon as the squadron halted, he wheeled Midnight, and, with the air ringing and echoing with his terrible war cries, and a revolver in each hand, he charged directly upon the astonished savages. Then he added to their consternation by opening a brisk and telling fire upon them. It proved fatal in several instances. The frightened braves turned and fled, and, with the speed of an arrow, the scout rushed on toward the open prairie, having safely run the terrible gantlet. Then, as the emigrants looked with eager eyes, they beheld the cause of the sudden movement of Buffalo Bill, for directly in his former path arose the forms of a dozen painted warriors, doubtless of the same band, who were hiding in a shallow gulch and would have sprung up in the pathway of the scout, had not his quick eye detected the plumed head of some brave too eager to catch his prey to keep wholly concealed. The watching emigrants saw with pleasure that the Indians quickly gave up the chase, for the famous steed of the scout left them rapidly behind. In an hour Midnight appeared as a mere speck upon the prairie. CHAPTER XLV. A WARNING AND A RAID. Far from the home of his kindred, far from the home of any of his race, and in the wilds where Indians roamed without restraint, was the cabin of Alfred Carter. Three years before the opening scenes of this story, Alfred Carter had squatted upon the banks of the Republican River, and with the aid of only his brave wife and pretty daughter Rose, and his young son Edgar, he had built a stout and comfortable cabin, half fort, half house. The prairies around him furnished food for his small family, and his cattle roamed near at hand. A quiet, sad-looking man, ever generous and peaceable, Alfred Carter had no enemies. Even the Sioux were friendly to him, although they were at war with the whites, for the settler had often fed them from his table, and when their great chief was severely wounded and would have died for want of care, Alfred Carter had nursed him back to life, and forever won his friendship. Seated in the cabin door, upon the day that the scout ran the gantlet of the band of Sioux warriors, was a girl of eighteen, with large, velvety eyes, a dark complexion, and long, waving black hair. This girl was Rose Carter. She was engaged in knitting a pair of cotton socks for her father, for she was a true frontier girl, ever industrious and brave.