From their points of view the officers saw Buffalo Bill emerge upon the prairie. At once his presence created an excitement in the Indian besieging ranks. Then there broke forth across the prairie the wild and thrilling war cry of the scout, and over the roll of land, from three different points, bounded the cavalry squadrons, their cheers striking terror to the dusky besiegers of the motte. Instantly there was a cessation of hostilities between the Indians and the Branded Brotherhood. Out from the motte bounded the iron-gray of the outlaw chief, his master upon his back. Waving a white handkerchief, the outlaw approached a central point, whence another horseman emerged to meet him. The two met upon the plain. The parley between them was excited and brief. Then Ricardo returned to his motte, while Red Dick went back to his Indians, who at once broke in wild confusion and made for the motte. “It is as I thought; they have joined forces,” cried the scout. Raising his voice to its highest pitch, he sent it across the prairie in one of his terrible war cries. “Ride, men ride! Press them into their den! Press them home and the game is ours!” A cheer answered the scout’s words, and driving their spurs into their horses, the troopers bounded on in hot pursuit, closing up upon their foes in deadly earnest. At length the band of Indians, under Red Dick, reached the motte, and, rallying around the nearest trees, turned to fire upon the advancing cavalry, the stern voice of Ricardo giving forth his orders in a cool and decided manner. But the scout gave them no time to form a solid line, for, ahead of the other three squadrons, he dashed on with his little band right into the timber, and instantly a hot firing was heard. Almost immediately after, the squadron of Percy la Clyde struck the timber, then followed the general and Captain Kassidy, with their troopers. Attacked thus from four points, and without time to rally, the Indians broke and fled, in spite of the cries of Red Dick and Ricardo, who were determined to sell their lives dearly. Through the motte like a fiery torrent swept the scout and his band, crushing down many an Indian brave and driving a mass of Indians pell-mell before their impetuous advance. Then Buffalo Bill rode straight for the spot where Ricardo coolly sat his horse, Red Dick, Long Dave, and Red Roark upon either hand, and his disciplined outlaws around him, determined to do or die. “Here, accursed hound, you are my game,” yelled the scout, firing his revolvers right and left, and dropping a foe at every shot, as he urged his horse on toward Ricardo. But, though the Indians had broken upon every hand, and were flying madly through the timber, shot and cut ruthlessly down by the charging troopers, the band of the Branded Brotherhood still stood as firm as a rock, and met the attack with iron nerve.