In the mouth of a small cañon were gathered several persons, huddled together, and with their rifles were endeavoring to keep back some twoscore Sioux braves, who were pressing them hard. Several Indians lay dead here and there, and, infuriated by the loss of their comrades, the band of warriors were preparing to rush in force upon the small party in the cañon and end the combat by a hand-to-hand conflict. At this moment Buffalo Bill and Lone Dick came in sight. A glance showed them that the small party were whites, and with yells infernal they dashed upon the Indians, firing their repeating rifles as they rode. With never-failing aim, the rifle of Buffalo Bill sent many a warrior and horse to the ground. Its rapid, rattling fire, added to that of Lone Dick, caused the redskins to believe a large reënforcement had arrived to aid the palefaces, and they broke for cover. Then from the cañon dashed three men, firing as they came, and greatly adding to the fright of the Indians, who hastily retreated into a gorge in the hills, leaving their dead upon the field. “Hip, hip, hoopla! Buffalo Bill, as I live! Old fellow, I owe you one,” and one of the besieged party dashed up to the scout, and warmly grasped his hand. That the man who so warmly welcomed Buffalo Bill was a frontiersman was evident by his attire and general appearance, for he was clad in buckskin, moccasins, and all, and wore a slouch hat ornamented with a gold sun looping up the rim in front, which added to the bold and determined expression upon his fine face. His form was graceful, wiry, and denoted great strength, while his movements were quick, nervous, and his dark eyes were restless. His features were French--in fact, he was a Frenchman, coming, it was said, from Michigan, where his father lived--a noble, exiled from his native land. Thoroughly armed and equipped, and mounted upon a large, sinewy horse, Tom Sun--for such was his name--was a dangerous foe. In his frank, pleasant way, he greeted Buffalo Bill and Lone Dick, and then turning to his comrades, said: “Here, Buffalo Bill, are friends I am guiding up into the hills to hunt a home. Captain Ramsey, this is Buffalo Bill, the scout.” “I am glad to meet you, sir, and your name is not unknown to me. This is my son, sir, and this my daughter.” The man addressed as Captain Ramsey turned to a young man, who rode by his side, and a fair young girl, who had reined her horse slightly back. Buffalo Bill glanced first into the face of Captain Ramsey, and beheld a man of fifty years of age, with a noble face and stalwart form; but though he appeared like a borderman, his manner indicated that his earlier life had been passed amid far different scenes. His son, Burton Ramsey, was about twenty years of age, and possessed a good-looking face and handsome form, and was clad like his father in a suit of gray homespun. Ruth Ramsey, the daughter, seemed like a ray of sunshine in that group of stern men.