“I remember the occasion,” said the great scout; “but here comes the man, and he looks like an Indian, indeed.” Sergeant Fallon’s disguise was perfect, and an hour later the scout and he set out. When they reached Rapid River, Fallon decided to swim his horse across and enter the Indian camp disguised as he was, and Buffalo Bill, knowing from what he had seen and heard of the man that he could thoroughly trust him, allowed him to do so. Buffalo Bill accompanied him as far as the river, and watched him across. He lost his form after he had got halfway across, but waited until he was sure that Fallon had reached the other side and found the Indian guards. Hearing no outcry or shot, he muttered: “I guess he’s all right, but his danger is great. “The man grows upon me more and more, and I am sure that he has once held a high position and been in command of men. “Well, if he gets back in safety, I will use my influence to get him the commission he richly deserves.” So saying, the scout gazed in silence for a while over the weird, wild scene, lit up by the moonlight into picturesque beauty, and then, turning his horse, rode back to his camp for the night. The sergeant, meanwhile, had crossed the river, been met by the guards, and then rode to the camp beyond the ridge. To his surprise, he found there over a hundred Indian braves, and about a camp fire built out of sight up in a niche of the cliff stood several forms, upon whom his eyes were at once riveted. Fighting Bird, an old Sioux chief, was there, and near him stood the young chief, Death Face, while, seated upon a rock near, was a splendid type of a redskin leader, a man of almost herculean proportions, robed in gorgeous costume of tanned doeskin heavily embroidered with wampum, and wearing a war bonnet of barbaric splendor. His face was bold, rugged, crafty, intelligent, and merciless. That countenance was furrowed with age, silver threads streaked his raven locks, but he was still the mighty leader of his people, the grand old fighter, plotter, good general, merciless foe of the palefaces, Iron Eyes, the head chief of his tribe. By his side stood a fourth person. It was one of elegant form, handsome face, dark and sinister, fine though it was. He was dressed in a black fatigue suit of army style, wore buttons of ten-dollar gold pieces, diamond studs and sleeve buttons in his negligee silk shirt, a massive watch chain, and a large, brilliant ruby upon the little finger of his left hand, his right being covered with a red glove. This man had a cigar between his lips, stood like one waiting to be photographed, one booted foot resting upon a rock before him, and his elbow leaning upon his knee as a rest. His spurs were of gold, his belt of arms showed that they were ornamented with the same precious metal, and, altogether, he was a most picturesque and striking figure, a man to stand in awe of.