“Here’s one for you, poor little Fan!” he said, pulling his revolver and shooting the suffering horse through the head. “And I must save one for you, too, Dot,” he said, to the inanimate form of his wife, as he picked her up and placed her behind the body of the horse where the Indian bullets could not reach her. Kneeling there, the carbine now began to talk rapidly and several more ponies galloped away riderless. He did not mind the bullets spatting about him in the sand and into the carcass of the horse--they could not reach her. Yes, he could feel a burning sensation in his shoulder; a red-hot band suddenly encircled his body; blood was running into his eyes from a “scratch” on the head, somewhere. The carbine was empty now and the revolver came into play. That, too, was empty except for one chamber--he had carefully kept count. The savages were almost upon him, yelling, shooting, wielding knives and tomahawks, as he arose to his full height and drew his last weapon, his knife. “They’re too many for me,” he said, “but they shall not have you, Dot!” and he took careful aim at the white, upturned brow. “I saved this for you----” The sentence and the deed were never completed, for a bullet sent him headlong, as the red riders swarmed about. CHAPTER XXXV. AN AGED INDIAN’S STORY. To the mysterious maid of the Castle Rock, Buffalo Bill and his pards owed their escape from a long, hard flight or a desperate fight with a strong war party of Cheyennes. They reached the river at the point indicated by the girl, and by crossing and galloping away behind the timber growth along the bank, escaped the sharp eyes of the savages. But the scout and his pards were not to pass the day without its quota of excitement. It was past midday when the party rode around a bend in the river and came upon a child crying bitterly. It was an Indian girl, and when they came upon her so suddenly she was terrified. She expected to be put to torture, evidently. Buffalo Bill dismounted and spoke kindly to the child. She could speak no English, but the scout caught the Sioux tongue and learned that she lived alone with an old Indian who was ill and unable to hunt, and they were starving. The scout asked the child to lead the way to her companion, which she at first refused to do, fearing that the white warriors would kill him. Buffalo Bill assured her that he would give them food, and perhaps he could cure the sick man. She at last led the way into a dense thicket by the river bank where a rude tepee had been erected, and inside they found an aged Indian whose eyes glared defiantly at the white scout. “How,” said Buffalo Bill. The Indian grunted, then asked: “Why come see red man die?” “We came so you would not die; we bring food for you and the papoose.” “What does the white man want?” demanded the Indian, somewhat mollified by the promise of food. “Nothing, but to aid the red brother, who is sick.” “Ugh!” grunted the Sioux incredulously.