Forward and back they surged, the negro’s great neck muscles standing out as he clung to the horns of the bull, and gradually forced the shaggy head to an acute angle, the nose pointing to one side and the horns another. All the giant’s weight and great strength were thrown into this feat, and, like bands of steel, the muscles of the bare, walnut-colored arms held every inch gained. The nose of the brute was now near the earth, and in that unnatural position both seeing and breathing were difficult. The animal’s breath came in hoarse, wheezy snorts, and he staggered as he plunged about, always endeavoring to throw off the foe. How long could the brave man hold such terrific strain? The terrified bride, with clasped hands, forgot her own peril in her anxiety for the safety of her rescuer. The approaching cowboys dared not shoot for fear of injuring the negro. With whirling lariat they dashed nearer, but their aid was not needed. With a superhuman effort Skibo had suddenly wrenched the animal’s nose upward until the bull lost its equilibrium and plunged sidewise to land feet up and horns driven into the ground. Skibo had slipped one hand from horn to nostrils as the animal fell, and then, standing on the horns, with both hands holding the panting snout, he had the bull helpless and at his mercy. In that position the colored man waited for the cowboys to rope the beast, and then modestly attempted to steal away. But his escape this time was out of the question. Poor Skibo dearly paid for his heroism by becoming the object of such hero worship, and cheers, and slaps, and handshakes that he heartily wished the ground would open and swallow him up. And to cap the climax the bride came forward, and, after thanking him in sweetest way and words, and while tears chased each other down her cheeks, and admiring miners and cowboys stood with uncovered heads, she unfastened from her throat a massive gold brooch, and with her own hands pinned it to Skibo’s trembling shirt front--“to remind you,” she told him, “of one who will ever and often think gratefully of you.” CHAPTER V. HOW HICKOK CAME TO GRIEF. Sleeping with his window wide open, as was his custom, “Wild Bill” Hickok, Buffalo Bill’s pard from Laramie, had been awakened by the shooting at the Red Tiger. His first thought was that his pards were in trouble, and, hastily donning his clothes and buckling on his belt, he did not pause to stumble along the corridors and through the crowd of inquisitive loungers, but sprang through the window and landed lightly on the soft earth twelve feet below. As Hickok approached the Red Tiger, he could see the tall forms of the scout and of Skibo, and knew that they were all right. He would have entered, but, standing in the shadow of a building to reconnoitre, he saw something to change his plans.