“And there are only about three of us,” answered Buffalo Bill. “But something must be done or the settler and his family will be murdered,” he went on. “Let us drop back behind this swell and ride farther north, then swing in behind those fellows who are preparing to fire the dugout, and charge. If we can’t stampede them we can at least give them a touch of heart failure.” “My fingers are itching on the trigger, pard,” said Hickok. In the rear of the little hill on which three Indians could be seen digging away the gravel and thatch, while other warriors were yelling, shooting, and dancing about the burning buildings to distract the attention of those imprisoned in the dugout, the scout and his pards approached more cautiously. They climbed to within a few rods of the three reds before the scout, drawing two revolvers, drove the spurs to Bear Paw’s flanks, and dashed forward. The red men, taken wholly by surprise, were run down by the flying horses without a shot, and the animals, leaping the sharp embankment, like a cyclone swept across the intervening space, and, before the red warriors in the firelight could see what was approaching from the darkness beyond, they were greeted by a deadly volley as the three daring horsemen swept through and over them and disappeared in the darkness beyond. The scout had so planned the charge as to strike the group of Indian ponies, and among them the pards madly galloped, yelling like demons and shooting right and left. In a moment the little animals were scurrying away across the prairie, and the scout and his pards saw to it that they were hustled far, and widely scattered, before they began a wide detour that took them back toward the scene. The Indians had been so completely demoralized by the sudden onslaught that they did not recover from their surprise until the ponies were far away in the darkness and the sound of their hoofbeats was rapidly lessening in the distance. Then the warriors scarcely knew which way to turn. Their first move was flight beyond the firelight, where they momentarily expected another mysterious and avenging force to spring. The sounds of yelling and shooting had ceased; the fire had burned itself down to glowing brands, and the lowing of frightened cattle echoed here and there when Buffalo Bill, Hickok, and Cayuse for the second time approached the back side of the mound in which the dugout had been made. Leaving Hickok and the Piute with the horses in a dip of the hill where they were safe from surprise, the scout made his way noiselessly over the hilltop, approached the door of the dugout, and spoke: “Hello, there, within!” A boy’s voice answered: “Who is it?” “A white friend; the Indians are gone.” “’Tain’t no Injun trick to git us out?” “No,” answered the scout in his kindliest voice; “a party of us have come to save you from the Indians, but if you are all right and comfortable perhaps you had better stay there till morning. Was anybody hurt?”