The bad man struggled for the release of his arm, for a moment, and was manifestly surprised that he could not readily wrench the imprisoned member from the grasp of any man. And then, before he realized the possibility of such a happening, the bad man felt his opponent step in close, and the next instant he was whirling through the air, to land on a table and crash with it to the floor. Fighting Dan got up slowly, and for a moment stared at the scout in dazed surprise; then he reached for his guns. Before his hands had fairly touched their butts he found himself peering into the sinister-looking muzzle of the scout’s rigid revolver. “Hold on, amigo!” he shouted; “I wa’n’t goin’ ter shoot; I was on’y goin’ ter take off me weapons an’ git ready ter mop up this hyar barroom with ye.” “All right, neighbor; if that is your game I’m agreeable.” And without a quiver the scout handed his own gun to Hickok and stepped forward. Dan deliberately laid his big revolvers on a table, spat on his hands, and then suddenly rushed. The scout did not expect such a move from the previous deliberate movements, but he was not caught at a disadvantage. Wheeling like a flash, he caught the big fellow, half-buttocked him, and stretched the giant breathless on his back on the floor. The crowd cheered, and Fighting Dan regained his feet slowly, a sadder and wiser bad man. He had never suffered such humiliation before. “Who be yew, amigo?” he asked, extending his hand. “Friend,” answered Buffalo Bill; “I have never been ashamed of my name, but for to-night it is not to be made public property. I am steering my own canoe without instructions, and I don’t drink at any man’s order. I am willing to go some distance to please, but it is the business of no man here what my name may be. Good night.” Buffalo Bill and his pards pushed through the cheering barroom gathering which had increased to a mob, and made their way to their rooms on the floor above. After the scout had left the discomfited Dan relieved his mind as follows: “By ther rip-roarin’ Jeehokibus! That there tarnal is a hull cyclone an’ a few whirlwinds ter boot.” CHAPTER III. WILD BILL DISAPPEARS. Buffalo Bill had hoped to escape recognition for a time until he could look into conditions in that locality, but he was not to be so fortunate, as he learned the moment the four pards were alone in their large double room. Bozeman was only one of many of the older towns the scout expected to visit, in prosecution of his mission, to rout the rogues who were stealing both from the government and the nation’s charge, the red man. “Pa-e-has-ka make um listen,” said Cayuse, as soon as the door had closed upon the outside. “Heap bad palefaces call Long Hair ‘Buffalo Bill.’ Pards in home of Great Father tell on string and talks. Pa-e-has-ka get letter come Virginia City. Bad Crow warriors wait in pass, shoot Pa-e-has-ka.” “Where did you get that?” asked the scout of his Indian boy pard.