Then the still air of the early morning quavered in the clear, far-sounding notes of the bugle, and across the plain rang the “Forwar-r-d! March!” in stentorian tones. Again, far to the southward of the bugle call came other hoarse commands and the sound of galloping horses. The Indians sprang up and darted hither and thither in consternation. Everything was in confusion. Some of the braves kicked out every ember of fire, for that would make targets of the red men to the white soldiers beyond. At the same moment pandemonium broke loose among the ponies. There were yelps, barks and screams, and the jumping, snorting and squealing of frightened mustangs. Away they scurried, and the dazed braves offered little resistance. Buffalo Bill bounded in among the Indians, and, in the darkness and their demoralized state, they knew not but that he was one of them. He found Cayuse, cut the Piute’s bonds, and lifted the boy to his feet, when he heard a startled grunt at his elbow. Like a flash the scout wheeled and sprang sidewise, in time to avoid a vicious drive from a knife. He whipped out his own blade, and steel met steel. The Indian was Buffalo Bill’s own height and a powerful fellow, agile as a cat, and skilled in the use of the weapon in hand. The tumult about them and the gloom prevented instant discovery by the braves at hand. One buck came near enough to see the struggle and sprang at the scout with a tomahawk, but he met a club from Little Cayuse, who was now on his feet, that stretched him out. Like tigers the scout and his antagonist lunged and parried, the steely muscles of the scout pressing the other back, yet neither sure of himself, because of the darkness. In avoiding a terrific thrust, the scout stepped back, caught the red man’s blade on his own, and as the brave came on of his own momentum, almost into Buffalo Bill’s arms, the latter shot a quick blow with his left fist that caught the red on the point of the chin, and the battle was over. “This way, Cayuse,” said the scout, as he bounded over the fallen Indian. But before he had covered ten feet he sprang almost into the arms of three or four warriors coming that way. It was too late to turn back, and like a battering-ram the scout shot ahead. His arms worked like piston rods, and the surprised Indians fell before the onslaught. “Come on, Cayuse,” he called, and darted out the way he had come. Cayuse was at his heels as they came to the brook. A little farther up they found Bear Paw and Navi tethered, and a moment later Avery and the boy, followed by Hickok and old Nomad, galloped up. The scout remembered the lone pony hitched in the bushes near by, and released the animal, which followed them as they raced away after Hickok. Wild Bill was having the time of his life, out on the plains, with the herd of Indian ponies darting like mad things before him.