The five Apaches, thinking the scout had been slain, were dismounting and making a hurried descent into the gulch. Their descent was a race, for the first man to reach the scout would secure his scalp. And to secure the scalp of Pa-e-has-ka, the long-haired chief, was an honor, indeed! Slipping, sliding, jumping, the redskins drew nearer and nearer the bottom of the gulch. One was well in the lead, and Dell, her nerves aquiver with excitement, watched his dark form come closer and closer to the scout. At last, when the leading Apache was about to make the final jump to the bottom of the gulch, and was already fingering the hilt of his scalping-knife, Buffalo Bill regained his feet. _Crack, crack, crack!_ rang out his revolvers. Two of the Apaches--the one in advance and the other next behind him--were wounded and dropped into the gulch bottom; but they were not badly wounded. They were scared far more than hurt, and they at once took to their heels, one going up the gulch and the other down. Instantly a thrill of alarm shot through the scout on the girl’s account. Four Indians were still on the gulch wall, but they were frantically climbing toward the top again. Leaving them to their own devices, the scout rushed after the Apache who had gone bounding up the gulch. This redskin had a wound in his left arm, but he still clung to the hilt of the knife. Dell saw him coming, covering the ground with great leaps. If he ever reached the horses, the girl knew that he would make way with one, or both, of them--and this was something that must not be allowed to happen. Fearlessly the girl sprang out from behind her boulder and planted herself between the Apache and the horses. Undaunted by the sight, the savage kept on, flourishing his knife and yelling furiously. “Shoot!” cried Buffalo Bill. He feared to let loose a bullet himself, for he, and the Indian, and the girl, were in a direct line with each other. Had he fired, and had the redskin dodged at the exact moment, the bullet might have struck Dell. But there was no need for the scout to use his weapons. Hardly had the command to fire left his lips when the gulch took up the echoes of the girl’s revolver. The Apache was caught in the air; and when he fell, he came down sprawling--wounded a second time, and harmless to do the girl any injury. “Well done!” cried the scout. “Dell Dauntless, you’re a plucky girl.” “That wasn’t so much,” Dell answered deprecatingly. “He had only a knife, and you had already wounded him at that.” “His first wound did not interfere very much with his ability to attack you. I only shot to wound.” “That was the way with me.” “These Apaches are the tools of Bascomb and Bernritter. They ought to be rounded up and driven back to their reservation. Why Apache got such a bad heart?” the scout asked, halting beside the wounded Indian. The Apache made no response, other than to try and sink his teeth into the scout’s leg. The scout stepped back quickly.