The scout, remembering the brutal treatment accorded Little Cayuse--and the boy had not told him the half of it--would have been only too quick to meet the ruffian in a two-gun game. But he wanted to make a capture, and try persuasion in an attempt to find out something about Annie McGowan. The girl was certainly hidden away somewhere among the hills. Wherever she was, quite likely Bernritter and Bascomb were, also; and the scout was not losing sight of the fact that he wanted to get hands on Bascomb quite as much as he wanted to rescue Miss McGowan. Watched by Dell Dauntless, Buffalo Bill succeeded, in due course, in reaching the base of Squaw Rock without attracting the attention of the ruffian. His task now was to follow the base of the rock around until he came near the spot where the man was sitting. This was almost directly under the chin of the profile, and the scout had to get around one of the shoulders. Drawing his revolver, the scout immediately began his flanking movement, still on all-fours and pushing the weapon ahead of him. Just as he was on the point of passing around the edge of the shoulder, and coming out in plain view of the man, if he happened to be looking in the right direction, the scout observed peculiar actions on the part of Dell. With head and shoulders above the hill-crest, the girl was waving her hands and pointing westward. The scout could not understand, and the girl, in her excitement, had risen so far above the ridge that the ruffian might catch sight of her at any moment. As the quickest way to terminate the situation, the scout hurried on around the rock. Rising to his feet the moment he had the man squarely in front of him, Buffalo Bill leveled his six-shooter. “Hands up, you!” he shouted. The ruffian shot into the air as though propelled by some powerful spring. His pipe went one way and his hat another. Also, his hand darted at his hip, but a warning bullet from the scout’s forty-four buzzed past his ear. “Hands up, I said!” shouted the scout. “The next bullet I send at you won’t go so wide.” The man turned, at that, and lifted his arms. “Who the blazes are you, anyhow?” he snarled. “Buffalo Bill is the label I tote. What’s your own mark?” “Banks.” “Well, Banks, you’re mine. Come this way till I strip off your guns.” “What’s the matter with ye?” scowled Banks. “What have I ever done to you that you make a play like this?” “Never you mind that for now. I feel hostile enough to put a bullet into you, right where you stand, on account of the way you treated my little Piute pard. Are you coming?” “Your hand has the call,” grunted Banks. “Sure I’m coming.” He moved toward the scout, but slowly. “I reckon I’ll have to plant a little lead around your feet so’st to make ’em more lively,” remarked Buffalo Bill. “Step off, high, wide, and handsome. Try it, now, before my patience begins to mill. You’re slower than molasses in zero weather.”