Pizen Jane seemed to rise out of the ground before him. She threw up the revolver, and fired full at him. It was the revolver shot that the scout and the troopers heard. As its report rang out, Snaky Pete Sanborn, the outlaw and desperado, pitched forward on his face, falling dead in the door of the hut. Pizen Jane had kept her vow. The charge of the troopers came right on top of this, turning the attention of the outlaws to the task of repulsing the invaders. The fight that followed was sharp and hot, but it was short. Finding that the troopers were within the camp itself, the desperadoes stationed at the barricades deserted them, climbing them and running for safety out through the pass. Those within the camp, who had been trapped there, fought with a courage and desperation worthy of a better cause. They slew some of the troopers, and several of their own number fell. The others tried to get out of the camp, but, being surrounded, they threw down their weapons and surrendered. The shrill voice of Pizen Jane was heard once, as she took part in the fight against the outlaws; and once the scout beheld her, with smoking pistol, confronting one of the outlaws. When the fight had ended she was found lying dead close by the hut where she had killed her infamous and recreant husband. Nomad was, of course, released from his unpleasant predicament. He received orders to remain a few hours longer at the camp, in order to observe whether any of the deserters returned with reënforcements--in which case he was to ride at once to Fort Thompson. If none returned, he could rejoin Buffalo Bill and the troopers at the fort, within the next three days. Pool Clayton seemed genuinely grieved over the death of his mother, and shed bitter tears when he beheld her dead body. He was not held for the crime of being a member of the road-agent band, but was permitted to depart from that section of the country. That a genuine reformation in his character was effected the scout believed, for afterward he had word of him, at a time when Pool was residing in a mining town called Crystal Spring, where he had secured honorable employment and seemed determined to live an honest life. CHAPTER XVII. PURSUED BY BLACKFEET. “Whoa, Nebby, consarn ye! Don’t lose yer head, now, er mighty quick you won’t have no head to lose.” Old Nick Nomad, the trapper and famous border scout, twisted around in his saddle, jerking at his horse’s bridle, and stared back along the way he had come after leaving the outlaw stronghold. Nomad was a small, dried-up specimen of a man, dressed in border costume of ancient fashion, even to the beaver-skin cap. He held in his right hand a long rifle. His old horse, ungainly as himself, yet possessed of as many surprising qualities, stepped about, in spite of the jerking rein, and showed every indication of nervousness and fright.