Buffalo Bill now drew a revolver. He did not intend to be hanged by this mob. If his life was to be lost he would lose it fighting, not at the end of a rope. Suddenly he drove his spurs desperately into the flanks of his horse, having before that, by a slash of his knife, released it from the hitching rack. It made one jump, then a revolver cracked, and the horse fell sprawling, a bullet in its brain. The scout would have been hurled violently to the ground if he had not disengaged his feet from the stirrups and landed in an upright position. As he struck the ground he held a revolver in each hand, and he was ready to use them. He felt that his last hour had probably come, but he meant to meet it like a hero; these men would not have it to say afterward that he had gone to the rope like a cringing coward. And if he had to die, he would take dear toll to pay to the grim ferryman. But before he could use his revolvers there was a shout in the street, a loud clatter of galloping hoofs, and a man came dashing up into the very fringe of the howling mob. CHAPTER XXXVI. THE WESTERN DEAD SHOT. The man who had galloped with that yell right into the crowd was none other than Wild Bill, the Western dead shot. Many of the men there recognized him, and they were sure his sudden dash meant an attempt to rescue Buffalo Bill. Wild Bill reined in his horse so quickly that he threw it back on its haunches. It reared, its pawing front feet making the men there scatter, and when it came down, Wild Bill, with a touch of the spur, drove it to Cody’s side. Then he half wheeled his horse, lifting his cap to the astonished crowd. “It seems to me, from the look of things, that you’ve got the wrong steer by the horns! I know that my friend Cody is too white a man to ever do anything that would call for a hanging bee.” He smiled upon Buffalo Bill. “Eh, pard, what have they got it in for you for?” Not a man there but had heard of Wild Bill, and many of them knew him by sight; so that when it was known that this was Wild Bill, the most dare-devil and reckless shot of the West, the man who feared not the face of clay, and if report spoke correctly would rather shoot than eat, there was a falling back. Yet they still surrounded Buffalo Bill and this new rider, and seemed no more disposed to give up their prey than if they were a band of wolves. Wild Bill had seen many mobs, and he knew their moods and methods; yet his flashing eyes betrayed no sign that he really understood the very dangerous and ticklish position which he and his noted pard were in. He even seemed to be merry.