“Tell me if that isn’t so, and if you didn’t talk there at the gate with the man who lives in that house?” The question seemed to throw the redskin into an unaccountable rage. He drove his mustang forward without an instant’s warning, and, drawing a short rawhide whip, he aimed a blow at the scout’s face. Though the movement was so unexpected, the scout was not caught napping. For as the enraged redskin tried to ride Buffalo Bill down and strike him in the eyes with the whip, the scout caught the mustang by the head and nose, jerking its head round, and it went over in a heap, as if shot. The thing was done so quickly and cleverly that the Indian was thrown from the mustang’s back; and his right foot got caught under the falling horse. The fall jarred a grunt from him; and then he tried to pull his foot out, but the scout leaped toward him now, drawing his revolver. The horse had quivered as it fell, but now it lay stretched out. It had struck on its head and neck in its fall, and the weight of its body thus crushing against it had broken its neck, killing it. The Indian stared stupidly when he saw that revolver. “White man no shoot!” he begged. “I don’t intend to, unless you try treachery and force me to,” was the answer, as Cody pointed the pistol at the Indian’s feathered head. “Tell me why you rode to the gate over there a while ago!” he sternly commanded. The redskin stared stolidly, evidently inventing some answer. “Me no go.” “You talked there with the white man who lives in that house?” The Indian shook his head. “Why did you get mad and try to strike me with your whip when I asked you about it?” “Let pore Injun go!” whined the redskin. The scout repeated his question. “Let pore Injun go!” was the only answer. The redskin pretended he did not understand what Buffalo Bill meant. “You may go,” said the latter, who had no desire to hold him. The black eyes glittered. Accustomed to treachery, the Indian could not understand this, unless it spelled trickery of some kind. Buffalo Bill seized the head of the horse and drew the body round a little, and the Indian extricated his foot, which had not been much hurt. He limped, however, when he rose to his feet. “I’m sorry about the mustang,” said the scout, “but it was your own fault. You provoked it, when you tried to ride me down and strike me with that whip. But you may go.” The redskin hesitated, looking at the pistol held by the scout; but when Buffalo Bill repeated his permission to go, he started off slowly, glancing back as if he feared this were but a trick to give the scout a chance to shoot him in the back. “Here,” said the scout, “don’t you want these things?” He pointed to the rawhide accouterments on the dead horse. The Indian looked at them doubtfully. “White man no shoot?” “No; come and get them.”