The ponies of the Indians were feeding in the valley, with only a guard here and there, and there were no mounted warriors near to close in on the reckless rider, or to head him off. Hark! Their vengeful yells, as they observed the possibility of the daring man’s escape, were awful to hear. They were in a frenzy of rage at the desperate act of the horseman. Rifles and bows sent bullets and shafts at him, but at long range. If he was hit he did not show it. The horses still thundered on, down into the valley, as recklessly as frenzied buffalo. Oak Heart, the great war chief, heard the commotion and saw the speeding white man. The chief was mounted, and he lashed his horse into a dead run for the point where the reckless paleface was descending into the valley. With him rode the White Antelope, and their coming spurred the braves to more strenuous attempts to reach, or capture, or kill, the daredevil rider. The occupants of the fort--those who beheld this wonderful race--were on the qui vive. Their exclamations displayed the anxiety and uncertainty they felt. “He can never make it!” “The Indian guard are driving in the ponies to bar his way!” “Who is he?” “How he rides!” “God guard the brave fellow!” cried a woman’s voice. One of the gentler sex had climbed to the platform over the gate, and this was her prayer. Other women had dropped to their knees, and were fervently praying God to spare the splendid fellow who was daring the gantlet of death. A cheer rose from the soldiery. This unknown was showing them the way that they had not dared to go. “That packhorse is wounded. Why doesn’t he leave it?” cried one of the officers. “It is delaying him--can’t the fellow see it?” At that moment the commander shouted: “Captain Keyes, take your troop to the rescue of that brave fellow!” “With pleasure, sir! I was about to ask your permission to do just that,” declared the junior officer. The bugle sounded, but its notes were drowned in a sudden wild shout of joy that rose from the two hundred inmates of the fort. Another officer, with a field-glass at his eye, had suddenly turned and shouted: “It is Buffalo Bill, the Border King!” CHAPTER II. THE BORDER KING. The wild cheers that greeted the recognition of the daring gantlet runner came in frenzied roars, the piping voices of children, the treble notes of women, and the deep bass of the men mingling in a swelling chorus that rose higher and higher. The Border King, as he had been called, heard the sound. He understood that it was in his welcome, and he fairly stood up in his stirrups and waved his sombrero, while the horses dashed on at the same mad pace. Buffalo Bill, or William F. Cody, as was his real name, was the chief of scouts at this very fort, and he was a hero--almost a god--in the eyes of the soldiers and his brother scouts.