Deerfoot did not discharge the third weapon, but awaited the chance to make his shot effective. It was a waste of ammunition to launch a bullet at the iron-like front of a bison. The surest avenue to his seat of life is back of the foreleg. The heads were held so low by the plunging brutes that they acted as shields to the vulnerable portions from that direction, and the position of the Shawanoe did not allow a favorable aim. Mul-tal-la ran several steps toward the thundering herd, and then began leaping into the air, swinging his blanket and shouting like a crazy man. In any other circumstances his antics would have caused a laugh, but this was no time for merriment. Deerfoot was the only tranquil member of the party, and he stood with weapon half raised, unable to decide what to do to avert the peril sweeping down upon them like a hurricane. Seconds were beyond value. Unless the bison were diverted at once the breath of life would be crushed out of the four and out of their animals. Wild bellowings filled the air, and peculiar crackling, rattling sounds, limitless in number, were heard. These were caused by the contact of the horns of the bison, which were crowded so close in many places that the wonder was how they were able to move at all. The last hope seemed to lie in the Blackfoot. Unless his shoutings and contortions with the fluttering blanket, which threatened to be whipped into shreds, checked the furious beasts, they could not be stayed at all. He produced no more effect than the flicker of a straw in the wind. At this appalling juncture, Deerfoot, with both arms outstretched, the left hand holding the rifle of Victor Shelton, dashed toward the head of the herd, which was only a few rods away. He was seen to make a tremendous leap, which landed him on the back of an enormous bull. Instead of firing the gun, he grasped it by the barrel and smote the bison with the stock, the blow descending upon one of his eyes. The youth’s strange position, which he managed to maintain, gave him the first chance to make a telling shot. Like a flash he fired at the nearest bison, sending the bullet down through the forepart of his body and into a spot so vital that, with a frenzied bellow, he stumbled forward and rolled over and over like a huge block of wood driven from the throat of a giant piece of ordnance. While executing his lightning-like movements, the Shawanoe added his shoutings to those of his friend, and then laid about him with the clubbed weapon. The unique performances of the two did the business. The fall of one bison, the strange figure dancing as it seemed in mid-air, injected a panic into that part of the herd, which split into two divisions that thundered past the terrified group as if the elevation formed a small island in the center of a rushing torrent.