When Pomp and Ralph Radcliffe, on the back of the flying steed, rose over the wild buffaloes, the pursuers were rushing at the fighting beasts in a swift charge, their rifles leveled for a deadly volley.

With loud yells they dashed down upon the infuriated beasts.

In the center of the ring James Van Dorn still sat on the back of his horse, Ralph’s riderless animal close beside him, and he had made up his mind that his time had come.

Ah, it was a grandly, sublimely beautiful sight.

The roaring, fighting circle of infuriated buffaloes, rushing upon each other with lowered heads, lolling tongues, distended, blazing eyes, and cruel, pointed horns; in the center of the immense ring the man and the two horses; at the side the wild mustang and his double load rising in the air; and the mixed band of half-crazy pursuers charging down upon the whole, weapons flashing bright in the afternoon sunlight.

A yell of triumph rang out from the lips of the wonderful colored rider as his gallant horse cleared the ring, and in a moment he was dashing swiftly away through the shallow water of the stream.

The current touched the breast of the brave horse and then he struck out with powerful strokes for the opposite shore.

Pomp slipped from his back, leaving Ralph in the saddle.

The darkey swam closely by the side of the horse, keeping an easy hold of the reins.

The horse swam steadily onward, and in a few moments the opposite shore was reached.

Then the darkey hopped again into the saddle, and with a shout cantered away.

Meanwhile the red and white band of pursuers rushed down upon the crazed beasts, and their rifles told the death of more than one.

With exultant yells and cries they dashed among the beasts, firing right and left in the full glory of slaughter, and at last the animals began to recognize the fact that a common enemy was destroying them.

Then they ceased to fight among themselves, and turned to meet the band.

With vindictive growls they battled with them, but the well-trained and naturally smart prairie horses were much too quick and wide awake to be caught on their cruel horns.

As soon as the ring was broken up, the man in the middle drove his spurs deep into the sides of his horse, and tried his best to escape.

The maddened animal made a swift bound, and tried to reach the stream in a succession of magnificent leaps, but the band had no intention of allowing Mr. Van Dorn to escape.

A long lasso came whistling through the air, and settled around the neck of the horse; the strands became taut, and, with a scream of pain, horse and man rolled to the ground.

In a moment several men, red ones and white ones, too, were standing over him, and Van Dorn was lifted from the ground, much bruised and covered with dust, and very thoroughly shaken up.

The buffaloes—those left alive—had made up their minds to migrate, and they were now plashing through the waters, making excellent time for the opposite shore.

Many of them lay upon the blood-stained plain by the water’s edge, either dead or dying.

Black Arrow, a tall, powerfully-built Indian, and a white man called Billy Blossom, a low-browed, swarthy villain of middle age, were looked up to as the leaders of the party, and they now came forward and took a look at the sullen prisoner.

“Well, you’ve got me,” said Van Dorn, as he looked up into the face of the white leader.

“Rayther guess you’re right, old hoss,” said Billy Blossom.

“And what are you going to do with me?”

“Don’t know yet,” said Blossom. “What’s your name?”

“Hardscrabble.”

“What are you?”

“A roving blade, like yourself.”

“What are you doing here?”

“None of your business,” said Van Dorn, in the coolest manner.

“Well, you’re cheeky, anyhow,” said Billy Blossom. “And, above all things, I do admire grit. If I can do anything for you I will.”

“Thank you,” said Van Dorn. “If it would not be asking too much, I’d like you to set me free.”

Blossom grinned.

“Like to oblige you, friend,” he said, “for you seem one after my own style; but then you see you’re not my prisoner. White is white, and you’re the right kind. I can see that at a glance, but when the reds capture, the prisoner belongs to them. But I’ll do all I can for you.”

“Who captured me?”

“Black Arrow; there he is.”

“Talk to him for me.”

“All right,” said Blossom. “I’ve took a liking to you, and I’ll stand by you.”

Then he walked away, while two of the Indians securely bound the captured villain, and placed him again on his horse, the animal having sustained but very slight injuries from his sudden fall.

Then the band mounted again, and in a body swam the stream.

For half an hour they rode onward at a moderate pace, for their horses were much fatigued, and then they came to a halt in a pretty grove.

The horses were picketed, Van Dorn was carelessly thrown upon the ground, and then the redskins held a council, the purpose of which was to decide what should be done with the prisoner.

Many of the band had been popped over, and the majority of the dead ones were redskins.

This made the savages more bloodthirsty than was usual even with them, and the common sentiment towards the prisoner was a deadly one.

Billy Blossom put in his ear, and made an appeal for the life of the prisoner, but the savages would not hear him.

They wanted a life, and a life they would have.

The prisoner was a white man, was not a renegade, and that was enough for them.

They unbound him, and warriors ran to collect brushwood, for their intention was to burn him.

Blossom approached him with a very sorrowful shake of his head.

“Can’t help it, pard,” he said. “I really did cotton to you, but I’m afraid you’ll have to pass in your checks. You see the reds jest cotched you at a pretty bad time, for they’re mad about so many of the band being killed, and they want to do some killin’ to make them feel jist a little more square. Of course it’s not your fault, but then you’re a white man, and they ain’t partickler about the thing, so long as they can dance and yell and cut up their wild didoes while a white skin is blisterin’. Stand it like a man and don’t squeal.”

“I’ll not,” said Van Dorn, who was pale but calm. “I can die, but I’d much rather live, for I’ve been knocked around all my life, and jist now a glorious time was opening for me. But it’s no use, as you say, so I’ll shut my teeth hard and show them that I can die game.”

The prisoner was now taken in hand by two of Black Arrow’s braves, who very quickly removed the coat, vest, and shirt from the upper portion of his body.

When this much was taken the white skin was revealed.

Then strange cries broke from the lips of the Indians, and they pointed excitedly at Van Dorn.

Around Van Dorn’s waist, pricked into the white flesh with needle and Indian ink, or some similar substance, ran a perfectly-made belt, formed of many curiously-wrought designs.

These marks or tokens, as they are called, express much in little, and often tell a long yarn to the beholders with the aid of a few cabalistic characters.

Black Arrow gave one glance at the token belt, and then his deep voice rang out in command:

“Kan, Kan gee whock.”

Instantly the Indians formed two lines straight up and down from the white prisoner to their chief, and then Black Arrow walked slowly forward and gazed intently at the curious signs encircling the white man’s waist.

He walked around him in the most sober and profound style, and being somewhat learned in the curious lore of his nation, soon deciphered the whole story presented by the token belt.

Then, with his own hands, he severed Van Dorn’s bonds, and led him beneath a tree.

He seated the gratified villain on the grass, and then turned importantly to the waiting warriors.

They knew that there was a story hidden beneath the curious designs of the belt, and they were burning with impatience to hear it.

Black Arrow waved his hand, and the whole crowd squatted around him in the most undignified fashion.

The white members of the party also drew near, for they were greatly interested in this odd affair.

Black Arrow spoke in the Indian tongue:

“Many moons ago this white brave found a beautiful Indian princess and her aged father in the great forest in mid-winter, held prisoners in the hands of our most deadly enemies, the Snake Indians, for the chief of the Snakes sought to make the princess his squaw, and therefore had stolen her and her father in the dead of night, with the aid of two comrades.

“This noble brave, with a white skin, but with the heart of a true Indian, roamed the forest and came upon them. He was seen by the beautiful princess, and implored his protection.

“He was as brave as the tiger, as cunning as the fox, as strong as the buffalo, and as keen as the lynx. With the spring of a wild panther he bounded upon them and struck them to the ground. His knife drank their blood, his bullets found their heart. He killed them all with his own hands, and then he conducted the old chieftain and the beautiful young princess back to their village, where he was marked with this totem belt that tells the story. The beautiful princess was the light of the wigwam, Neoskaleeta, and her father the great chieftain to whom we all pay allegiance, Black Hawk. You know what to do, my braves.”

A great cry went up from the interested braves, and they stood erect.

Their weapons flashed in the slanting rays of the dying sunlight, and they pressed forward eagerly, placing their weapons at Van Dorn’s feet as they knelt before him, while a united cry assailed his ears:

“Ne ka qua bah!” (“You may command us.”)