who likewise,
with a wild yell rode toward him.

Together both fired, the chief with his rifle, and Buffalo Bill with his
revolver, and down dropped both horses.

Buffalo Bill nimbly caught on his feet, while the Indian was pinned by
one leg under his horse, and with his war-cry the scout rushed upon him.

As he advanced the chief succeeded in releasing his leg from beneath his
horse and again fired, as did Buffalo Bill, and both of them with
revolvers.

The Indian's bullet cut a slight gash in Bill's arm, while he struck the
red-skin in the leg, and the next instant sprung upon him with his
knife, which both had drawn.

The hand-to-hand fight was hardly five seconds in duration, and Buffalo
Bill had driven his knife into the broad red breast, and then tore from
his head the scalp and feather war-bonnet, and waving it over his head,
shouted in ringing tones:

"_Bravo! the first scalp to avenge Custer!_"

A shout of warning from the cavalry caused him to turn quickly and he
beheld the second chief riding down upon him at full speed.

But Bill turned upon him, and a shot from his revolver got him another
scalp.

But hardly had he stooped to tear it from the skull, when the Indians,
with wildest yells, charged upon him.

They were nearer to him than was the regiment, and it looked bad for
Buffalo Bill; but the gallant Fifth charged in splendid style, met the
Indians in a savage fight, and then began to drive them in wild
confusion, and pushed them back into the Agency a sorely whipped body of
Cheyennes, and grieving over heavy losses.

Upon reaching the Agency Buffalo Bill learned that the two Indians he
had killed in the duel were Yellow Hand and Red Knife, and Cut Nose, the
father of the former swore some day to have the scout's scalp.

But Buffalo Bill laughed lightly at this threat, evidently believing the
old adage that "A threatened man is long lived."

CHAPTER XXXI.

CONCLUSION.

Having gone over many of the thrilling scenes in the life of W.F. Cody,
Buffalo Bill, from boyhood to manhood, and shown what indomitable pluck
he possesses, and the pinnacle of fame he has reached unaided, and by
his own exertions and will, I can only now say that much remains to be
told of his riper years, from the time he stepped across the threshold
from youth to man's estate, for since then his life has been one long
series of perilous adventures which, though tinged with romance, and
seeming fiction, will g