Buffalo Bill's Ruse; Or, Won by Sheer Nerve
Date: 2021-03-02T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Dime novels; Buffalo Bill; 1846-1917 -- Fiction

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Title: Buffalo Bill's Ruse; Or, Won by Sheer Nerve

Author: Prentiss Ingraham

Release date: March 1, 2021 [eBook #64664]
Most recently updated: October 18, 2024

Language: English

Credits: David Edwards, Susan Carr and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BUFFALO BILL'S RUSE; OR, WON BY SHEER NERVE ***

BUFFALO BILL’S RUSE
OR,
Won By Sheer Nerve

BY

Colonel Prentiss Ingraham

Author of the celebrated “Buffalo Bill” stories published in the
Border Stories. For other titles see catalogue.

STREET & SMITH CORPORATION

PUBLISHERS

79-89 Seventh Avenue, New York

Copyright, 1906 and 1907

By STREET & SMITH

Buffalo Bill’s Ruse

(Printed in the United States of America)

All rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign
languages, including the Scandinavian.

CONTENTS

| | PAGE
| IN APPRECIATION OF WILLIAM F. CODY | 1
I. | PIZEN KATE. | 5
II. | READY TO GO. | 10
III. | AN UNEXPECTED MEETING. | 14
IV. | PIZEN KATE FINDS HER HUSBAND. | 19
V. | MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCES. | 25
VI. | INDIAN TREACHERY. | 31
VII. | THE ATTACK OF THE MEXICAN | 39
VIII. | THE MYSTERIOUS YOUNG WOMAN. | 43
IX. | THE REDSKIN ROVERS. | 51
X. | SURROUNDED AND CAPTURED. | 59
XI. | ESCAPE. | 66
XII. | A DESPERATE VENTURE | 73
XIII. | THE FLIGHT OF THE FUGITIVES. | 78
XIV. | STRANGE HAPPENINGS. | 83
XV. | A DESPERATE BATTLE. | 91
XVI. | AT THE HOUSE ON THE MESA. | 97
XVII. | THE MYSTERY SOLVED. | 107
XVIII. | THE MYSTERIOUS NUGGET. | 111
XIX. | AT THE FORT. | 121
XX. | BRUTALITY. | 129
XXI. | ON THE BORDERS OF DISGRACE. | 132
XXII. | OUTSIDE THE WALLS. | 141
XXIII. | DRIVEN BY DESPERATION. | 146
XXIV. | THE MAN IN THE SHADOWS. | 153
XXV. | A VILLAIN IN FLIGHT. | 159
XXVI. | STARTLING NEWS. | 163
XXVII. | THE SKY MIRROR. | 169
XXVIII. | BARLOW AND THE GIRL. | 181
XXIX. | A DARING RUSE. | 192
XXX. | THE CHEYENNE STAMPEDE. | 200
XXXI. | THE THEFT OF THE NUGGETS. | 208
XXXII. | ALCOHOL AND ELOQUENCE. | 216
XXXIII. | A KINDLY WARNING. | 223
XXXIV. | LURED INTO DANGER. | 230
XXXV. | MOBBED AND THREATENED. | 239
XXXVI. | THE WESTERN DEAD SHOT. | 245
XXXVII. | THE MAN WHO INTERFERED. | 249
XXXVIII. | DENTON AND DELAND. | 253
XXXIX. | IN A WEB OF LIES. | 259
XL. | THE RAIN MAKER. | 272
XLI. | A GIRL’S HEROISM. | 284
XLII. | ANOTHER STOOL PIGEON. | 292
XLIII. | THE CAPTURE OF PANTHER PETE. | 297
XLIV. | THE GIRL’S FLIGHT. | 304
XLV. | THE FLAG OF TRUCE. | 311

IN APPRECIATION OF WILLIAM F. CODY
(BUFFALO BILL).

It is now some generations since Josh Billings, Ned Buntline, and Colonel Prentiss Ingraham, intimate friends of Colonel William F. Cody, used to forgather in the office of Francis S. Smith, then proprietor of the New York Weekly. It was a dingy little office on Rose Street, New York, but the breath of the great outdoors stirred there when these old-timers got together. As a result of these conversations, Colonel Ingraham and Ned Buntline began to write of the adventures of Buffalo Bill for Street & Smith.

Colonel Cody was born in Scott County, Iowa, February 26, 1846. Before he had reached his teens, his father, Isaac Cody, with his mother and two sisters, migrated to Kansas, which at that time was little more than a wilderness.

When the elder Cody was killed shortly afterward in the Kansas “Border War,” young Bill assumed the difficult rôle of family breadwinner. During 1860, and until the outbreak of the Civil War, Cody lived the arduous life of a pony-express rider. Cody volunteered his services as government scout and guide and served throughout the Civil War with Generals McNeil and A. J. Smith. He was a distinguished member of the Seventh Kansas Cavalry.

During the Civil War, while riding through the streets of St. Louis, Cody rescued a frightened schoolgirl from a band of annoyers. In true romantic style, Cody and Louisa Federci, the girl, were married March 6, 1866.

In 1867 Cody was employed to furnish a specified amount of buffalo meat to the construction men at work on the Kansas Pacific Railroad. It was in this period that he received the sobriquet “Buffalo Bill.”

In 1868 and for four years thereafter Colonel Cody served as scout and guide in campaigns against the Sioux and Cheyenne Indians. It was General Sheridan who conferred on Cody the honor of chief of scouts of the command.

After completing a period of service in the Nebraska legislature, Cody joined the Fifth Cavalry in 1876, and was again appointed chief of scouts.

Colonel Cody’s fame had reached the East long before, and a great many New Yorkers went out to see him and join in his buffalo hunts, including such men as August Belmont, James Gordon Bennett, Anson Stager, and J. G. Heckscher. In entertaining these visitors at Fort McPherson, Cody was accustomed to arrange wild-West exhibitions. In return his friends invited him to visit New York. It was upon seeing his first play in the metropolis that Cody conceived the idea of going into the show business.

Assisted by Ned Buntline, novelist, and Colonel Ingraham, he started his “Wild West” show, which later developed and expanded into “A Congress of the Rough Riders of the World,” first presented at Omaha, Nebraska. In time it became a familiar yearly entertainment in the great cities of this country and Europe. Many famous personages attended the performances, and became his warm friends, including Mr. Gladstone, the Marquis of Lorne, King Edward, Queen Victoria, and the Prince of Wales, now King of England.

At the outbreak of the Sioux, in 1890 and 1891, Colonel Cody served at the head of the Nebraska National Guard. In 1895 Cody took up the development of Wyoming Valley by introducing irrigation. Not long afterward he became judge advocate general of the Wyoming National Guard.

Colonel Cody (Buffalo Bill) died in Denver, Colorado, on January 10, 1917. His legacy to a grateful world was a large share in the development of the West, and a multitude of achievements in horsemanship, marksmanship, and endurance that will live for ages. His life will continue to be a leading example of the manliness, courage, and devotion to duty that belonged to a picturesque phase of American life now passed, like the great patriot whose career it typified, into the Great Beyond.

BUFFALO BILL’S RUSE.

CHAPTER I.
PIZEN KATE.

The ungainly female who came roaring into Eldorado in search of the husband who “run away” from her contrived to draw a crowd about her in a remarkably short time.

“I’m Pizen Kate, from Kansas City!” she yelled. “Git out of my way, er I’ll jab yer eye out with my umbreller. I’m lookin’ fer my husband, and you ain’t him. Think I’d take up with a weasel-faced, bow-legged speciment like you? Not on your tintype. I wouldn’t! So, git out o’ my way!”

The man had tried to “chaff” her and had roused her ire, but he fell back before the angry jabs of her “umbreller.”

She looked about, glaring.

She was “homely as sin.” Her features were not only irregular; they were twisted, gnarled, and seamed. A few thin hairs of an attempted beard floated from a mole on her chin, and on her upper lip there was a faint trace of a mustache. She was dressed in a soiled cotton garment, and on her head was a shapeless hat, with a faded red rose for ornament. In her muscular right hand she flourished an ancient umbrella.

“I heard my husband had come here, and I’m lookin’ fer him,” she declared. “He run away from me in Kansas City, and I set out to foller him; and I’ll foller him to the end o’ the earth but that I git him.”

“I’m bettin’ on you, all right!” called out some irreverent individual.

She fixed him with a glassy stare.

“Was I ’specially directin’ my langwidge to you?” she demanded. “I hate to hear a horse bray out that way. It’s sickenin’.”

“And I hate to hear the blather of a nanny goat!”

She lifted her umbrella.

“Say that ag’in, you red-headed son of a scarecrow, and I’ll ram this umbreller down yer neck and open it up inside of ye! I’d have you know that I’m a lady, and don’t allow no back talk.”

“What kind o’ lookin’ feller is your husband?” another asked.

“Well, he’s better-lookin’ than them that slanders him, if he is little and runty! He’s a small man, slim as a blacksnake, and wiry as a watch spring, and he’s a bit oldish. He was in this town less’n a week ago.”

“Kate, I reckon we ain’t met up with him.”

“Wot’s his name?” said another.

“What’s that got to do with it, if ye ain’t seen him?” she demanded.

She fixed her eyes on a man who had, a moment before, descended the steps of the Golconda Hotel, and who came now toward the crowd that hedged her in.

The man was Buffalo Bill; handsome, muscular, dressed in his border costume, and towering a full head over the other men in the street.

“That’s him, I reckon, Katie—there comes yer husband, I’m bettin’. You said he was little and runty, slim as a blacksnake, and wiry as a watch spring. I guess you hit his trail here, all right.”

It was the sort of humor this crowd could understand, and they roared hilariously.

Pizen Kate ignored them with fine scorn, and moved toward the great scout, the men falling back before her jabbing umbrella and giving her ample room. She pranced thus up in front of Buffalo Bill, and stood eying him, umbrella in one hand and the other hand on her hip.

“I think I seen you onct,” she announced, as the scout politely lifted his big hat to her.

“Possibly,” he said, smiling.

“You’re Persimmon Pete, the gazeboo what run away with my old man.”

The crowd snickered, and then roared again.

“Hardly,” said Buffalo Bill.

“Oh, I know ye!” was her vociferous assertion. “You come to Kansas City with an Injun medicine company, and lectured and sold medicine. And my old man went to your show and seen ye; and then he got magnetized by ye, somehow, and wandered off after you when you went away. He was dead gone on big men. I suppose that was because he was so durn little and runty himself. It made him like big men. And so he follered you off when you left town. Now, ain’t that so? I know ye. You’re Persimmon Pete.”

The scout lifted his hat again, flushing slightly, for he heard the roars of the crowd.

“Madam,” he said amiably, “I must deny the gentle insinuation. I never saw your husband, nor Persimmon Pete.”

“You deny it?” she shrieked.

“Certainly. I am compelled to doubt your word.”

“And you never seen my man?”

“I assure you that I never had that pleasure. What is his name?”

“If you’re goin’ to start in by lyin’, it don’t make no difference what his name is!” she declared.

“It might help in his identification,” he suggested.

“Well, then, it’s Nicholas Nomad.” She faced toward the snickering crowd. “Now laugh!” she yelled. “It’s his name, and it fits him; fer if he ain’t about next to no man I dunno it. Think of him leavin’ me in the suds there in——”

“Was ye washin’?” some one yelled.

“Well, yes, I was, though how you know it I can’t guess. I was washin’ that day fer Mrs. McGinniss and her six children, and so I had to stay at home and couldn’t watch him. He took advantage of it and skun out. But I’ll git him yit, and when I do——” She shook her red fist at the crowd.

“You’ll wallop him?”

“Wallop him? He’ll think he’s been mixed up in a barbed-wire cyclone; I won’t leave an inch of hide on him.” She turned back to Buffalo Bill. “Ye ain’t seen him, you’re sure?” she said anxiously.

“I’m sorry to say that I haven’t, madam.”

“You ain’t lyin’ to me?”

“No.”

She gave him a fierce glare, and then turned to hurl back some words of defiance to the shouting and laughing crowd.

“Don’t git too clost to me!” she warned. “I’m a lady, and I won’t stand it.”

Then she moved on up the street, looking for her husband, the crowd of amused men and boys streaming after her. Buffalo Bill followed her movements with an amused smile.

“Cody,” said the hotel clerk, who had come down into the street, “I’ve seen all sorts of females in my day, but she takes the cake.”

Buffalo Bill laughed and turned back toward the hotel.

“A bit peculiar, to say the least,” he agreed. “I don’t think I ever saw another just like her. But we’re likely to meet all kinds of queer characters out here in the West.”

CHAPTER II.
READY TO GO.

The man whom Buffalo Bill had come to Eldorado to meet appeared in the town some time after this spectacular entrance of Pizen Kate, and sought the famous scout, in the latter’s room at the hotel.

The name of this man was John Latimer. He lived in isolated grandeur in a big house on Crested Mesa, for the benefit of his health, he said, which had been weakened by the damp and trying climate of the East.

He was an elderly man, of impressive appearance; gray-haired and gray-bearded. His eyes were gray, and were overhung by bushy gray eyebrows. He dressed neatly, in the Eastern fashion, and seemed very much out of place in this wild border country, at that time.

These things Buffalo Bill noted, as John Latimer came into the room, shook hands, and took the chair placed for him.

“Ah, Cody!” he said. “I was afraid you wouldn’t come, even though I had made my complaint so strong.”

“Your appeals stirred the colonel of the regiment at Fort Sinclair, and he told me to come out here and look into the thing and report to him at once; and he gave me authority, likewise, to send for a company of men, or even to organize a company of border riflemen on my own account, for quick action, if I thought necessary.”

“Very good!” said Latimer. “That pleases me. You shall have all the proofs you want.”

“I’ve already been getting some of them, on my way here.”

“You heard of that last raid made by the road agents on the Double Bar Ranch?” said Latimer.

“Yes.”

“And the attack of the Redskin Rovers on the treasure train which a week ago came out of the Bighorn Hills?”

“I heard of that, too. You have means of knowing something of the movements of these men?”

“Very little. The Redskin Rovers puzzle me.”

“Are they really Indians, or are they white men disguised as Indians?”

“Genuine Indians, I think.”

“Perhaps led by white men?”

“Perhaps so.”

“They haven’t troubled you lately?”

“Not lately.”

“Nor the white road agents?”

“They shot one of my herders less than a week ago. I believe they thought him a miner with gold. He was dressed somewhat like a miner, and he was coming out of the hills with filled saddle pouches. But the pouches held only some mineral specimens I had asked him to get for me. That trip cost him his life, poor fellow.”

“You know where that place is? We can, perhaps, find their trail there even yet.”

“You are ready to go with me, Cody?”

“That’s what I came for.”

“And I came in to get you and take you out to my place.”

“You spoke of your herder. Are you running a cattle ranch?”

“Not a ranch; but I keep a few, a very few, cattle. I am living there simply for the benefit of my health.”

His clear skin, the breadth of his shoulders, his general look of good health, in spite of gray hairs and gray beard, did not indicate that his health needed any especial care, as the scout noted.

“When will you go, Cody?” he asked.

“Any time. Now, if you like.”

“Now it is, then. We’ll start as soon as you can get ready.”

“I am ready.”

They left the room together.

In the hotel office Buffalo Bill ordered his horse brought from the stable and made ready for him, and he paid his score. Latimer’s horse had been left in the street in front of the hotel, tied to a hitching post. In a little while the scout and Latimer were mounted; and they galloped together out of the town of Eldorado, drawing many remarks from those who saw them go.

One of the witnesses of their departure was Pizen Kate. She had been having a dispute with a German shoemaker, who declared he had seen her missing husband the week before, and that he had but one leg, a statement that Pizen Kate disputed so warmly that the German was willing to modify it.

“Vell, he mighd haf had two legs,” he admitted, “but one of dem vas of wood. He come py my shop in, and ven he put oop his foot here, to have me fix his shoe, he say he is no man, as he haf but one leg.”

“But he didn’t say he was Nicholas Nomad! He didn’t say that?”

“No; I didn’t ask him vat vas his first name.”

Perhaps the German was a bit of a joker, for when he said this his blue eyes twinkled.

Pizen Kate stopped her wordy and interesting dispute with him, and stared at the horsemen who went by—Buffalo Bill and John Latimer.

“You know them men?” she snapped.

“Neider uff dhem vas the man vat I see. Neider of dhem vas your hoosbant.”

“Who said they was?” she snapped. “I said did you know ’em?”

“One I haf seen pefore. But I ton’d know heem.”

“You don’t mean Buffalo Bill, the tallest of ’em?”

“No; I ton’d know him. I neffer haf seen him. Bud I t’ink me I voult like to haf dhe chob uff making his poots for him. Dey musd cost apout dwendy-five tollars a pair.”

She left him in a hurry.

“I’m goin’ to find out why them two fellers aire ridin’ out of this place so fast,” she threw back at him. “It looks curious. I wonder if they don’t know somethin’ about my missin’ husband? Huntin’ fer missin’ husbands is terrible tryin’ work.”

CHAPTER III.
AN UNEXPECTED MEETING.

When Buffalo Bill arrived with Latimer at the home of the latter on the Crested Mesa, he found a big, rambling building, with many wings, together with a number of other buildings and stables. Close by flowed a stream of water between high and rocky banks, where, Latimer said, his few cattle obtained their water. The place looked deserted.

But a great surprise came to the scout when, on riding up to the big house, he was about to dismount, and a servant came rushing out to take the horses. He stared, open-mouthed, hanging half out of his saddle, for when his eyes fell on this servant he had been swinging to the ground, and that sight had stopped all movement on his part for an instant.

The servant was a wizened little man, with a wide mouth and small, peering eyes. He was dressed in a half-border manner, and a revolver was belted to his waist.

“Nick Nomad!” was the name that came from the scout’s lips.

Old Nick Nomad seemed as much taken aback as Buffalo Bill. He halted in confusion; then laughed in his quaint cackling manner, and advanced toward the horse.

“Yours to command, Buffler!” he cried, spreading his homely mouth in a huge grin. “You didn’t reckon on seein’ me, and I didn’t reckon on seein’ you, and so we’re both properly astonished. But I ain’t a-goin’ to hold it agin’ ye.”

The scout swung to the ground, and seized the little man by the hand, shaking the hand warmly.

“Nomad, I am glad to see you!”

“Ther same hyar, Buffler! I’m as glad to see ye as if I’d run a splinter in my foot. What ye doin’ hyar?”

“What are you doing here?”

“Me? Waal, I’m in hard luck jes’ now, fer a fac’. And so I’ve become a sort of hostler hyar, ye see. I look after ther hosses, and——”

John Latimer was looking on in surprise, and the garrulous old trapper subsided, seeing it.

“I’ll have a long talk with you later,” said the scout. “I’m the guest of Mr. Latimer, and shall probably be out here several days. By the way, Nomad, what do you know of Indians and road agents?”

“They’re all dead, so fur’s I know, Buffler.”

“You haven’t seen any lately?”

“Nary a pesky red, an’ not a single pizen road agent.”

“That’s strange. Mr. Latimer has reported that he had lately been raided by road agents and by the Redskin Rovers?”

“Waal, ye see how ’tis, Cody. I only come hyar yistiddy, and so I can’t be considered as bein’ ’specially up in ther happenin’s hyar and hyarabouts. But if thar’s road agents and Injuns floatin’ round, I’ll begin to feel that I’ve arrove ahead o’ time in ther happy huntin’ grounds. I ain’t hed no good times at all, sense the days when you and me was huntin’ Injuns and road agents together.”

The scout, though anxious for a talk with old Nick Nomad, saw that John Latimer had dismounted and was waiting to accompany him into the house.

“Well, take my horse, Nomad,” he said. “By the way, Nick, where is old Nebuchadnezzar.”

A whinny came from the nearest stable; and old Nomad, hearing it, bent double with cackling laughter, so pleased was he.

“Thar he is, Buffler, ther ole sinner! He knows his name as well as some men know the name o’ whisky, and he answers jes’ as quick. He heard ye say ‘Nebbycudnezzar’ and he answers ye! How long’s it been, Buffler, sense that wise critter heerd your gentle voice, anyhow?”

“More than a year, I think.”

“Jes’ ther same, he’s rec’nized it. Buffler, I’ve seen wise hosses in my time, but Nebby goes ahead of ther best of ’em. He’s a-gittin’ so knowin’ that I’m acchilly askeered that some mornin’ I’ll wake up and find that he’s been translated to ther hoss heaven, if thar is one.”

Having started on his favorite subject, old Nick Nomad would have gone on indefinitely, if Buffalo Bill had not snapped one of his sentences in the middle by practically deserting him and entering the house with Latimer.

The thing that first arrested Buffalo Bill’s attention within the house was that the big, rambling structure was apparently without occupants. One servant had come to the door, to admit them—a Mexican of villainous aspect and slinking mien—but aside from this one Mexican not another soul was to be seen.

“You appear to be quite alone here?” the scout suggested.

“Yes,” Latimer admitted, “quite alone.”

“You have been here alone from the first?”

“Yes. I have had a number of servants, but none of them remained with me long. The place is too isolated, and too far from the towns. So, after a short time, in each instance, they departed. I have now only that Mexican, and the man you talked with. You seemed to know him, Cody? He came to me only yesterday. He’s a stranger to me, and may not be reliable; but I needed help so badly that I took him without asking him any questions.”

“There is nothing mysterious about him,” the scout replied, as he passed through the long hall with Latimer to the latter’s rooms. “He is, in fact, as open as the day.”

“Well, I’m sure I’m glad to hear it,” Latimer confessed, with an appearance of uneasiness. “I have more than once suspected that servants who have been here have been in alliance with the Redskin Rovers, or the road agents.”

“Nomad is an old-trapper, who has been in the Western mountains more years than he can remember; and yet, in spite of the great age he claims—hear him tell it sometimes and you’d be ready to believe him a hundred years old—he is as spry as a young man, and as a dead shot with rifle or revolver he has not many equals. He has helped me in a number of scouting trips, and we’ve had some very interesting experiences together. It surprised me to find him here.”

“Surprised you?”

“That he should be doing menial work. But he explained that he found himself in hard luck, and was glad to take anything that offered. I was glad to see him. He is as a friend true as steel.”

When they passed into the large rooms Latimer apologized for their apparent disorder.

“You perhaps heard him boasting of his horse,” the scout continued, still speaking of Nick Nomad.

“A bag of bones, Cody!” cried Latimer. “I wonder the brute can carry him.”

“Yet a wonderful horse. According to Nomad, it is the most wonderful horse in America, or in the world. And it really is a beast of rare intelligence. He has so trained it that its actions at times seem almost human.”

“My new hostler seems to be rather a wonderful man,” remarked Latimer, with a dry smile. “I shall have to have a talk with him myself.”

“You will find that he is a wonderful man, if you ever are able to know him as thoroughly as I do,” was the scout’s answer.

CHAPTER IV.
PIZEN KATE FINDS HER HUSBAND.

Buffalo Bill had not been in the lonesome house on the big mesa an hour before he heard a roaring shout near the stables. It drew him to the open window, and when he looked out he beheld Pizen Kate.

She had sighted Nick Nomad, and was making for him, waving her big umbrella round her head as if it were a lasso with which she meant to effect his capture.

“Run away from me, will ye?” she was bellowing. “Abandon me, yer lawful and lovin’ wedded wife, will ye? Well, you’ll perceive the sinfulness of yer sinful ways before I git through with you, you bet! You’ll know fer certain that I’m Pizen Kate, of Kansas City, and a lady that’s not to be trifled with.”

For a moment Buffalo Bill was too astonished for mirth; then he broke into a roar of laughter. Leaving the window, he descended quickly to the ground, and made his way out to where Pizen Kate was tongue-lashing her recreant spouse. She was still at it when the scout arrived.

“Me washin’ fer you, and laborin’ fer you; and then you cuttin’ right out and runnin’ away from me! Is that the way fer a man to conduct himself toward the wife of his bosom? Answer me that, you dried-up mummy, you pestiferous weasel! Why don’t you answer me?”

Nomad had backed into a corner of the adobe wall that formed part of the horse inclosure, and was defending his face with his hands from the jabbing umbrella.

“Yes, yes!” he admitted.

“Wasn’t I a true and lovin’ wife to ye?”

“Yes.”

“And you run away from me when I was workin’ fer ye?”

“Don’t!” he pleaded. “Don’t hit me in ther face with thet! Great snakes! Yes; I’m willin’ ter admit ter anything. I’m all sorts of critters that ye can think up, and more throwed in. But don’t poke me in the eye with thet.”

“I’ve a notion to ram it down yer throat and open it up inside of ye!” she threatened.

“Waal, it’d make me look fatter, ef ye did!” he declared. “Hold on—hold on! Thet thar is my arm you’re peelin’ the skin off of. Let up, can’t ye?”

“Why did you do it?” she demanded.

“I—I——”

“I ast you why did ye do it?”

“I couldn’t live with ye, and that’s a fact!” he sputtered, hopping about to evade her blows.

“Couldn’t live yith yer lovin’ and lawful wife?”

“You was too strenuous fer me, and yer temper was too peppery. So I thought I’d slide.”

Latimer had appeared, drawn by the noise.

“And there’s the feller that you went away with!” she said to Nomad. “Don’t say he ain’t, fer I know. Thet’s ther dashin’ galoot that called hisself Persimmon Pete. You got stuck on him there in Kansas City, and lit out with him. Don’t say it ain’t so, er I’ll poke the p’int of this umbreller inter yer innards! Don’t say it ain’t so!”

“Waugh! I ain’t sayin’ that it ain’t so.”

“Then it is so? I knowed it was. And he lied to me in ther town, when I charged him with it. And he knowed you was out here; and out here he rid, to meet ye. I seen him go, and I follered him. Oh, I understand ye! You can’t fool Pizen Kate. Ain’t it so?”

“Anything’s so, when you says it is,” said Nomad.

She shook her umbrella at Buffalo Bill. “You lied to me there in the town!” she vociferated. “You said you wasn’t Persimmon Pete, and you perfessed that you didn’t know nothing about where my ole man was! Now, what do ye say to that? When you left Eldorado I follered ye. And here I find you two together. What do ye say to that? Answer me!”

The scout was laughing too much to reply as quickly as she wished, and this made her rave the more.

“You are mistaken,” he said finally.

“You don’t know this man?”

“Oh, yes, I know him.”

“He ain’t my lawful, wedded husband?”

“I don’t know that he isn’t, of course. It only surprises me.”

“Surprises ye, does it? Well, when I think of it, it surprises me, too. To think that I should ’a’ married a walkin’ shadder of a man like that, a living mummy that grins and acts like a baboon; and then that he should run away frum me, when I stood ready to lavish all my wifely love on him. Yes, it surprises me, too.” She glared at the scout. “Why did you tell me that you wasn’t Persimmon Pete?”

“Because I am not.”

“What!” she shrieked. “You deny it?”

“Don’t deny anything, Buffler!” wailed Nomad. “It’ll be wuss fer ye. Admit everything she says. If she asks me ain’t I the man in the moon, I’m saying ‘yes’ to her every time.”

“You are married to her?” said the scout.

“Waugh! Buffler, she made me do it!”

“If you ain’t Persimmon Pete,” she demanded of the scout, “who aire ye?”

“My name is Cody. Sometimes I’m called Buffalo Bill.”

“And that’s another lie!” she declared. “I know ye. You’re Persimmon Pete. But I’ll tell ye now, that I’m goin’ to take this man back with me, and he’ll live with me as my lovin’ husband, er I’ll kill him.”

Nomad contrived to escape out of his corner while the infuriated woman talked with the scout and with Latimer, and when he had accomplished that he sprinted round the end of the wall.

She gave chase immediately; and when she found that he had hid himself somewhere, she began to search for him, vowing that she would not rest until she had forced him to return with her to her home in Kansas City. She repeated her threat, as she made her furious search.

“If he don’t go back with me, and live with me as my lovin’ husband, I’ll kill him. There ain’t goin’ to be no pore-deceived-and-weepin’-woman business with me now, you bet! I ain’t that kind of a hairpin! I’m a woman that knows her rights and is willin’ to fight fer ’em. And if he thinks he can hide, and that I’ll soon go away and leave him, why, then he is mightily mistaken.”

“Your hostler seems to have got into a good deal of trouble,” the scout remarked to Latimer, as they returned to the house together, leaving Pizen Kate hunting for Nick Nomad.

“Cody,” said Latimer, “that is the most absurd episode I ever saw, or knew about. I’m afraid that new hostler is a great rascal, in spite of what you informed me about him.”

A little later the scout saw Nomad running toward the house. Pizen Kate was not in sight. Apparently, Nomad had found a chance to get out of his hiding place unobserved by her, and was making tracks for the security of the big building.

Buffalo Bill hurried through the hall and swung the front door open to admit him.

“Cody, is she comin’?” Nomad panted.

The scout glanced out. “I think not.”

“Then, Cody,” he lowered his voice, “come into thet room over thar, fer I want a talk with ye. Fasten ther door, so that she can’t git in. And don’t let Latimer know about it. Jes’ a few minutes’ talk with ye, in thet room over thar.”

He ran on toward the door of the room indicated.

The scout stayed, in obedience to his request, to bar the outer door against the ferocious Pizen Kate. He occupied but a minute of time in doing it, and then followed on to the room, through whose door he had seen Nomad vanish. But when he entered the room Nomad was not there.

“Nomad!” he called, looking about.

There was no reply.

CHAPTER V.
MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCES.

Nick Nomad had disappeared with such a mystery in the manner of his going that Buffalo Bill was bewildered.

The room into which Nomad had run was, apparently, but an ordinary room, with no door but the one he had gone through; and it had but one window, which was closed and locked, and which, the scout was absolutely sure, Nomad had not opened. Even a casual examination of that window was enough to show that Nomad would not have had time to open it and get through it before the scout’s appearance; and even if he could have succeeded in doing that, he could not, from the outside, have locked it, for it was locked from the inside.

Buffalo Bill stood amazed and aghast when, after much calling, he had no response, and after much examination he could not solve the mystery.

The floor, the walls, the ceiling, were solid; the window was closed tightly, and the one door had been in sight, and Nomad had not come out by it. He had gone into that room, and then had “evaporated.”

While the scout was still puzzling over this singular thing, Pizen Kate appeared at the outer door of the house, which she pushed open boldly, and entered. Figuratively, there was blood in her eye, and she was painted for the warpath. She looked suspiciously at the scout.

“Where is he?” she said. “He came in here! You been helpin’ him?”

“Madam, I wish I knew.”

“Well, if you was here, you seen him, didn’t ye? Where’d he go? Before I git through with him I’m goin’ to l’arn him a few things, you bet! Run away from me in Kansas City, he did—and jes’ now, when I was lecturin’ him on the sin of his acts, he kited out ag’in. He come in here, fer I seen him; but he outrun me. Now, where is he?”

“I wish I knew.”

“Well, why don’t you know? Didn’t you see him come in?”

“I did. He went into that room. I was to follow him, for I wanted to have a talk with him; but when I entered the room he was not in it. If you can find him, or tell what became of him, I shall be obliged to you, for I’m as anxious to know where he is as you are.”

She gave him a stare of disbelief, then she walked to the door and looked in.

“He ain’t in there,” she said, withdrawing her head, “and he never was in there, and you know it. Playin’ with my feelin’s, aire ye? And me a pore, lone woman! Well, now that’s what I’d expect of you, Persimmon Pete, and nothin’ else. You’ve hid him away, and aire laughin’ at me, thinkin’ it’s smart. But you’ll find I ain’t a lady to be trifled with. I want my husband.” She planted herself before the scout and flourished her ancient umbrella. “I want my ondutiful husband, and I want him this minute!”

The scout was too anxious and too greatly mystified to laugh.

“Madam, if I knew where he was, I shouldn’t turn him over to your tender mercies, but I don’t know where he is.”

“Do you mean to tell me he went into that room, and then drapped out o’ sight?”

“He did.”

She went to the door and looked in again.

“You used to tell some big lies, Persimmon Pete, when you was sellin’ that Injun medicine, that you said would cure about anything in creation; but you must have been practicin’ some lately, fer that’s the biggest lie that ever was told.”

“It looks it,” he admitted.

She glared at him in disbelief.

“I can’t stay to talk with you,” he added, “for I’m going to call for Latimer. He may be able to explain this thing. There must be a way out of that room which I know nothing about and cannot discover.”

“What is it?” called Latimer.

“Will you be so good as to come here?” Cody asked. “Here’s a mystery that is baffling and serious, but you may be able to make it seem quite simple.”

Latimer came forward. “Yes?” he said questioningly.

“Nomad came into this hall but a little while ago. He was hurrying, and as he came in he told me to follow him into that room, as he wished a word with me in private. I followed him to the door, and then on into the room; but he wasn’t there. He did not come out by the door, for it was in my view all the time, and he could not have gone out by the window and left it locked on the inside, if he’d had time, which he had not. Will you be so good as to point out what other way he could have gone out of that room?”

Latimer hesitated.

“Will you step to the door and look in,” said the scout.

John Latimer obeyed this, but when he turned about his face showed agitation.

“It’s one of the mysteries of this strange place,” he said, in a low voice. “All of my servants have disappeared in just that way. For a while they are here working around; then they are gone. I don’t know what becomes of them. I get other servants, and they likewise disappear.”

His manner was agitated. Buffalo Bill stood aghast.

“Are you in sober earnest, Mr. Latimer?”

“Never more so,” was the answer.

Pizen Kate stared her disbelief, and then broke into a cackle of spiteful laughter.

“Do ye think it’s nice,” she said, “for two men to try to fool a pore, lone woman in that way? I found my lawful and wedded husband here, after chasin’ him all the way frum Kansas City. And you, sympathizin’ with him in his abandonment of me, his true and lovin’ wife, git up this kind of a yarn to keep me frum takin’ him back with me.”

John Latimer seemed hurt by the accusation. Buffalo Bill strode again to the door, and then walked on into the room. He began to sound the walls with the butt of a revolver, and to sound the boards of the floor with his heels. Latimer followed him to the door.

Pizen Kate was still raving, accusing them of conspiring to deprive her of her husband.

“Woman, will you stop that clatter?” cried Latimer, whose nerves were jarred by her abusive talk.

“No, I will not!” she declared. “Not till I’ve found that man, and had the law on you two men fer hidin’ him away from me. Do ye suppose I’m fool enough to believe sich a story as you’re tellin’?”

Buffalo Bill came out of the room baffled. “Have these other disappearances been just in this way?” he inquired of Latimer.

“Not in just that way, Cody. I’ve twice sent servants on errands, from which they have never returned. Once, a month ago, I had a servant girl at work in my kitchen. I was in my own rooms. I heard her scream. When I got to the kitchen there was not a soul in it, and I have seen nothing of that girl since.”

Pizen Kate stared at him.

“You’re just tellin’ that to scare me away from this place.”

“I’m telling you the truth.”

“You never saw anything strange yourself?” asked the scout.

“Never.”

“And you have formed no theory to account for it?”

“I haven’t been able to, Cody.”

Pizen Kate walked into the room and began to look it over.

“I’ve had a good deal of dealings with men,” she said, as she came out, “and I know that you two fellers aire lyin’. But if you think you kin scare Pizen Kate that easy, then you don’t know her. I come here huntin’ fer my lawful husband, and I’m goin’ to stay till I find him.”

Buffalo Bill made now another inspection of the mysterious room, and this time he was accompanied in his examination of it by Latimer.

Pizen Kate stood in the door, keenly watching them, and now and then sarcastically commenting.

Buffalo Bill had never been more puzzled in his life than when he gave up further search there as a useless waste of time. He now commenced a thorough search of the house, asking Latimer’s aid, while Pizen Kate went to the outside, as if she thought she might be in a better position to see there; for she doubtless reasoned that if Nomad was still in the house, and tried to get out of it, he could not easily do so and escape her eyes.

Buffalo Bill’s search was unavailing. Nick Nomad was gone.

CHAPTER VI.
INDIAN TREACHERY.

When Buffalo Bill gave up his profitless search and came out of the house he saw a mounted Indian ride up to the gate, some distance off, where he met John Latimer. The Indian was a painted and plumed specimen of his race, and, altogether, a glittering and jaunty figure, as he sat on his mustang, talking with Latimer.

Only a few words were said by the two men, and then the Indian wheeled his mustang and galloped away, his feathers flying, and the sun shining with brilliant effect on his beaded garments and on the painted spots on his horse.

Buffalo Bill had emerged from the big house by a side entrance. He hurried now round to the front, where he expected to meet Latimer returning from this talk with the redskin. Latimer had gone from the gate in another way, however; and the scout did not see him for several minutes, and then it was in the house itself.

“What about that Indian, Latimer?” was his question.

Latimer stared blankly. “What Indian?” he said.

“Why, the one you met out there by the gate a while ago.”

“I have seen no Indian!” said Latimer.

The answer so took the scout aback that for a moment he was at a loss what to say.

“I am sure, Latimer, I saw you out by the gate talking with a mounted Indian, not more than five minutes ago. I had just got to the steps, on the east side there, and saw the Indian ride up to the gate. You were there, and you spoke with him, and then he rode away.”

An angry look flashed over Latimer’s face.

“Cody,” he said quietly, “you are my guest here; and, therefore, I shall not try to call you to account for giving me the lie!”

“You mean that I did not see you out there talking with an Indian?”

“Certainly not.”

“Then, Latimer, I saw your very image and counterpart!”

“That may be, Cody. I can’t say as to that. You did not see me.” Latimer’s manner was strangely cold.

“You did not even know there was an Indian out there?”

“No.”

“This is as strange as the singular disappearance of my friend Nomad.”

“Don’t you think you are just a little given to imaginings, Cody? Pardon the suggestion. You saw your friend go into a room, which, according to your own story, he could not have gone into and got out of without your knowing it. And now you have seen me talking with an Indian by the front gate, when all the while I have been here in the house.”

A certain sense of giddy bewilderment attacked the level-headed scout. Could he have been subject to hallucinations? The very suggestion was enough to give him a severe mental start.

“Pardon me,” he said. “I was sure of those two things. But if you say you were not out there, of course I accept your statement. But I saw some one there that I took to be you.”

Latimer laughed, and the frown vanished from his face.

“That’s more like you, Cody! I have given you no occasion to think I would lie about a matter of that kind, or would have any occasion to deceive you.”

“That is true,” the scout admitted.

“There may have been no one out at the gate,” Latimer urged.

Buffalo Bill could not admit that, puzzled as he was.

To make sure that he had not been wholly the victim of some optical delusion, as soon as he ceased talking with Latimer he walked out to the gate, and there scanned the ground, looking for tracks of the mustang. While thus looking he heard his name called by Pizen Kate.

A suggestion came to him.

“You didn’t see an Indian out here a while ago talking with Latimer?” he asked her.

“I wasn’t lookin’,” she said noncommittally. “The only thing I was lookin’ for was that no-’count husband o’ mine, that’s run away from me ag’in. I can’t find hide ner hair of him.”

“I wish you could,” said the scout, with much earnestness.

“Then you really don’t know what’s become of him?” she queried.

“Not in the least.”

“You didn’t help him to git away?”

“I didn’t.”

“Well, I thought ye did, and I was good an’ mad!”

“You didn’t see an Indian here?”

“I didn’t, for I wasn’t lookin’.”

“Nor you didn’t see Latimer come from this gate five minutes or more ago?”

“I tell ye, I wasn’t lookin’. Somethin’ queer about this place,” she added suspiciously.

“I’m beginning to think so, too.”

“Well,” she declared, “they can’t fool with me! Aire you goin’ to stay here long?”

“Until I discover what has become of Nomad.”

“Then I’m with ye! We’ll find him, if we have to tar and feather that Latimer to make him tell what he knows. I reckon I’ll go up to the house and give him a few jabs in the ribs with this old umbreller, to make him talk a bit.”

She marched angrily toward the house.

The scout began to look for the tracks of the mustang. He found them in the dust close by the gate; and on the other side of the gate he saw the imprint of shoes, which he was sure had been made by John Latimer.

“As Kate says, there is something mysterious here,” was his thought, “and it begins to look as if John Latimer were crooked. He lied to me when he said he had not been down here by this gate, and he lied in saying he had not here met an Indian. I think I’ll follow this trail. It may reveal something.”

The scout started off on the trail of the mustang; and though, when he got away from the gate, other horse trails interfered, he was yet so skillful that he picked out that of the mustang from among them and continued on, finding that it led toward the hills.

The house was out of sight, and he was on a long, grassy level, when, looking up, he saw the Indian riding slowly toward him. Only one look was needed to show that this was the identical Indian who had been at the gate. He seemed to be either returning toward the house, or else, having seen that he was being followed, he had ridden back to ascertain the meaning of it.

“A word with you,” shouted Buffalo Bill.

The Indian drew rein at a little distance, and sat in silence, regarding the scout with distrust.

“You were up there at the gate a little while ago?”

The redskin did not answer.

“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.”

Buffalo Bill turned and walked away, watching the Indian, whom he could not trust. When he had gone some distance he saw that the redskin was stripping the trappings from the dead mustang.

Having secured them, the Indian slung them across his shoulders and hurried away, and soon was running for the shelter of the nearest hills. He had been badly worsted, and he knew it; yet he could not understand one thing—why Cody had not killed him when he had so good a chance. Had the case been reversed, he would have killed the scout.

“Now, what does this mean?” Buffalo Bill was asking himself, as he returned to the house. “John Latimer talked with that Indian by the gate; yet he denies it. And when I suggested to the Indian that he had talked with Latimer, the fact that my question showed I had witnessed the meeting threw the redskin into a rage and he attacked me. What is the meaning of it?”

CHAPTER VII.
THE ATTACK OF THE MEXICAN.

When he entered the big house Buffalo Bill did not meet Latimer. It seemed useless to search for him, to question him again, after his positive denial. Nevertheless, the feeling had grown within the scout that for some inexplicable reason Latimer was not “playing fair.”

Not finding Latimer readily, he departed from the house and strolled about the grounds. He had much to turn over in his mind. He had not, for one thing, given up solving the mysterious disappearance of Nick Nomad.

As he thus strolled about, he entered the stables where his horse was kept, and as he did so, a form dropped on him from somewhere above, knocking him to the earth; and then a brown hand clutched at his throat, and a knife flashed before his eyes.

It took him but an instant to discover that the would-be knife wielder was the Mexican servant; the only servant on the place, in addition to Nomad.

The Mexican in making his drop had evidently intended to land on the scout’s head, and thus strike him down unconscious; but his heels struck the scout’s broad shoulders; and, though Buffalo Bill went down, he was not knocked out. He writhed about as the Mexican tried to knife him, and then he set his firm fingers in the brown, lean throat, making the Mexican gasp.

However, the Mexican was strong, and he was lively and lithe as a captured snake.

The fight that followed was of brief duration, for the scout’s choking fingers subdued the little brown man in short order.

Buffalo Bill threw the Mexican against the wall. For a time the rascal lay in a heap, limp as a rag. In the meantime, the scout secured the long knife, which had fallen from the lean, brown hand. He was standing before the Mexican, when the latter tried to sit up. The Mexican was clutching at his bruised throat with a motion of pain.

“See here!” said Buffalo Bill sternly. “You would have no right to complain if I should shoot you, for on your part you tried to kill me.”

“No, no!” the fellow pleaded, his black eyes showing fright.

“Will you answer my questions?”

The Mexican stared as if he did not understand, until the scout repeated the inquiry.

“Si, señor,” he gurgled faintly.

“You were set on by some one to do this?”

“No—no, señor.”

“Why did you do it? You tried to kill me!”

“No—no, señor.”

“Then why did you attack me? Answer me straight.”

“For—for dem!”

Buffalo Bill saw that the Mexican had indicated his handsomely mounted revolvers.

“For my pistols? You wanted to rob me?”

“Si, señor,” was the bold confession.

“Well, you are cool about it!” He searched the Mexican hastily and found nothing. Standing before him he pointed the revolver and clicked the cylinder in a suggestive way.

“I think you are lying. Unless you tell the truth, I shall have to shoot you!”

The Mexican’s teeth chattered with fright and his face became an ashen brown.

“Now,” the scout went on, “did some one tell you to attack me here?”

The Mexican was so scared he could hardly speak, but he managed to stammer out another denial.

“No one told you to do it?”

“No, señor.”

“You simply wanted my pistols?”

“Si, señor.”

The scout was in a measure disappointed and baffled. He had thought that perhaps this man had been ordered to assault him. Yet he knew that the lower-class Mexicans are such liars that even their most solemn statements cannot always be believed. So he was still suspicious on that point. He threw the knife to the crouching and whining scamp.

“Clear out!” he said. “And if you trouble me again I shall certainly kill you. Clear out!”

The Mexican grabbed the knife and bolted through the door.

When Buffalo Bill had looked at his horse and had given him some hay, he left the stable. The Mexican had disappeared. On approaching the house the scout once more encountered Pizen Kate, still hunting for her husband. She fairly cackled with glee, when he asked her if she had seen anything of the Mexican servant.

“Say,” she said, waving her umbrella for emphasis, “I’m believin’ that men will soon learn to fly, jedgin’ by him! He was as nigh to flyin’ as a human can git without bein’ actually a bird with wings. He went by here only hittin’ the high places. Well, he was goin’ some when I seen him! What was the matter with him?”

“I told him to get, and he was getting. He tried to murder me when I went into the stables.”

“You don’t mean it?” she cried. “Well, I thought mebby he’d seen the face of my lost husband lookin’ at him from some sing’lar place and imagined he’d seen a ghost. He tried to kill ye?”

“He made a good attempt at it.”

Then she laughed again. “Say,” she said, bending toward him earnestly, “between you and me and the gatepost, there’s somethin’ so mysterious about this here place that I think it needs investigatin’. I’ve lost my husband here and can’t find him. So I’m goin’ to be on guard round here to-night; and if there ain’t happenin’s, then I’m clean out in my reckonin’, and don’t know nothin’. Mark my words, there’ll be happenin’s round here to-night. I kin smell trouble in the air, yes’ as some men kin smell a thunderstorm when it’s comin’.”

CHAPTER VIII.
THE MYSTERIOUS YOUNG WOMAN.

In spite of the lugubrious prediction of Pizen Kate, Buffalo Bill retired to his own room in good season that night.

Latimer had met him, after that attack of the Mexican, and had shown great indignation when the scout told him about it. As for the Mexican, he did not return.

With no servant to wait on the table, or even to prepare the meals, Latimer went himself into the kitchen, and prepared something for supper. The scout insisted on helping him in this, urging his experience in such matters.

“Cody, I’m experienced, too,” said Latimer. “I’ve told you how my servants disappear. This isn’t the first time I’ve been left without any help. And so I’ve been forced to do for myself, not only cooking, but other things.”

“Why do you stay in such a place?” the scout could not help asking.

“I’ll tell you!” Latimer stood off, looking at him, and making a striking picture as the light of the stove fire flamed into his face. “If I should leave here, it would be because I had been driven away by superstitious fears. I refuse to become superstitious. I am not a believer in ghosts.”

“Nor I.”

“I am sure that all the things that have happened have some easy solution. Some time ago I resolved to penetrate to the bottom of the mystery. Should I leave without doing that, or not be able to do that, I should always feel that perhaps there are ghosts, and such things. So, Cody, you see I can’t afford, for myself, to go away. Besides,” he added, “I came out here for my health.” He held up his arm. “Observe that arm, firm and strong. When I came here I was a shadow, without muscle or sound nerves. To-day I am a well man. I regained my health here; and I do not propose to be driven away.”

“As we both refuse to believe in ghosts, what is your belief concerning these strange things?” the scout asked. “I can’t tell you how anxious I am about Nomad.”

“That’s where you have me,” Latimer admitted. “I can’t explain it—can’t explain anything; and when I have tried to follow out theories they were always disproved. I am just waiting to see what will come of it.”

After retiring, Buffalo Bill lay awake a long time, thinking over the singular occurrences of the day. His anxiety concerning the fate of Nick Nomad was intense. Nomad had not been out of his thoughts. It had been strange enough to discover Nomad in this place, doing the work of a menial; still stranger to hear that he had married, and married such a woman as Pizen Kate; but even these things became as nothing compared with the strangeness of Nomad’s disappearance. More and more Buffalo Bill began to suspect that John Latimer was not just what he seemed; and the thought that perhaps Latimer had lured him to this place, with evil designs against him, had strong support in the dastardly attack made by the Mexican, and the other attack made by the Indian.

The scout had been here but a few hours, yet twice in that time had his life been attempted, he was sure. This made him feel that a similar attempt might be again made.

Thus reflecting, he placed his revolver ready to his hand, and lay listening.

The time was well on toward midnight, and he had grown sleepy, when he heard a sound at the door of his room. The door opened, and in the bright moonlight which flooded the room a young woman stood revealed.

The scout’s start of surprise caused her to stop on the threshold. She seemed to listen a moment; then, as he lifted his head to get a better look, she turned and fled. Instantly he leaped from the bed and ran to the door; but she had vanished, and with step so light that he could not hear her going.

Leaving the door open, the scout hurried into his clothing, and then went hastily to Latimer’s room.

“Latimer!” he called, tapping softly.

“Yes!” came the answer. Latimer’s feet were heard as they struck the floor. A moment later the door opened cautiously, and in the moonlight Latimer’s gray beard appeared.

“Ah, Cody, you startled me! Is there anything wrong?”

“Tell me, Latimer, is there a young lady in this house?”

“A young lady?” Latimer gasped.

“Yes.”

“Why, certainly not, Cody.”

“There is no woman in this house?”

“None.”

“I saw one but a minute ago. She opened the door of my room quite as though she had made a mistake in the room. The door was unlocked. She stopped, when she heard me stir, and when I half rose in the bed she fled.”

“Cody, you dreamed it!” Latimer insisted. “It couldn’t have been true.”

“I was not dreaming. I was sleepy, I’ll admit, but I was not asleep.”

“Cody, you certainly were dreaming.”

Buffalo Bill could not be convinced of this; and he made a search through the halls, and looked into some of the rooms. He confessed to a very queer feeling when he returned to his room.

“It’s almost enough to make any one believe in ghosts,” he commented to himself. “But that was not a ghost, and I was not dreaming. A young woman stood right there! She apparently came into the room by mistake; may have tried to enter for the purpose of assassinating me! Which was it? And wasn’t John Latimer lying again when he said what he did about it?”

Lying down fully dressed, the scout awaited something—he did not know what. He began to feel that his nerves were badly upset. Presently, thinking he heard soft footsteps somewhere, he again left the room quietly and went in search of them.

He even went out of the house, and looked round outside, carrying his revolver ready for use, for the mystery of all these things filled him with something as near to fear as he had ever known.

As he returned to the door by which he had left the house he was startled by hearing voices; then, in the half darkness of the shaded piazza, he saw again the girl.

Here was confirmation of the fact that he had not been asleep and dreamed that he saw this woman. She was talking with some one; and the scout saw at her side a young man.

He was about to advance and demand an explanation, when the girl opened the door behind her, and she and the young man vanished into the house.

Buffalo Bill, having come out by that door, had left it unlocked. Now, when he ran up to it, he found that it was locked from the inside. He was left out of the house; and to get in he was compelled to call up John Latimer once more, doing it this time by shouting to him below his window.

Latimer appeared, coming down into the lower hall in a red dressing gown and slippers.

“What is it, Cody?”

Buffalo Bill told him.

“Come here, Cody!” He lighted a candle and led the way into a small side room, where, instead of answering Buffalo Bill’s questions, he looked at him strangely, and then took down some small bottles from a shelf. “I studied medicine once, Cody, and keep medicines here for my own use. You must let me prescribe for you.”

“You mean to say I did not see and hear that young woman and young man?”

“I think you are not well, Cody,” was the evasive reply. “Permit me to prescribe for you.”

He poured some of the contents of one of the bottles into a glass.

“No!” said the scout. “I am not ill; there’s nothing the matter with me. I need no medicine.”

Latimer came and looked him closely in the face, holding up the candle.

“Cody, I insist that no young man or young woman is on this place, so far as I know. But——” He hesitated.

“Finish the sentence,” the scout urged.

“Well, what I mean to remind you of is that there have been strange happenings in this house. I’ve mentioned them. These are some of the mysterious things which I told you would make me superstitious, if there were any superstition in my nature.”

“You have seen this young man and woman?”

“Yes, I have seen them. And then I promptly dosed myself for the benefit of my nerves; not being sure then, or now, that I had seen anything at all. But if there are ghosts in this house——”

“Stuff and nonsense!” said the scout. “I saw a young man and young woman standing together on the piazza, and heard them talking. They came into the house; and they locked from the inside the door I had unlocked, so that I had to call to you to get in. That wasn’t the work of ghosts. What became of them?”

“Cody,” said Latimer impressively, “what became of Nomad?” He looked at Buffalo Bill again in that peculiar manner. “Cody,” he said impressively, “I’ll tell you now something I have not hinted at. A young woman and her lover, who at the time were occupying the house here in my absence, were killed here. Who committed the murder, or why, was never shown; but I suspected the Redskin Rovers. On two occasions since then I myself have fancied that I saw a young man and a young woman here; but I knew then, and know now, that it was only fancy, a result of a heated imagination. A good many things have happened to-day to upset you, and they have excited your mind and made it morbid. So you fancied you saw the young man and the young woman.”

To Buffalo Bill it seemed that Latimer was trying to throw him off the scent. Yet he could hardly see how Latimer would expect him to believe this unlikely statement.

“No matter how excited I might be, is it probable,” he asked, “that I would chance to see the young man and the young woman that you did, when I had never so much as heard of them or their murder, and therefore they could not have been in my mind?”

“There are strange things in this world, Cody.”

“I agree with you.”

It was not the least strange to him that Latimer should seek to make him believe in this ghost yarn. Again the impression was driven in on him that Latimer was concealing a great deal and was not acting in a manner that could be considered straightforward. This caused the scout to feel more strongly that great danger surrounded him, and that he must guard against it, even though he could not foresee the direction from which it would come.

CHAPTER IX.
THE REDSKIN ROVERS.

Unable to sleep, for thoughts of the mysteries surrounding him, Buffalo Bill was wide awake and fully dressed when the redskins made their attack on the house.

The attack came shortly before morning, in the darkest part of the night.

There came first the clattering sound of the hoofs of mustangs. This was followed by wild and startling Indian yells, accompanied by the discharge of firearms, and the patter of bullets and arrows against the walls.

Buffalo Bill seized his revolvers and his rifle and ran out into the hall, and with quick bounds leaped down the broad stairway. He found John Latimer in the room below.

Latimer was but half dressed, but he had a rifle, and when Buffalo Bill caught sight of him he was firing with it through one of the windows, having incautiously hoisted the sash for the purpose.

A pattering shower of bullets swept through that window, and it was only luck that kept Latimer from being hit. Buffalo Bill seized him by the arm and drew him against the wall, out of range of the shots.

“That is suicidal, Latimer,” he said. “Stand back here.”

“It is Indians!” said Latimer, in great excitement.

“Yes, I know it.”

“They are attacking the house!”

“Yes, I know that, too. But you don’t want to let yourself be killed by them. Lie down here; it’s safer.”

He drew Latimer down, dropping to the floor himself.

Some of the Indian bullets were coming through the walls, showing that they had a few rifles of strong power.

Sounds of Indians trying to break into the house at the rear caused the scout to leave that spot a minute later; and John Latimer leaped up and went with him.

The Indians had broken in the kitchen door, and were raiding the kitchen and the food closets. Apparently, they were bent on looting, as much as anything else.

Latimer became so excited when he saw this that he rushed out into their midst like a wild man, striking with his clubbed rifle.

Before Buffalo Bill could prevent, Latimer had been knocked down by them, and, seeing this plight, the scout fired into the Indians he saw grouped over the fallen man.

When he jumped back to avoid the return fire, they beat a retreat from the kitchen. In going they took Latimer.

The scout heard the Indians riding round the house, yelling like fiends. Then he dimly beheld a form before him, the form of the girl whom he had seen previously.

“Come!” she cried tremulously, advancing toward him, with hands extended. “Come!” she repeated. “Now is the time!”

Buffalo Bill almost forgot the howling of the Indians. Because of the darkness he could see her form but faintly, and her face not at all; but that she was young was shown by the lightness of her step and by the tones of her voice. Here was a chance to solve the baffling mystery, so far as she was concerned. He decided to attempt it.

She clutched him by the arm; and when he did not resist she began to drag him, rather than lead him, toward a room whose door opened not far off.

“Come!” she urged, in an agitated whisper, as she crossed the threshold, clinging to him, and pulling at him with nervous, almost frantic, haste.

The scout stumbled as he crossed the threshold, and her grasp of him was broken; but he tried to follow her as she fled on. Then he came to a sudden realization that this was the room into which Nick Nomad had gone and from which he had not returned.

This realization had no sooner come to him than he felt the floor sink beneath him, and heard an ominous click, which at the moment he thought the click of a revolver. He was precipitated violently downward, and, as he fell, he heard that click again.

When he struck, he landed on an earthen floor that was dry and firm. He had not fallen far, he knew, yet he felt dazed and dizzy; for, in addition to the surprise of it, the fall had been heavy and had jarred him considerably.

He no longer heard the yelling Indians. That the girl was not near him he knew. He was alone. The feeling that he had been trapped—had been deliberately led by this girl into a trap—was irresistible.

As soon as he could sufficiently get his wits together, he felt for his metallic match safe. Always in this water-proof safe he kept a few matches, that were sure to be dry and reliable. One of these he struck, and by its light he looked about, without rising.

Above him were the boards of a floor. About him were the walls of a narrow tunnel. Apparently he had been dropped through a trapdoor from the room above into this tunnel.

He recalled that he had thoroughly searched that room and even had sounded the floor, but he had not found that trapdoor.

It was as plain now as anything could be that through that trapdoor Nick Nomad had dropped, in the same way as himself, and, of course, had landed in this same tunnel. It seemed probable, too, that the one who had trapped him had trapped old Nomad. He was in a fair way of solving at least one of the mysteries.

Before the light of the match went out he saw the direction and trend of the narrow tunnel, and decided to follow it. Manifestly, it would be impossible to regain the room from which he had so violently tumbled.

Being anxious, he lost no time in carrying out this resolve. He moved forward along the tunnel, feeling his way with his feet and hands. He had no desire to fall into any hole that might be there. At intervals he lighted one of the matches, to reassure himself.

The tunnel was not long, though in the cautious manner in which he passed through it some time was required before he reached its end.

When he came to the end he found the little river before him, and about him a thick growth of bushes.

The river end of the tunnel opened on the side of the high, rocky bank, and was so bushed about that it could not be seen readily.

It seemed to the scout now that John Latimer must be aware of the existence of that tunnel.

Latimer had built the house, and had lived in it since its erection. Obviously, he could not have been unaware of the tunnel and the trapdoor; yet Latimer had not spoken of them when the scout was making his futile search for Nomad, nor had he hinted of their existence since. More and more it was apparent that Latimer was not “playing fair;” but even yet there was so much of mystery about the whole matter that Buffalo Bill was too bewildered to reach any clear conclusion.

The Indians had gone, and daybreak was at hand by the time Buffalo Bill got out of the tunnel and out of the river gorge, and had made his way back to the vicinity of the house and stables.

The house was silent and deserted; nevertheless, he made a cautious approach, fearing treachery.

When sure that no foes lay in wait, he entered the house, finding the kitchen door wide open.

The looting Indians had gutted the kitchen, taking everything that struck their fancy. The rest of the house they had not disturbed, there being nothing in it that they apparently cared for.

Buffalo Bill visited the room through whose floor he had made that violent plunge.

As when he had made his previous examinations of it, the hidden door was so cleverly concealed that he could not find it at first; but feeling sure now that such a door was there, he persisted, and by and by he discovered that by setting his foot in a certain place and stamping in a certain way the door dropped downward, revealing the black hole beneath.

He examined the door and the tunnel minutely, being compelled to spring the door open again, as it was weighted in such a manner that it closed instantly after being opened.

As he made his critical examination, he saw that there was a possibility that the girl had not known of the door, or intended to trap him; she might have set her foot on that particular spot by accident and thus opened the door, unintentionally precipitating him thus into the tunnel. Yet he could not make himself think she had done it without intention.

When he had made a thorough search through the big house and had found no one there, he went out to the stables.

His own horse was gone, but old Nebuchadnezzar, the horse belonging to Nomad, remained, and now whinnied the scout a recognition.

The Indians had not deemed old Nebuchadnezzar worth taking away. Indeed, the old horse would not have won favorable attention from any judge of horses. He was raw-boned, old, and seemingly had seen his best days. Yet Buffalo Bill remembered the good traits of Nebuchadnezzar, and looked on him almost with affection.

The scout recalled now that since the evening before he had not seen Pizen Kate.

Giving attention to the needs of the horse, by watering and feeding him, Buffalo Bill left him in the stall, and went out to look over the grounds. He found that the unshod hoofs of the Indian ponies had not made heavy prints in the soil, yet their marks were plain enough.

“They are the Redskin Rovers,” was his conclusion. “That is the only band operating in this section, or near it. Whether half of them, or more, are white men, I don’t know.”

He found that the Indian pony tracks came together some distance beyond the house, and that here a tolerably plain trail led away toward the hills. Having worked that out, the scout returned to the stables and brought forth Nebuchadnezzar.

The old bridle and saddle, and the saddle pouches used by Nomad, had been left undisturbed, and these the scout put on the horse.

When this had been done, he tied the horse, returned to the house, and ate some food he found there, taking some also for the saddle pouches. After that he mounted Nebuchadnezzar and rode forth alone on the trail of the Redskin Rovers.

Whether he could solve any of the mysteries by following the redskins was problematical. Yet it seemed likely that Latimer was a prisoner in their hands. Possibly others were; perhaps even Nomad.

CHAPTER X.
SURROUNDED AND CAPTURED.

The trail of the Redskin Rovers became difficult to follow in the hills, and Buffalo Bill lost much time.

Night was approaching, and he had the feeling that the Indians were far ahead of him, a feeling which produced a lack of caution, when he suddenly found himself surrounded.

The place was a little glade in the hills, with rock walls about it. The scout had ridden into it, with head bent down and eyes searching the trail, when Nebuchadnezzar gave a quick jump of alarm, and with head up and eyes rolling in alarm, tried to stampede. The wise old brute had been taught to fear Indians, and even the scent of Indians frightened him. Only the fact that the wind was blowing strong from him to them had kept the horse from smelling them before it was too late.

Buffalo Bill knew that Indians were near when Nebuchadnezzar began his capering; and then he saw them on the rocks about him.

The redskins were well armed with rifles and bows, and Buffalo Bill recognized the futility of fighting or flight. Though he might slay a few of them, there was no doubt that they could kill him before he could get out of the glade. Hence he elevated his hands, palms outward, in token of friendship, while the Indians swarmed down the rocks upon him.

The old horse snorted angrily and rushed at the redskin who first tried to get hold of the bridle.

“Give gun!” said one of the Indians, in a commanding tone.

It was hard to do; but the scout surrendered his weapons, retaining, however, inside his hunting shirt, a little revolver, which he always kept there concealed. More than once it had escaped detection, and now again it escaped.

The only weapons left him were that small revolver, a small knife hidden in one of his boots, and a fine, thin saw embedded in the wide rim of his hat.

He handed over the other weapons with apparent cheerfulness. Then he saw in the midst of the crowding redskins the one who had attacked him the day before, and whose mustang he had killed. This Indian gave him a black look, and the scout knew that he would prove an implacable and treacherous foe.

The presence of this Indian explained, it seemed, the attack on Latimer’s house. It was hostility to Buffalo Bill, fomented by the rage of this redskin, which had brought it about. Buffalo Bill himself was the object of the attack.

The excited cries of the redskins showed full well that they understood the importance of their capture.

“Fortunately, the Indian whose mustang I killed isn’t a chief,” was the scout’s reflection. “He would have me burned at the stake!”

With feelings of uneasiness, he allowed himself to be bound and led away.

Nebuchadnezzar still snorted and showed his dislike of Indians; yet he was forced to go along, and he received on his rough hide some heavy blows and kicks as the reward of his protests.

The distance which the Indians traversed was not great. They had a camp not far off, and to it they conveyed the scout, who was not greatly surprised, on arriving there, to find prisoners in the camp before him. Latimer was there, together with Nick Nomad and Pizen Kate.

Latimer maintained a gloomy silence; but Nomad received Buffalo Bill with sundry cackles, and Pizen Kate in a manner befitting her previous performances.

“That is what comes of a husband runnin’ away from the wife of his bosom,” Pizen Kate declared, with a snapping of her eyes. “If he had stayed to home, dutiful and kind, as he ort, this would never ’a’ come about; but he had to leave me alone, forlorn and forsaken, and this is the result of it. I’ve been givin’ him a piece of my mind about it, too.”

“Buffler,” said Nomad, “I’m glad to see ye, and likewise I ain’t glad to see ye. Seems a singular statement, don’t it? But I don’t need to explain.”

“I think I should like to have you do some explaining,” said the scout.

“About drappin’ through thet hole in the floor?” said Nomad. “Waal, thet war cur’us, and no mistake. I run into the room, and the floor jes’ yawned fer me, and I went through. I fell so durn hard, landin’ on the sharp p’int of my spine, that I didn’t know anything fer about a day, seemed ter me.

“When I come to myself better it war dark in there—darker’n a stack o’ black cats. I crawled along, and crawled along, and by and by I tumbled out of the hole kerplunk into ther river. I come nigh about bein’ drownded then. When I went under I swallered enough water, I reckon, ter float a boat, and I come near going down and stayin’ thar.

“The river is purty swift, as mebbe ye know, and it kerried me down considerable. When I got out, I didn’t know where I war, fer a fac’. But I sized up the sitervation as well as I could, and tried ter make back tracks. Waal, I run inter the Injuns while doin’ that, and they took me in. And hyar I am, and I don’t like ther looks of it.”

“If you wouldn’t talk so much, Nicholas, you’d git fatter!” Pizen Kate snapped.

That irresistible chuckle of old Nomad’s sounded.

“Katie, I don’t want ter git any fatter. A fat man can’t run; and I reely feel ther need of runnin’, so long as you persist in pursuin’ after me.”

“We’ll all quit runnin’, seems to me, now! Seems to me we’re in fer it. I don’t see nothin’ to laugh about, I don’t. Yit there you set and grin like a monkey! I keep wonderin’ what I ever married you fer, anyhow.”

“Me too!” said Nick. “And I keep wonderin’ why, havin’ found me out, you chase me about so. See what’s happened to ye by doin’ thet! If you’d stayed in Kansas City——”

“If you had stayed in Kansas City, you mean!” she snapped. “Wasn’t you the first one to leave there? And ain’t it the duty of a dutiful wife to foller her husband wherever he goes? Nicholas, if I——”

“Too much talk!” one of the Indians grunted.

Pizen Kate shut up like the closing of a steel trap, but she gave the redskin a black look.

The Redskin Rovers paid at first little attention to their captives, after they had duly celebrated the capture of the noted Long Hair. They were now busy in getting supper, using some of the things taken from Latimer’s. Nevertheless, the rebuke of the Indian could not keep either Pizen Kate or Nomad quiet very long.

“I told you I was goin’ to camp outside and watch fer things, and that I knowed somethin’ was goin’ to happen last night,” said Pizen Kate, addressing Buffalo Bill, whom she still persisted in calling Persimmon Pete. “It happened, all right. But I guess I wasn’t a very good watcher. Mebbe I cat-napped a little. Anyway, I was a pris’ner of these red rascals almost before I knowed it.”

She seemed to have no true perception of the very serious position she was in, although, as if to silence her, Nomad made wry faces while she talked, and now and then retorted with some curt warning.

In the midst of the talk old Nebuchadnezzar drew attention to himself by a shrill squeal. As he squealed he launched out with his hind feet; and an Indian who had been standing so near him that it drew his disapproval received the full force of the heavy kick and sat down on the ground with a loud grunt of pain.

Nomad cackled with uproarious laughter.

“Te, he! Did ye see him, Buffler? Ole Nebby ferever! He jes’ natcherly can’t stand an Injun! They make him that mad thet he jes’ has to go fer ’em when they comes nigh him. He thinks they ain’t human, and I’m somewhat er that opinion myself.”

The bowled-over Indian rose in a rage and proceeded to belabor the gnarled old beast; and as a result received another kick that sent him sprawling again.

The roars of laughter from the other Indians showed how they appreciated the fun. Their laughter so angered the bruised redskin that he would have shot Nebuchadnezzar dead but for the prompt interference of a man who had but recently come into the camp.

That he was a white man, and the real leader of the Redskin Rovers, Buffalo Bill was sure as soon as he saw him; but he was dressed as an Indian, and his hands and face were so covered with paint that one not closely attentive would have been sure he was an Indian.

This leader caught the wrathy redskin by the throat and thrust him back when he picked up a rifle and would have shot the old horse, and the language he used, though in the Indian tongue, told Buffalo Bill even more clearly that he was a white man, for it was imperfect, showing that he had not fully mastered it.

“Thet’s a white man, Buffler,” said Nomad; “and he’s an outlaw, I reckon, and is pertendin’ thet he’s an Injun. Them things I never could stand. Still, it does sorter warm me up and make me feel kinder good toward him ter have him chip in thet way in behalf of ole Nebby.”

“The question that’s troublin’ me,” said Pizen Kate, who was apparently not interested in either the exploits or the safety of Nebuchadnezzar, “is, now that we’re here, how we’re goin’ to git away from here? Aire we ever goin’ to git away?”

It was a question that also troubled the other prisoners.

CHAPTER XI.
ESCAPE.

Buffalo Bill was trying to settle that question by releasing himself from the cords with which he had been bound.

This was slow and difficult work. He was bound to a small tree, close to the camp fire, with his hands tied behind his back, and cords were round his ankles.

The other prisoners were tied in much the same manner. Nearest to him was old Nick Nomad. Close at Nomad’s side was Latimer, with Pizen Kate farther away, this fact seeming to give a feeling of relief to the old trapper.

Nomad was also trying to wriggle out of his bonds, and was finding it difficult.

“Buffler,” he whispered, “when I git a good chanct I got somethin’ ter tell ye, about how I happened ter be at thet house, ye know. I can’t do it now, ye see.” He cast a sidelong glance at Latimer. “Soon’s I git a chanct I’ll tell ye. Must ’a’ seemed ruther cur’us ter you ter find me thar playin’ servant.”

“More so to find you married,” said the scout.

“Te, he! Waal, thet war cur’us, too. I’ll tell ye about thet soon’s I kin. Jes’ now, Buffler, I’m tryin’ ter break the bands of ther Philistines. I war wantin’ ter tell ye, and intendin’ ter, you remember, when I went inter thet room thar at ther house, and fell through ther floor inter ther tunnel; and then I couldn’t.”

Buffalo Bill, after a time of strenuous exertion, felt the cords on his wrists loosen.

The white man disguised as an Indian was giving a sharp reprimand to the Indian who had wished to shoot Nebuchadnezzar. Having done this, he approached the old horse himself, and attempted to lay hands on him.

Nebuchadnezzar did not have enough discernment to discover that this was a white man, who had befriended him, seeing only the paint and the feathers. Indians were not to his liking. Hence, when the man sought to put forth a hand to touch him he wheeled with amazing quickness, launched out again with both heels, and, striking the man squarely in the breast, knocked him down. At the same instant, apparently discovering for the first time that he was not tied, he gave a shrill squeal, and dashed out of the camp.

The incident produced a tremendous uproar of excitement. A number of Indians ran after the horse, while others gathered round the fallen chief. They picked up the groaning white man, and one, who was apparently a medicine man, began to work over him, for the fallen white man was half unconscious from the effects of that terrible kick.

Nomad was cackling to himself, filled with delight over the achievement of his raw-boned steed, yet having discretion enough to keep his wicked glee from the notice of the redskins.

The attention drawn to the escaping horse and to the fallen leader furnished Buffalo Bill with a much-needed opportunity. He cast the cords from his wrists, and, reaching over, drew the small knife from his boot leg and cut the cords that held Nomad.

“Now is your time to run for it!” he whispered, but Nomad hesitated, surprised when his bonds fell away.

“But you, Buffler?”

“I can’t go just yet. I must look out for these others. Perhaps I can release them, too.”

“Buffler, I can’t leave ye!”

“Perhaps I can release the others.”

But Buffalo Bill saw he could not do that. The white leader of the Indians was being brought up to the camp fire, that the light might be used in discovering his condition and giving him aid.

Buffalo Bill rolled quietly back to his position by the little tree, thrust the knife in his boot leg, and dropped the cords into position around his wrists.

“Bolt, before it is too late!” he whispered to Nomad. “I can’t leave these others. They need me. Perhaps you can find some way to help us, once you are free. Go, while you can.”

Old Nomad hesitated no longer. Rising while the attention of the Indians was given to the injured man, he gave a quick leap that took him round the tree to which he had been tied. Then, with a startling yell, that he meant should be heard by Nebuchadnezzar, he jumped away into the darkness, running with the sprightliness of a much younger man.

The astonishing escape of old Nick Nomad turned the attention of the Indians from their groaning leader. Rifles were hastily seized and shots sent hurtling after the escaping prisoner. A number of the Indians also started in hurried pursuit.

Nomad yelled again, in that high key, meaning thus to announce to Buffalo Bill that he was still unhurt, also to call Nebuchadnezzar to him.

Some of the Indians came up to the remaining prisoners. One of them was curious enough to inspect the cords, and in so doing discovered that Buffalo Bill’s hands were free. His cry of anger drew others.

The temptation was strong for the scout to dash his fist into this redskin’s painted face, and then make a break for safety; but, as before, he was restrained by a feeling that he ought not to abandon the other prisoners.

The Indians surrounded him now, and they tied him again, using neither kind words nor methods in doing it.

However, no sooner was he alone than he was again working to free his hands.

Pizen Kate was greatly excited by the escape of Nomad. “Persimmon Pete,” she wailed, “he’s deserted me ag’in. And now I can’t foller him.”

The white leader of the Redskin Rovers soon recovered from the knock-out effects of the kick given him by old Nebuchadnezzar, although he complained of severe pains in his chest, and he would himself now have shot Nebuchadnezzar, if the opportunity had presented. For a time he remained by the camp fire, groaning in sullen rage.

During that time, and while the search for Nomad was still going on, Buffalo Bill worked quietly at the cords on his wrists. Yet he had to work now with extreme care, for he was almost every moment under the eyes of some enemy.

By and by the disguised white man rose from his recumbent position and came over to where the prisoners were. He fixed his eyes on Buffalo Bill.

“What Long Hair do here?” he said, maintaining his character of an Indian.

Buffalo Bill gave him a keen look, scrutinizing him closely by the leaping light of the camp fire.

“Why keep up the pretense?” he said.

The man effected not to understand him. “What Long Hair do here?” he repeated, spreading out his hands to indicate that he meant to ask what Buffalo Bill was doing in that region of the country.

“Talk like the white man you are, and then maybe I’ll answer you!” was the sharp answer.

The man laughed, and cast aside his Indian pretensions.

“Your eyes are good, Cody!”

“I knew you were a white man as soon as I saw you. I’m too familiar with the walk and manner of Indians to be fooled that way. Besides, when you were groaning there, your every action was that of a white man.”

“When I get hold of that horse again I’ll beat his brains out!” the man fumed. “He came near killing me. He’s your brute, I think?”

“Oh, no; he belongs to the man who escaped a while ago.”

“To that old fool? You were riding him!”

“I rode him because he was the only horse that your redskins left in Latimer’s stables.”

“Tell me, Cody, what you came there for?”

“I was a guest of Latimer, and your redskins captured me.”

“You were merely the guest of the fellow over there?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t think so!”

“What’s your opinion, then? You seem to know more about it than I do.”

“I think you came here looking for me.”

Buffalo Bill laughed quietly. “The Bible says, you know, that the wicked flee when no man pursueth. You thought I was after you, when as a matter of fact I had never even heard of you.”

“You’d heard of the Redskin Rovers?”

“Thanks for the information that these are the Redskin Rovers, though I’d been guessing as much. Yes, I’d heard of the Rovers. But I didn’t know a white man led them, though that has been suspected. Indians are not natural highwaymen, and when they do turn highwaymen they are usually led by a white man.”

“I suppose you know why we attacked that house?”

“To get me?”

“You guess right. We learned you were there, from the Indian whose mustang you killed; and then we felt that we must have you. And now that we have you——”

“And now that you have me?”

“Well, we don’t intend that you shall get away. As for that fool who escaped, he doesn’t matter.”

Evidently this white man did not know old Nick Nomad, who, as a clever fighter and dangerous combatant, was worth any dozen ordinary men. Nomad and Nebuchadnezzar made a combination hard to beat.

CHAPTER XII.
A DESPERATE VENTURE.

Even while Buffalo Bill was talking with the disguised leader of the Redskin Rovers, old Nick Nomad was rapidly working out a plan for the release of the prisoners. Nebuchadnezzar had escaped from the Indians, and had carried with him his saddle and the saddle pouches. The first thing for Nomad to do was to get hold of Nebuchadnezzar.

Nomad’s wild yells as he fled, followed by his shrill whistles, were, as Buffalo Bill knew, intended for the ears of that wise old horse, for Nomad had trained Nebuchadnezzar to come in answer to those signals.

As he ran in the direction in which “Nebby” had disappeared, and whistled at intervals, even though the Indians were pursuing him in the darkness, the result was that the horse came in his direction. Hence, Nomad had run less than half a mile from the Indian camp when he encountered his faithful steed.

“Waugh!” was his whispered exclamation, expressing the most intense satisfaction. “Talk about hosses not havin’ sense! Nebby, you’ve got more sense than half the humans I know.”

He walked straight up to the old beast; and then mounting he rode away as quietly as he could.

As soon as he felt secure from the redskin pursuit he rode in a wide circuit until he was on the opposite side of the camp, when he again approached it. Then, coming in sight of the fire, he halted.

“Nebby,” he said, as he slid out of the saddle, “I dunno if you’ve been robbed by them red skunks er not; but we’ll see.”

He opened the saddle pouches, and began to explore them.

“Waugh! They tuck all the things in sight!” he chuckled, in a way that did not show displeasure. “But, Nebby——” He ran his fingers into a secret pocket in one of the pouches, and brought out a small flat package. “They never found this hyar, and it’s ther truck I’m wantin’.”

He dropped to the ground and opened the package carefully. Meanwhile, the old horse stood with bowed head and heaving sides. But for those heaving sides he seemed to be asleep.

When the flat package lay open in Nomad’s hands, its contents shone with a dull gleam of fire, like the sulphur light seen when, in the dark, the head of a match is rubbed on the damp palm of a hand.

“Nebby, they didn’t find this hyar truck!” Nomad chuckled. “Do you ’member ther time, Nebby, when we skeered them t’other Injuns outer one fit inter fifty with truck like this hyar? It was phosphorus pizen fer kyotes. Waal, mebbe it’s a trick thet we kin play ag’in.”

Having made sure that the fiery stuff, which was a phosphorous paste, was all there and in good condition, old Nomad led the horse down into a low swale between hills, that he might be out of view of the Redskin Rovers. There, removing his shirt, he carefully painted on his body and face certain stripes, in imitation of the bones of a skeleton. The paste was not enough in quantity to use all over his body, so he left his legs minus this weird decoration; but the upper part of his body, and particularly the ribs, seemed to stand out in lines of fire. He also painted his face with it, to give it as nearly as he could the semblance of a fiery skull.

“Skeers yer, does it, Nebby?” he chuckled, when the old horse showed a dislike of it and tried to back away. “Waal, ef I kin skeer you with it, mebbe I kin some frighten them redskins, dod-rot ’em! Somethin’s got ter be done, Nebby.”

He replaced his coat, tied his shirt behind the saddle, made a mask of his old handkerchief to hide his face; and then, with his battered old hat pulled well down over his eyes, he mounted, and was ready for his desperate venture. He now rode cautiously toward the Indian encampment, keeping as much as possible in low ground, that a premature revelation of his presence might not occur.

When he was nigh to the camp he stopped, and from the crest of a low ridge took a look at it. He saw Buffalo Bill sitting with back against the tree, talking with the painted white man; and observed the positions of the other prisoners, and of their captors.

Having these things well fixed in his mind, he mounted Nebuchadnezzar again and rode slowly forward.

So softly did the old beast pick his way along in obedience to his rider’s commands, that Nomad was near the camp fire in a little while, and still remained undiscovered. Then he stiffened in the saddle, and a series of wild yells pierced the air.

It was like the sudden outburst of a chorusing band of wolves; for the old man had the power of making his yells peculiarly bewildering, and as if coming from many different points of the compass. As he yelled, he cast aside the concealing coat and pushed back the concealing cap, thus revealing to the astonished redskins the sight of a skeleton horseman, apparently seated on nothing but air, for the body of the old horse was at first indistinguishable in the darkness.

As he thus displayed his skeleton lines, Nomad’s revolver began to pop; and, still yelling lustily, he rode with indescribable recklessness straight at the camp fire.

It was enough! The superstitious and frightened Indians scudded like rats when Nomad made that dash. They threw aside whatever at the moment they were holding, whether weapons, food, or blankets, and dashed in absurd panic down the hill, running like mad.

The moment for action on the part of Buffalo Bill had come.

He had not known what form old Nomad’s interference in his behalf would take, but he had fully expected that Nomad would make an effort of some kind; and for that effort he was prepared and had waited.

He pulled his hands free now, for the cords hung but loosely on his wrists, and with the knife that was in his boot leg he cut the cords that held his ankles.

The disguised white man had sprung to his feet when Nomad made his mad charge.

The next motion of the scout brought out the hidden pistol from his hunting shirt, and with it he took a shot at the painted figure of the renegade, toppling him over with a bullet through his shoulder. Then Buffalo Bill leaped to the assistance of the other prisoners; and with a speed that defied description he cut them free.

“Move lively!” he whispered. “That’s Nomad. Run, while the redskins are frightened! This way!”

He jumped from the vicinity of the camp fire, and led in the flight that followed, striking straight out into the darkness.

Old Nomad, shining like fire and yelling like a band of coyotes, his revolver spouting fire and lead, and old Nebuchadnezzar snorting like a wild horse, charged straight across and through the camp, scattering everything.

Not an Indian stayed to oppose the daring trapper; all were in flight toward the river.

If the disguised white man who was their leader suspected that this was a shrewd trick, and the character of it, he was in no condition to make it known, or to rally his demoralized followers; for, with that bullet in his shoulder, he had fallen to the ground, and lay stunned and groaning.

CHAPTER XIII.
THE FLIGHT OF THE FUGITIVES.

On the top of a low hill a skeleton form outlined in fire shone gruesomely through the darkness. At intervals from this specter of fire came shrill and peculiar whistles, and high, quavering cries. Now and then low chuckles sounded.

“Nebby, I hope we didn’t skeer our friends inter fits, same’s we did them reds! Waugh! but them Injuns was runnin’! Ef a cyclone had struck thet camp plum’ center, it couldn’t ’a’ scattered things wuss.”

He whistled again, and emitted another quavering cry.

“Ef Pizen Kate ain’t fell down in a fit an’ died, Nebby, ’twill be a wonder! Fer a lady, Pizen Kate is ther wu’st ever.”

He ceased, and sat listening.

“I reckon, Nebby, thet when they started runnin’ they went so fast they ain’t had a chance yit ter stop. But these calls ort ter fetch ’em. Trouble is, mebbe they’ll also fetch Injuns. But ther skeleton looks o’ me ort ter keep ther Injuns away, I reckon. Injuns is got more superstition than sense. Otherwise, I reckon that yer rider, Nebby, would be layin’ dead about now by thet camp fire. ’Twar a desprit try, but we made it, ol’ hoss! And now if——”

He ceased again, for this time he had heard something.

“Waugh! Somebody, er somethin’, is comin’.”

He studied his horse’s ears, bending forward in the saddle to do so.

“No, ’tain’t Injuns! Ef ’twar Injuns, Nebby’d know it, and he’d be showin’ it. He says it’s white men. Mebbe, likewise, a white woman.”

He chuckled.

“I hopes thet ef Pizen Kate comes in answer to these hyar signals she’ll git so skeered of me that henceforth and ferever she’ll treat me same’s ef I war a gentleman, which she ain’t been doin’ lately. Waugh! Thar they come, whoever they aire!”

He lifted himself in his saddle.

“Whoever ye aire, spit it out, er mebbe I’ll begin ter sling bullets reckless!”

“It’s all right, Nick!” called Buffalo Bill.

Then Nomad yelled again with a recklessness born of high spirits.

“Buffler ferever!” he cried. “You heerd me, did ye?”

“I couldn’t well have helped it, Nomad; you yelled to wake the dead. If the redskins aren’t coming, too, it will be because they are too scared.”

“They’re good and scared, Buffler. Who ye got with ye?”

“We are all here.”

“Kin that be Nicholas?” came the voice of Pizen Kate.

“Don’t come too nigh me, Kate, er you’ll ketch afire.”

“Is that reely you, Nicholas?”

“Waal, it ain’t nothin’ but me, with a little fire paint added. Better be cautious about how you come too nigh me, though; you might ketch yer dress afire.”

She came forward, just the same. “Nicholas,” she declared, as she climbed with apparent painfulness to the top of the hill, “this here is the fu’st and only time that I’ve ever been proud o’ ye sense the day we was married. But you aire a sight! What ye got on yer?”

“Waal, mebbe I’d better hide my fiery anatermy,” he admitted. Forthwith he put on his coat; and with his handkerchief he wiped the greasy phosphorescent paint from his face.

“Where was Moses when the light went out?” he asked, and cackled again.

John Latimer seemed no less surprised than Pizen Kate. He was puffing heavily, for the sharp run had been almost too much for him.

“Mr. Nomad,” he said respectfully, “you are certainly a wonder. When I employed you to take care of my live stock and also do other work on the place, I didn’t dream that I had met such a genius.”

“I’m that smart,” said Nomad, with another cackle, “that it plum’ hurts me at times.”

Pizen Kate was asking questions in a stream.

“Katie,” he said, “supposin’ you postpone it till we’re outer hyar! Them redskins is goin’ ter be huntin’ fer our ha’r in just about no time. Soon’s they wake up ter the fact they have been bamboozled, thar will be things doin’. Then I reckon it’ll be healthier fer all of us ter be distant some from this place.”

“I don’t think their white leader will be fooled for long,” remarked the scout. “I dropped him, with a bullet; but it was from this little pistol, and it isn’t likely that his wound is very serious. If it isn’t, he will stir up trouble for us all too soon.”

“Which means thet we’d better be moseyin’,” said Nomad. “Waugh! I’m agreeable ter thet, and so’s Nebby. Neither of us likes ther vercinity of redskins.” He slid from the back of Nebuchadnezzar. “Katie,” he said, “bein’ as you’re the only female member of this hyar party, I reckon it falls ter you ter ride the one and only hoss we’ve got. Pardon me fer not thinkin’ of it sooner. I plum’ fergot, an’ left my comp’ny manners ter home on ther pianer.”

But Pizen Kate was made of stern stuff.

“No,” she insisted, “I don’t do no sich thing. I’m as good a walker as any of ye, and mebbe I’m better. You climb right back onter ther back o’ that hoss. I’ve got ter look after yer health, Nicholas.”

“I reckon,” said Nomad, speaking to Buffalo Bill, “that we might as well hike toward Mr. Latimer’s. Er shall we strike out fer ther town?”

“We’ll go to Latimer’s,” said the scout, without hesitation. There were a number of things at Latimer’s that still needed investigation.

“Mebbe you want to lay around out hyar and try ter capter ther white chief of them redskins,” said Nomad.

“We’ll go to Latimer’s first. We need rest and provisions, and also we need horses, which we’ll have to get from Golconda. And I’m not sure but it will be wise to summon assistance from there, also.”

An Indian yell was heard some distance away.

“Some Injun is lost, er has found somethin’ int’restin’, and is callin’ ter ther rest of ’em,” said Nomad. “Buffler, I reely think we’d better be movin’.”

Buffalo Bill was of the same opinion; so they hastened down from the hill, and then shaped their way as well as they could in the direction of Latimer’s, which was now a long distance off.

CHAPTER XIV.
STRANGE HAPPENINGS.

Before they had gone far they were given evidence that the Redskin Rovers had awakened to the fact that they had been tricked; an awakening due doubtless to the superior intelligence of their white leader, who, as his talk with Buffalo Bill had showed, was not an ignorant man.

Now and again a distant yell was heard—a signal call; and signal fires flashed forth on some of the hills. It became evident, too, that the redskins suspected that the escaped prisoners would hurry toward Latimer’s, because these yells and signal fires advanced in that direction.

The utmost caution was required to keep now from running into some trap. Hence, progress, though steady, was slow, and but little talking was done. Buffalo Bill led the way, striding on before, and Nomad brought up the rear on Nebuchadnezzar.

Nomad took care to conceal any chance sight of the fiery lines on his body; and as for old Nebuchadnezzar, the silent manner in which he plodded on suggested that he understood the peril of his human companions quite as well as they did themselves.

In the border of the hills, shortly before daybreak, the little company of fugitives halted and went into camp. But they built no fires, and they maintained a good degree of quiet.

As they camped down, Buffalo Bill found opportunity to ask old Nomad what it was he had on several occasions tried to communicate to him.

Nomad cackled out his queer little laugh, and glanced at Latimer. “Buffler,” he said, “I been achin’ ter tell ye why I went ter thet house; but now I ain’t goin’ ter tell ye till we git ther ag’in. I’m goin’ ter su’prise ye with it.”

“You can’t say, Nomad, if you know anything about that young man and young woman I saw there?”

“Buffler, not a thing. I never knowed sich critters war thar.”

Buffalo Bill again asked John Latimer what he knew of them; and Latimer, as before, declared his complete ignorance, although there was something in his manner when he said it which seemed strange and unnatural.

However, ever since his capture, Latimer had acted more and more as if he were displeased with Buffalo Bill. He had been silent and reticent, and apparently filled with morbid gloom. And he no more talked of the Redskin Rovers and the outlaws, which had been his excuse for asking Buffalo Bill to come out to his home.

It will be recalled that he had written many complaints to the authorities about the raids made by outlaws and Indians on his place, and because of these complaints Buffalo Bill had been sent there. Now he had dropped that subject, and Buffalo Bill began to wonder if Latimer himself were not in some way mixed up with the very bands of whom he had so lustily complained. It would not have been the first time in his experience when such a thing had been revealed.

In the camp in the border of the hills the little party remained until after daylight, and they did not set forth until from the highest peak the scout had taken a survey of the country and had determined that the pursuing Indians were not near.

With the coming of day, Pizen Kate became voluble once more. She developed a surprising tendency to ask sharp questions of John Latimer.

“I don’t think that you’re what you’re pertendin’ to be,” she told him. “I think that you’re jes’ a deceiver. All men aire deceivers, but they deceive in diff’rent ways. Nicholas deceived me by makin’ me think that he loved me so well he couldn’t never leave me, and then he up and run away fust chance he got. But you’re diff’rent from him. You’re a-deceivin’ as to who ye aire, and as to why you’re livin’ out in this country. Now, ain’t ye?”

“Woman, stop your chatter!” he cried.

“A woman’s tongue was made fer talkin’,” she snapped. “I don’t shet up until I want to. And I ain’t goin’ to want to until I know if you ain’t a deceiver.”

Nomad grinned while Pizen Kate was thus expressing herself; but it was observable, at the same time, that he paid close attention to Latimer’s comments, and seemed disappointed when nothing came of Pizen Kate’s tongue-wagging.

Buffalo Bill also listened closely; for he, too, had the feeling that John Latimer was not all he professed to be.

There was a good deal of timbered land along the base of the hills, extending well out upon the mesa where Latimer had his home. In the open, treeless mesa there was danger of being seen by the pursuing redskins, and for that reason Buffalo Bill called another halt.

It seemed advisable that a thorough look about the country should be taken, and for this purpose both Buffalo Bill and Nick Nomad separated from the others and set forth, going in different directions. Thus Pizen Kate and John Latimer were left behind.

Hardly were Nomad and Buffalo Bill out of sight when Latimer rose from the ground where he had been resting, and strode about, looking hither and thither in a restless manner. Pizen Kate had her keen and snappy eyes on him.

“I’ve allers heerd,” she declared, “that when men’s consciences is hurtin’ ’em bad they git fidgety, same’s you aire now. And I’ve allers heerd, likewise, that confession is good fer a hurtin’ conscience. So, if you’ve anything that’s settin’ too hard on yer mind, why don’t ye tell me about it, and mebbe I kin help ye some. I allers git the confidences of everybody in the community where I’ve lived these twenty years back, and I reckon that ought to prove that in comfortin’ I ain’t no slow coach.”

It was a queer speech, and it had no effect on John Latimer, except to irritate him.

“Woman, hold your tongue!” he commanded.

“Well, not at your orderin’!” she snapped. “I’ve been watchin’ ye, and somethin’s troublin’ you, er I ain’t a jedge. Now, what is it?”

“I won’t listen to your chatter!” he asserted in wrath, and walked away.

Though she soon started to follow him, for the purpose of seeing what he did, or what befell him, he walked so rapidly, when once he had left her, that she lost sight of him.

“Well, don’t that git ye?” she mumbled, peering through the undergrowth. “I said, and I’ll say it ag’in, that somethin’s troublin’ that man a good deal more than his breakfast is.”

Buffalo Bill had found some Indian signs which did not please him, and he was hastening back to the camp, with the intention of suggesting a forward movement, when he came upon a sight that astonished him. He saw Latimer walking hurriedly through the timber growth, which here was low and scrubby—walking as if he had an important meeting in view and needed to hasten. Then he saw Latimer stop before an Indian, who rose out of the bushes.

Latimer seemed to hold a brief conversation with this Indian. His attitude was that of a man talking with the Indian in a friendly manner, rather than otherwise. But before the conversation had proceeded far other Indians jumped out of the undergrowth, and these made Latimer a prisoner.

What had before seemed so like treachery on Latimer’s part looked altogether different now; and, seeing that he needed aid, Buffalo Bill started hurriedly to help him, gliding through the bushes with the silence and ease of a serpent.

Then another and most peculiar thing happened:

A young man leaped out of the undergrowth—a young man who swung a heavy rifle as a club. He attacked the Indians with an awful ferocity, smashing at them as if he cared not for his own life or the risks he ran.

While he thus attacked the redskins a young woman came running out into the little glade where these things were taking place. There she halted, pitching a little rifle up to her shoulder. She stood like a picture framed by the greenery, just long enough to enable her to draw the rifle sights down on the fighting men; and then the little rifle cracked.

One of the Indians, who had been making the stiffest fight against the young man, fell at the report of the rifle. The second Indian the young man knocked down. The third took to his heels, and was followed quickly by the one whom the youth had knocked over.

The young woman darted away, and came back in a little while, leading two horses.

Latimer lay on the ground, apparently hurt, with the young man bending over him. When the horses were brought up by the girl, Latimer was lifted by the youth to the back of one of them. Behind him the young woman mounted, the young man leaped to the back of the other horse, and then all rode away hurriedly, disappearing from view almost immediately.

All this Buffalo Bill saw, as he stood halting and hesitating.

It took place, too, in a time inconceivably short; so that if the scout had even tried to reach the scene of this swift action, he would not have arrived there before the chief actors had departed.

He stood in a sort of daze, however, not starting forward until after the horses and their riders had disappeared; for he had recognized in that young man and young woman the ones he had seen so mysteriously at Latimer’s house on the mesa.

“I don’t know how it chanced that Latimer was out here, but the rest of it is clear enough,” was his thought, as he walked hastily on toward the point where this lively fight and transformation had taken place. “Those people are Latimer’s friends, in spite of his statements that he did not know of their existence. Chancing to be here, they saw his strait and rushed to his aid. That young man is a fighter of the sort I like to see, and that girl is certainly a heroine, as well as a cool rifle shot. I wonder who they are? And I wonder why Latimer should have thought it needful to deny all knowledge of them? Yes, and why did they act so mysteriously at the house?”

These questions could not be answered by an inspection of the Indian the girl had brought down; but the scout, nevertheless, went up to the fallen redskin who was dead.

An inspection of his clothing, ornaments, and weapons convinced Buffalo Bill that he belonged to the Redskin Rovers, which was proof enough that the Rovers were following the fugitives still, and were near.

The dead Indian had a good revolver, and as the scout needed one, he appropriated it, together with the cartridges.

The trail left by the two horses Buffalo Bill followed for some distance, until convinced that it was headed in the direction of the house on the mesa.

CHAPTER XV.
A DESPERATE BATTLE.

When Buffalo Bill returned to the camp he found Nomad and Pizen Kate in a state of much excitement.

Nomad had made a discovery as important and startling as that of the scout.

“Buffler,” he said, in reporting it, “ef thar ain’t high old times round hyar purty soon, then I gives up as a prophet. Ef them Redskin Rovers follers us down ayar they’ll have their hands more’n full; fer thar’s a band of outlaws hidin’ nigh, and they seem ter be waitin’ fer them Rovers, with ther intention of doin’ ’em up.”

“If that fight comes off, I’m goin’ to see it!” avowed Pizen Kate. “I ain’t never seen a fust-class fight of no kind.”

“But you’ve been mixed up in more’n one!” said Nomad.

“Nicholas, don’t interrupt me when I’m talkin’! That’s one o’ the things about ye I never did like; you ain’t got any proper respect fer a lady. As I was sayin’ ter Persimmon Pete——”

“Ter Buffler, yer mean!”

“As I was sayin’ to him. I ain’t never seen any fust-class fight. When them two prize fighters fit in the op’ry house there in Kansas City last winter, tickets was fifteen dollars apiece, so I couldn’t afford one, and didn’t git to see it.”

“’Twouldn’t been no proper place fer ye, nohow!” Nomad sputtered.

“So, as I was sayin’ ter Persimmon Pete, if this fight comes off I want to see it. Tell him all about it, Nicholas.”

“Waugh! Buffler, I war moseyin’ round, lookin’ ter see what war ter be seen, when all to onct I heerd some men talkin’. They war white men, and when I’d got nigh enough ter see ’em I knowed from their gin’ral make-up and apeerances that they war outlaws, ef their talk hadn’t soon told me.

“Waal, it seems outlaws aire hyar in purty consid’able force, hidin’, and they’re layin’ fer ther Redskin Rovers, which aire approachin’ out of ther hills. They sighted ther Rovers about daylight, and have been layin’ fer ’em ever sense.

“It seems thet they’ve got a grudge agin’ ther redskins; fer ther reason thet ther redskins has been doin’ a lot o’ robbin’ and stealin’, and ther like, and the outlaws has been gittin’ ther blame of it.

“They think that ther reckless doin’s of ther Injuns is goin’ ter cause a strong force of soldiers ter be sent out hyar. So, ter take the cuss off, they’re goin’ ter wipe out ther reds. I cal’late they think, too, that if one robber band is wiped out ther’ll be more pickin’ fer ther one thet’s left.”

“Where were these men?” Buffalo Bill asked, interested at once.

“Right out yander on ther side o’ thet hill, where ther bushes aire thick as hair on a dog and a feller can’t see two yards afore his nose. I wouldn’t knowed they war thar but Nebby smelt ’em out fer me; and when I’d left ther ole hoss behind and had croped up on foot, then I seen ’em, and I heerd ’em. Thar war three of ’em, and it seemed they war doin’ sort of sentinel duty.”

“This is important,” said the scout. “For the Redskin Rovers are advancing, and some of their scouts have already got this far.”

Then he related what he had seen, and it was of a character to offset even the remarkable story told by Nomad.

Pizen Kate again vociferously declared that if a fight came she intended to witness it.

“’Tain’t fittin’ thet a lady should witness warfare and bloodshed!” Nomad protested, with a twinkling smile.

“How do you know it ain’t?” she asked. “Was you ever a lady? And, if you never was, how kin you speak fer ’em? I’m a lady, and I know more what’s becomin’ ter one than you do. So, Nicholas, jes’ shet yer baboon head and stop tryin’ ter give me advice.”

“Katie,” said Nomad, with another grin, “the only way ter give you advice and have it ter take effect would be ter pump it inter ye with a shotgun.”

The fight which Nick Nomad anticipated, and which he had heard those three outlaws talking about, came even sooner than he expected it would.

The Redskin Rovers were already in the timbered belt that fringed the lower hills. As they emerged on the edge of the mesa they were set upon without warning by the outlaws, who charged, riding out of the timber, and attacked with wild yells and a firing of rifles.

The unexpectedness of the attack threw the Redskin Rovers into confusion. But they knew who these white men were, and that they were not only their rivals in robbery and bloodshed, but their deadly foes as well.

They rallied under the inspiriting commands of their disguised white leader, and the fight that followed was sanguine enough to please even Pizen Kate, who climbed into a tree as soon as it began, and from that coign of vantage watched it throughout.

Nomad and Buffalo Bill also climbed into trees and witnessed the battle between the Redskin Rovers and the white outlaws.

For a little while it seemed that the Indians would break at once into flight, so desperate and deadly was the outlaw charge; but when the white leader put himself at their head and rallied them they made a stout stand.

The tide of battle rolled out upon the mesa. Men and horses dropped under rifle fire, and under arrow and Indian lance. The combatants rode at each other, shooting, hacking with knives, stabbing with lances, and even seizing each other and rolling to the ground from their saddles, to continue there to the death this feud of hatred and revenge.

Now and then Nomad yelled, he was so carried away by what he beheld; and Pizen Kate waved her shapeless hat and uttered voiceless cheers of approval when something of especial and spectacular interest was witnessed.

But the fight did not last long. It was too fierce. Half the Indians, and as many of the outlaws, were soon down.

The disguised leader of the Redskin Rovers fell while trying to hold his followers together. As he pitched stiffly out of his saddle and his mustang raced away, his followers broke into panicky flight, having no further stomach for such terrific fighting after the death of their desperate leader. They rode into the timbered hills, with the outlaws in hot pursuit; and the tide of blood rolled away out of sight.

“Whoop! Whoroar!” yelled Pizen Kate, waving her hat.

“Katie,” said Nomad, from his tree. “Can’t ye exercise a leetle discretion?”

“Shet up, Nicholas!” she snapped. “Who aire you, ter be givin’ sech advice—you, who ain’t done nothin’ but yell yerself out of breath ever sense ther fightin’ started! Did ye think you wasn’t doin’ any hollerin’? If it hadn’t been that the fighters was makin’ sech a noise themselves they couldn’t helped hearin’ ye.”

She slid ungracefully down from her tree, and Buffalo Bill and Nomad came down out of theirs.

“We’ll be free from the pursuit of the Redskin Rovers now,” said the scout, with grim satisfaction. “We can thank those outlaws for that.”

“An’ mebbe git killed by ther outlaws!” said Nomad. “I’d as soon die by an Injun’s arrer as by a white man’s bullet.”

“Kin we go on to ther house now, do ye think?” asked Pizen Kate. “I dunno, though, if I kin stand it to cross that land where so many dead men aire layin’. Seems ter me it will be sorter harrowin’ to the feelin’s.”

Nomad cackled. “Katie,” he said, “you’re an amusin’ cuss!”

CHAPTER XVI.
AT THE HOUSE ON THE MESA.

When Buffalo Bill and his friends went forth and inspected the battlefield, and examined the body of the painted leader of the Redskin Rovers, both Pizen Kate and Nomad identified him as Persimmon Pete, who, it seems, after leaving Kansas City, had turned outlaw and disappeared on the border.

Pizen Kate seemed mystified by this identification. Yet Buffalo Bill saw that her mystification was assumed rather than genuine.

“Mr. Cody,” she said, “I axes yer pardon. But if you’ll take a look at this man, you’ll see that when he wore ther same kind o’ mustache and beard that you do he looked mighty like you. That’s what made me think you was him.”

“I hope that in no particular am I as he was!” said the scout, with much earnestness.

“No, ye ain’t; ’cept that he was big and good-lookin’, and so aire you. I hope it won’t make ye blush fer a lady ter say it.”

“There will be at least fewer outlaws, white and red, to trouble the border,” the scout remarked, as he looked over the bloody field. “If they had only made a complete thing of it, like the Kilkenny cats, and wiped each other out, the world would be better off.”

“Now kin we go on to that house, Mr. Cody?” Pizen Kate asked.

“Why aire ye so anxious?” said Nomad.

She screwed her face into a vinegary smile. “Nicholas,” she said, “when I git ye there I’ll have ye jes’ that fur on the road home. Don’t think I ain’t goin’ to take ye back with me, fer I am; you’re goin’ with me back to Kansas City, there to be my true and lovin’ husband, er I’ll whale the hide off ye.”

They helped themselves to the best of the weapons to be found on the battlefield.

The way was open before them now, and they set out across the mesa, hastening on toward the house of John Latimer.

Buffalo Bill was as anxious as any one to reach that house. He felt reasonably sure that Latimer had been taken there by the young man and the young woman, and it seemed that there some explanation might be found of the things that had mystified him.

The afternoon was waning when they reached it.

Though the house seemed tenantless, horses were in the stable. The scout was sure they were the horses he had seen ridden by the mysterious young man and young woman.

When he advanced with Nomad and Pizen Kate to the house, he found the doors locked. This was but another proof, however, that the house had been visited during his absence, for when he had left it, shortly after the raid of the Redskin Rovers, the doors had stood wide open.

Buffalo Bill was on the point of forcing one of the windows, when he heard a sound over his head, and glancing up quickly, he beheld in the window above him the face of the mysterious young woman.

The head was withdrawn instantly, and neither Nomad nor Pizen Kate saw it.

“Waugh!” cried Nomad, when informed of it. “Ef it’s ther female that trapped you, and I reckon trapped me, look out fer more happenin’s.”

“Nicholas,” protested Pizen Kate, “why don’t you say ‘lady,’ instead of ‘female?’ It’s ongallant of ye.”

Nevertheless, Pizen Kate was as anxious as any to get into the house and discover what it meant, when, after calling, Buffalo Bill could arouse no one.

The scout now forced one of the windows, and they entered the house by that. Apparently no one was within.

“She may ’a’ gone inter thet tunnel, Buffler,” suggested Nomad.

But when they sprung the hidden trapdoor and explored the tunnel beneath they found no one there.

“Waugh!” said Nomad. “Their hosses aire out thar in ther stable, hobnobbin’ now with ole Nebby, and we’ll jes’ camp down hyar until they try to git their hosses.”

Buffalo Bill and his companions took possession of the house quite as if it were their own, and they made so thorough an inspection of it that it seemed impossible any one could be in it and they not aware of it. Yet Buffalo Bill was sure that the young woman had not left the house, unless she had done so by some exit of which he had no knowledge.

With the coming of night they tried to make themselves comfortable. If Latimer was not hiding in the house, Buffalo Bill might expect his arrival at any time. As Latimer’s guest, he felt that he had a right in the house. Hence, he prepared supper, using some food overlooked by the looting redskins, and then he and his companions sat in the darkness of one of the front rooms, waiting for whatever might happen.

After an hour or two the silence was broken by a gentle rapping on the front door.

When Buffalo Bill answered this without opening the door, a man’s voice was heard, begging admission.

“I’ve lost my way,” said the man, “and I’d like to stop here for the night.”

Buffalo Bill had already heard soft footsteps outside and low whispers, and he knew the man was lying.

“You are alone?” he asked.

“Yes, alone, and I’ve lost my way.”

“What are you doing in this remote section?”

“Prospecting.”

“Well, the prospects for you getting into this house before daylight are not good just now. Come around in the morning, and if you are all right we’ll try to give you your breakfast, anyway. But we can’t open the house now.”

As Buffalo Bill expected, the answer to this was a shot through the door.

Being prepared for it, he had stepped softly aside, and the lead plowed harmlessly through the panel and lodged in the wall. Following the shot there was a rush upon the door, in an attempt to smash it from its hinges; but the door was a stout affair and resisted this attempt to force it.

When the rush had failed, silence followed for a short time; the outlaws were only preparing for a more desperate attempt.

“I think, Buffler, thet they knows you aire in hyar, and they’re after yer hair,” said Nomad.

“I think so,” the scout agreed.

“They knows that you’re a dangerous man ter the likes of their kind, and they intends ter wipe yer out, and all of us thet’s with yer.”

“I think you are right. But while they’re getting ready to beat the door down, or fire the building, or some other pleasant diversion,” said the scout, “you might tell me, Nomad, what several times you have said you wished to tell me.”

Nomad laughed in his chuckling way.

“Buffler, I’d ’a’ told ye long ago, but every time, as you’ll reck’lect, John Latimer was nigh and listenin’. Then ther thing got ter be a sorter joke wi’ me, and I kep’ it goin’ fer ther fun of it. But when fust I come ter this hyar house——”

Even yet old Nick Nomad was not to be permitted to tell his secret; for the outlaws made another rush at this instant, and they jammed against the door a heavy beam of wood, making the panels snap and the stout hinges groan.

Buffalo Bill fired a shot through the door, but it was not a deterrent, and when the log of wood hit the door again the panels splintered and the door fell.

In the dim light a number of men were seen, and their faces were lighted by the flashes of the scout’s pistols. Some of the men went down; but the others rushed on, cursing and howling, treading on the bodies of their fallen companions.

Buffalo Bill and his friends fell back before this deadly rush, knowing that their position was too exposed. The result was that the door was left undefended and the outlaws swarmed through into the house.

The scout and his companions made their way at once toward the room which held the hidden trapdoor, intending to defend the room as long as they could, and then retreat by way of the tunnel to the river. But before they gained this room the mysterious young man appeared before them, beckoning.

“This way!” he called, in a shrill whisper. “Don’t hesitate! Your lives depend on it!”

Yet Buffalo Bill hesitated, though the cursing outlaws were in the hall behind him and coming on, held only in temporary check by a healthy fear of his revolvers.

“Shall we resk it, Buffler?” Nomad asked.

A rush of outlaws toward them along the hall caused Buffalo Bill’s hesitation to vanish. “Yes,” he said, answering Nomad.

Then they followed the young man, who made a dash toward the kitchen.

When they gained that, ahead of the pursuers, the young man stopped long enough to fasten the door, which was provided with a heavy bolt and chain.

“This way,” he said, again.

A cupboard apparently built solidly into the wall he now swung outward, revealing back of it a door.

“In here,” he said. “Quick!”

The outlaws were already at the closed kitchen door and hammering on it in a way to make the bolt and chain rattle.

The air of the young man was so kindly and anxious that Buffalo Bill entered the dark opening behind the cupboard. Nomad hesitated, then followed, with Pizen Kate.

When they had passed through and seemed to be standing in a dark, windowless room, the young man came after them, and closed the opening by swinging the cupboard back into position.

“They’ll think we went on through the kitchen,” he whispered. “This way.”

He took Buffalo Bill by the hand; and together he and the scout descended a narrow stairway, being still followed by Nomad and Pizen Kate.

As they did so they heard the kitchen door give way before the onslaught of the outlaws, and heard the trampling of their feet on the kitchen floor, together with their angry oaths.

When they had descended a short distance, the scout judged they were in another tunnel somewhat like the one he had been in before.

He found this was true; and after a short walk a faint light appeared in the tunnel before him. Then all emerged into an open space, and found it to be a natural cup-shaped hollow hanging on the side of the river ledge like the nest of a bird. Vines and bushes grew about, screening it from view of any one on the opposite side of the stream; and a narrow path, bush-hidden, led to the top of the bluff, where, through a bushy fringe, a view could be had of the house and grounds.

The light which brightened this cuplike space was starlight, but it was bright enough to enable the scout and his companions to make an astonishing discovery; which was, that John Latimer and the mysterious young woman were in this spot, and apparently awaiting them.

Latimer, however, seemed to be injured, or sick; for he was lying down, with some garment under his head for a pillow, and he did not rise when Buffalo Bill and the others entered.

Buffalo Bill was too grateful to ask questions.

The mysteries of the house, at least, were becoming no longer mysteries. For it was plain that it had been constructed with a view to quick and secret entrance and exit, which, of course, necessitated the hidden doors and secret passages. All of which might be used in a perfectly legitimate manner, as this land of danger made the use of such devices exceedingly wise at times.

“Even if they should find that tunnel,” said the young man, “they couldn’t easily reach us here by coming through it; for one man at this end of it could hold it against a hundred, if properly armed. And it wouldn’t be easy for them to get down here by way of the path from above, nor could they readily climb up from below in the darkness. In the morning, of course, it would be different; they might reach us then, if they discovered where we were.”

After a time, when it became apparent that the outlaws were looting the house, Buffalo Bill asked to be shown how to get to the top of the bluff, and, with some hesitation, the youth piloted him.

Coming out again thus upon the mesa, in the starlight, the house and its surroundings were clearly visible to the scout, who now advanced cautiously, anxious to know something more about these outlaws, to get some clearer idea, if possible, of who they were.

He swerved round toward the stables, in quest of old Nebuchadnezzar, and, as he did so, he came face to face with a man who challenged him.

“I’m one of the band,” said the scout, at a venture, dropping hand to weapon.

The man was not deceived. His revolver came out, and the bullet whistled by the scout’s cheek. Almost at the same instant Buffalo Bill returned fire, and the man fell.

The shooting drew a number of men out of the house, and the scout saw it was prudent to retreat.

Crawling back toward the hiding place by the river, he bumped into Nick Nomad.

“I had ter foller yer, Buffler,” Nomad apologized.

Before morning came the outlaws departed.

As soon as it was light enough to see, the scout, together with Nomad and Pizen Kate, began to look over the grounds. They were soon joined by the youth; and then the young woman appeared, accompanied by Latimer.

Latimer seemed ill and suffering; but his weakness and his lethargic manner departed together when he came upon the body of the outlaw who had been slain by Buffalo Bill. He stood looking into the face of the dead man with an appearance of stupefied unbelief. Then, with something akin to a scream, he toppled over, insensible.

When the scout and the others looked into the face of the dead man they observed how remarkable in appearance it was to the face of John Latimer.

CHAPTER XVII.
THE MYSTERY SOLVED.

Their amazement was not of long duration, however, for the young man proceeded to make explanations. He stated that Latimer was much of the time irresponsible mentally. His stories of the singular disappearances of his servants were simply the fancies of an unbalanced mind. In fact, there were periods when he was a madman. Being a very wealthy man—a millionaire—he had, as a crazy whim, built the big house on the lonely mesa; and with him lived his daughter, and the young man who was her affianced husband.

Their thought was that his mental troubles would soon pass away. Hence they humored his whims. And when he stated that Buffalo Bill was to be his guest, and for reasons of his own he wished the scout to think he resided there alone, they acceded to his wish, and kept out of sight. Yet they were, nevertheless, seen at intervals. On the occasion when the girl came to the scout and whispered to him to follow her, and took his hand to lead him, she, in the darkness, thought he was Latimer.

As for the hidden trapdoor and the concealed door in the kitchen, with their connecting tunnels leading to the river, those were planned and built by Latimer for purposes of safety; and they had justified their erection and planning.

“But what is the reason for his strange action on seeing the dead outlaw?” asked Cody.

“He will tell you that, I think,” replied the young man. “Come, let’s carry him back to the house.”

They did so, but before Latimer revived, old Nick Nomad told his part of the story.

“Buffler,” said Nomad, “we didn’t intend it ter joke ye, but it worked thet way. Yer see, me an’ Pizen thar had sot out to run thet outlaw down. Pizen had got sight of him once, and had likewise seen Latimer in ther town; and the amazin’ resemblance made him think thet Latimer war ther outlaw leader.

“So I come on ter Latimer’s, ter play ther spy bizness, and got a job with him as hostler. And Pizen, he war comin’ on, intendin’ ter git a job as cook, mebbe, er chambermaid, er suthin’. And we war pertendin’ ter be husband and wife, ye see; and him chasin’ me about, in order ter give a proper ixcuse fer me runnin’ frum place ter place and him follerin’ me, er bein’ with me. I tried ter tell yer about it, Buffler, sev’ral times.”

“Pizen Kate,” who was a man disguised as a woman, had stripped away his encumbering skirt, and now sat, grinning, while he listened to Nomad’s explanation.

“We thought it ruther cute,” he admitted. “And, Cody, when we seen how fooled ye was by it, we kept it from yer; and, o’ course, we couldn’t make no confession, and I couldn’t change back ter my proper person, so long as we wasn’t sure of Latimer. And there ye aire.”

He was still as “homely as sin;” and now that he had reassumed masculine clothing, he looked feminine, for his face was womanish and naturally almost beardless.

“Thar war two men we war ’specially lookin’ fer, Buffler,” said Nomad. “One war Persimmon Pete, and t’other George Latimer, who is dead hyar, though ther name we knowed him by war diff’rent from thet.”

“George Latimer!” exclaimed Cody. “Is the dead outlaw John Latimer’s brother?”

“Yep; ye kin take his own word fer it if ye don’t believe me.”

It was true. As Buffalo Bill afterward learned from Latimer himself, the two outlaw chieftains whom he and Nomad and Pizen had come to run down—to their death, it happened—were the white chief of the Redskin Rovers, and Latimer’s brother, the leader of the outlaw band of white men. The shock of seeing his brother dead, a brother who had apparently passed out of his memory, restored the mind of John Latimer; so that when he recovered from it he was again sane and mentally sound.

The wedding which took place in the big house on the mesa soon after, and which united the “mysterious” youth to the equally “mysterious” maiden, was a great event, and was attended by Buffalo Bill, and by Nomad and “Pizen Kate.”

“Katie,” said Nomad humorously, at that wedding, cracking his face open in a grin, “this hyar makes me think o’ ther time when you and me was—not—married thar in Kansas City.”

“Truly, Nicholas, truly!” assented the man known as “Pizen Kate.” “And ter-night I’d be acchilly happy, I think, if I hadn’t lost my old umbreller.”

CHAPTER XVIII.
THE MYSTERIOUS NUGGET.

The wedding festivities were still in progress when Buffalo Bill received a letter, by “pony express,” from Colonel Montrose, the commander of Fort Cimarron, directing him to come to that station in order to reconnoiter the district and keep an eye upon the Cheyenne Indians who had threatened to break from their reservation.

“I’m sorry you must go, Cody,” said Latimer, when the message was made known to him. “I had hoped that you might be able to linger here a while, and enjoy a more welcome hospitality than was shown you when you first came here.”

Thanking him for the offer, and reluctantly taking leave of his friends, the great scout set forth on the journey, mounted on his favorite horse which had been sent to him from Eldorado.

And while he rode away from these nuptial celebrations, another romance, in which he was destined to play a part, was even now being enacted on the wide, wide-swept plains.

In the doorway of a lonely sod house May Arlington, the daughter of a government message bearer, stood shading her eyes from the glare of the hot sun, and looking out across the level grassland.

Another horseman, not Buffalo Bill, was riding swiftly over the open country before her and coming in her direction.

She knew he was not her father, who was absent far to the southward. But she hoped he was her lover, big bluff Ben Stevens, the handsomest and most athletic youth in the region of the country known as No Man’s Land, lying along the border of the upper Panhandle of Texas.

“It isn’t Ben,” she said, “but one of the soldiers from Fort Cimarron. I hope there isn’t any trouble with the Indians.”

A shade of anxiety passed over her face.

It had been a long time since there had been any Indian trouble in that section of the Southwest. But people who live near Indians are never sure when the red men will decide to take to the warpath; and lately there had been murmurings and mutterings among the Cheyennes, who were herded on their reservation not more than a day’s ride away.

May’s father had heard of it, and had spoken of it, but he did not believe the Cheyennes would dare make trouble, when there were soldiers no farther than Fort Cimarron.

The horseman, riding rapidly, drew near, with a quick clatter of hoofs. He swung by the house, lifting his cap as he did so, and then he flung out from him something that flashed white in the sun. It fell at her feet as he dashed on, and she saw that it was a letter.

“From Ben!” she said. But when she tore the letter open hastily she saw it was not from her lover. It contained but a few words, which were not intelligible to her; and then she saw that there was something else in the envelope—something round and hard, wrapped in tissue paper.

When she pulled the tissue paper apart, there lay sparkling in her brown palm a nugget of gold, with strange hieroglyphic markings on it.

She looked at the letter again, turning it over, and tried to find some words on the tissue paper, but there were none. The writing—the few words—which the letter contained, read:

“This is a sample of the stuff I told you about; and there’s more where it came from, if it can be got.”

No name was signed.

She ran out from the little house, but the rider had passed on swiftly, and now was far beyond the reach of her voice. Although she shouted to him, and waved her hand, holding up the letter, he did not turn in the saddle to look back, and he did not hear her.

Once more she tried to find the meaning of those words, and stared at the shining bit of gold.

She knew it was gold; the weight and its appearance told her that; and the hieroglyphics on it informed her it was not a natural gold nugget.

She knew that a mistake had been made, but what it was all about she could not guess.

“I’ll have to thank you, young man, for this gold, anyway,” she said, looking at the retreating horseman with a smile. “And I’d just like to know where more of these nuggets are!”

The mystery of the thing appealed to her imagination, and set it to work.

There were no gold mines in that section, nor any hint that gold was to be found. The country had long been the stamping ground of Indians and the immense buffalo herds which served them for game. Some of the buffaloes were left, but most of the Indians, after their last war with the whites, had been placed on a reservation.

Since that time some cattlemen had begun to come in, though they were few in numbers and still timid, for there was danger that the Indians would raid the herds, in spite of the soldiers.

May Arlington’s father had come to that wild land for his health, finding the dry, pure air good for his weak chest and threatened lung trouble, and he had made a living, partly by keeping a few cattle, but chiefly by some work he secured as message bearer for the ranchmen, and for the government.

That was why he was away now, far to the south. He had gone to carry a message to the Mexican border, for one of the ranchmen, the message concerning the sale of cattle.

Hence, the girl had for some time led a lonely life, although she had not found it lonely after she made the acquaintance of Ben Stevens, the big-hearted fellow employed on one of the ranches. Stevens visited her whenever he could, and he contrived to find many opportunities. In addition, the girl had, in the little sod stable back of the sod house, a lively horse, that could bear her on with feet so fleet that she seemed to be flying; and as she loved horseback riding she spent many happy hours on the back of her horse.

Yet to most girls, or young women, the loneliness of such a life would have been intolerable, even if their fears, or their timidity, had permitted them to live it.

May Arlington went into the sod house, and placing the round, shining gold on the small table, she sat down and deliberately studied it, trying to make some sense out of the strange marks on it.

When she could do nothing of the kind, she wrapped it again in the tissue paper, and was about to put it away. But just then she again heard hoofbeats; and she ran to the door.

“Ben!” she exclaimed joyfully.

It was Ben Stevens this time.

He rode up at a canter, and dropped from the saddle with the ease of a circus athlete. Then he caught the girl in his arms.

“May!” he cried, and he kissed her.

“Ben!” she said, and nestled in his arms.

“You haven’t been here for two whole days,” she added reprovingly.

“Right you are, sweetheart,” he acknowledged; “but it wasn’t my fault. Work is rushing at the ranch just now, and I couldn’t get away. No one knows I’m here now. I was sent in this direction to hunt for stray cattle.”

“I’ve got something to show you,” she cried. “And it’s the strangest thing!”

He followed her into the house, permitting his horse to stand near the door, where at once it set to work nibbling the grass that grew there.

When she showed him the gold, and the letter, and the envelope, he was ready to acknowledge that the manner in which the gold had come to her was the strangest thing he had ever heard of.

“It’s the pure stuff, too!” he cried, as he hefted it. “Pure gold. I wonder what those lines and marks on it mean?”

“I’m sure I don’t know.”

“You say the fellow was a soldier from the fort?” he asked.

“Well, he wasn’t dressed in regular uniform, but he had on a soldier’s cap.”

“May have been one of the scouts,” he guessed. “And he just chucked that at you, and flew on without a word.” He laughed again. “Gee! I wish some fellow would chuck me a few of them! Say, that’s worth twenty dollars, or more! Maybe a good deal more, on account of those lines on it.”

He reread the singular letter.

“And there’s plenty more where it came from, it says. I wish I knew where that is. I think I’ll have to trail the fellow who flung that to you, and camp right on his trail until I discover where this gold is.”

He stepped to the window at the back of the room, where the light was strong, and held up the gold, looking at it there, and commenting.

Suddenly a trampling of hoofs was heard on the grass outside; then the door was thrown open, and armed men rushed into the room.

“Surrender!” they cried to him.

The girl screamed, but Ben Stevens turned and coolly faced the intruders, who were soldiers in uniform.

“What’s the trouble?” he said, and, though he spoke calmly, his cheeks were flushed and his eyes were bright. He dropped his hand carelessly toward the revolver that swung at his hip.

“Hands up!”

Guns came down, pointing at him, and there was a clicking of locks.

“Surrender!”

“But what’s the trouble?” he demanded. “What am I to surrender for?”

“Because you’re a thief, caught with the goods on him.”

The leader, who was also a young man, pointed to the gold nugget shining in the fingers of Ben Stevens.

“Just how?” said Stevens, redder in the face than before. “Is this your property?”

“No,” was the answer, “it isn’t; but it is the property of Colonel Montrose, at Fort Cimarron; and it was given to him only a day or so ago by Buffalo Bill.”

“By Buffalo Bill?”

“Just so; and I suppose you know how you came by it!”

“Perhaps you do?”

“You stole it from the colonel’s quarters at the fort. We hit the trail of the horse of the fellow who took it, and that trail, when we followed it, led right here, and here we find you, with the stuff on you. That’s proof enough, ain’t it?”

“Hardly,” said Stevens. “For the trail you followed from the fort went on, after leaving this house; while, as you can see, my horse is out in front.”

“Oh, let me explain; let me explain!” cried the girl, rushing forward.

The young troopers looked at her curiously and with admiration. She was a beautiful girl; they had not known so handsome a young woman was near Fort Cimarron for some time. More than one of them expressed his admiration for her in his looks. But she was not thinking of this; she was solely concerned now about the possible fate of her lover.

“Let me explain,” she repeated.

“Yes, miss,” said the young commander respectfully; “we shall be pleased to hear anything you have to say.”

Then she told the strange story of how she had come into possession of the nugget.

“I am willing to surrender it to you,” she declared. “So you see Mr. Stevens isn’t guilty, as you thought; and, of course, you will not try to arrest him.”

The young officer looked about at his men, and he saw hesitation in their eyes. Then he remembered that he had a duty to perform.

He recalled that he had trailed to this house the pony whose tracks had guided him, and here was the nugget which had caused the pursuit.

“I’ll have to take possession of the nugget,” he said, after a moment of hesitation. “It belongs to the colonel; and I could not acquit myself to him if I did not take it and keep it, now that I see it.”

“But you believe what I say?” the girl implored. “Indeed, Mr. Stevens knew nothing about it.”

The young officer bowed. “We hope we shall not have to be disagreeable to any young lady,” was his gallant statement. He turned to his men. “Jones and Simpson,” he said, “go out and look for that trail which Mr. Stevens says went straight on.”

The men saluted and hurried outside, but they came in shortly.

“Yes, sir, there is a trail going on; but it seems to us, on examination, that the horse now out in front is really the one that made the trail we have so far followed.”

“No, no!” the girl insisted, speaking to the men. “You are mistaken. That trail, made by the horse of the man who threw that envelope to me, leads on past this house.”

The young officer touched his cap to her.

“I am afraid, miss, that it is our unpleasant duty to convey both you and this young man to Fort Cimarron. We regret this, but——”

“Arrest me, too?” she cried, her face becoming ghastly pale.

“It is not an arrest in either case,” was the smooth answer. “But we shall have to ask you and this young gentleman to go with us, and explain this matter to the colonel, just as you have to us. If we should do otherwise, we would not escape severe censure. Believe me, miss, we dislike to do this.”

Stevens broke in hotly.

“Take me, curse you!” he snarled. “But spare the young lady, can’t you? You’re making a miserable mistake here, as you’ll learn in a little while. I’ll go with you to the fort and speak to your colonel; but, for Heaven’s sake, don’t force the young lady to go.”

The young officer bowed again, with a touch of his fingers to his cap.

“Your pardon,” he said courteously, with hesitation; “but what you say is—er—inadvisable. We must ask both of you to accompany us to the fort. It is a—er—mere formality, of course. As soon as you have told the colonel what you have told us he will permit you to go; but we must, you understand, do our duty as we see it.”

CHAPTER XIX.
AT THE FORT.

It was an unfortunate thing for May Arlington and her lover that Colonel Montrose, the commandant, was absent from Fort Cimarron when they were brought to that place, and that in his stead was Lieutenant Joel Barlow. It was even more unfortunate for them that Barlow stood to the girl in the relation of a discarded and chagrined lover.

He had but a week before visited that little sod house out on the wide, wind-swept plains, and there had told the girl his love, and she had turned him away. He knew why she had done so, too; he knew that it was because of Ben Stevens.

To Joel Barlow the men who had brought in the prisoners—for they were really prisoners—made their report; and Barlow went forth to see the girl and Stevens.

He felt a secret satisfaction; for his love for the girl, or what he had fancied was love, had turned to hate, and for Ben Stevens he had a feeling that was perfectly ferocious. So he smiled inwardly, and stared at that nugget of gold, as he carefully examined it.

“Yes, it must be returned to the colonel,” he said, but in his eyes there was a light of anxious questioning.

“Put him under guard!” he ordered, when Stevens was brought before him.

“Are you going to hold me for this?” Stevens roared in wrath.

“Put him under guard!” was the answer, and Stevens, still boiling with rage, was led away.

The girl was then told by Barlow that she might go where she willed, within the boundaries of the fort, but that she could not depart until the colonel had arrived and passed on her case.

As if to salve this wound, Barlow conducted her to the rooms of Mrs. McGee, who was the “mother” of the fort; so considered by all the young soldiers, whom she mothered and petted when they were ill, and at other times treated as if they were children. Even the officers feared her when she was angry. She was the only woman at the fort now; the other women—the colonel’s wife and daughter—being away.

Mrs. McGee was red-faced and brawny; she had arms and muscles like a man, and sometimes she proved that she had a temper; but she had a kind heart.

When she saw the suffering girl and heard her story she was roused into indignation.

“There—there!” she said soothingly. “Whin the colonel comes he’ll make it all right. And now you wait here a bit, while I go down and give to that blackguard Joel Barlow a bit av me mind.”

The “bit av her mind” which she gave to Barlow was peppery and fierce. She wasted no words in telling him what she thought of him for keeping the girl there in the fort on such a charge.

“She’s the angel, she is, and it’s yersilf is the brute and the blackguard!” she cried. “Was yer mother a lady? If she was, let this girl go in reminbrance av yer mother, and be ashamed of yersilf fer havin’ thought fer a minute av doin’ annythin’ else.”

Joel Barlow merely smiled. He knew Mrs. McGee.

“You’re too good to live, mother,” he said; “but I’ll go over and talk with the girl. It is a shame, as you say; but what am I to do? I’m only in the colonel’s place here while he is away, and I have to be mighty careful.”

“Ye ar-re the dirt av the wurruld!” she snorted, in derision. “Don’t I know that the colonel wouldn’t hold her fer wan second?”

“I think I’ll go and see her? Of course you’ll take good care of her, Mother McGee; but perhaps I’d better have a talk with her.”

He set out to have that talk within the next half hour.

Time had so sped since the “arrest” of the girl and her lover that night was now at hand and the shadows of darkness were gathering over the fort.

As Barlow passed along, heading toward the house where Mrs. McGee lived, he came face to face with a young trooper in a dusty uniform, who seemed to have been watching for him to make his appearance.

Seeing this young fellow he turned aside, and the two came together behind a growth of cottonwood trees which grew beside the water pool supplied by the deep well and windmill.

It must be understood that Fort Cimarron was not just one building; rather it was a number of buildings, officers’ quarters, and barracks for the troopers, with stables for the horses, all surrounded by a strong, palisaded wall. Attempts had been made to make the place attractive. One result was the cottonwood trees, planted where the water from the well could keep them growing in that land of drought; and they made a green and pleasant shade.

“Well, Wilkins?” said Barlow harshly, as he stopped with the young trooper behind the cottonwoods.

“It was a mistake; a frightful mistake!” Wilkins stammered. His voice trembled, and he was much wrought up. “Yes, sir, I acknowledge it,” he added; “it was a frightful mistake. But it was, I hope, not irreparable.”

Barlow lifted his hand as if he would strike the trooper in the face.

“Is it what I pay you for, to make mistakes like that?” he demanded angrily. “Aye, it was a frightful mistake; and I’m afraid it will have serious consequences. In Heaven’s name, how did you do it?”

“Well, the two letters were left on your table, sir, lying close together, and I was in a hurry. You had stepped out, and I thought I hadn’t time to search for you; and so I snatched up the two letters. I got them mixed, and threw to the girl the one that had in it the nugget of gold. But——”

“Curse you for an idiot, Wilkins!” snarled Barlow. “I ought to pistol you for that.”

“Of course, it wasn’t intentional, and——”

“Well, keep your head closed about it!” Barlow snapped. “Don’t say anything; not a word to anybody.”

He left Wilkins, and went on hurriedly and angrily.

He had not recovered his temper when he reached the house where the girl had been lodged with Mrs. McGee, this particular house being a part of the cook room, for of the things which Mrs. McGee did one was to supervise the cooking at the fort. She met Barlow at the door.

“Can I see her?” he said. “And how is she?”

“A-cryin’ the two eyes out av her head. Bad cess to ye fer that, too! If I was a man, throoper er no throoper, I’d thrash ye fer that, so I would.”

“I’ll just go in and see her.”

He laughed, pushed past the portly form of Mrs. McGee, and then went along the hall until he came to a large room at its farther end.

The girl was in this room, and had lighted the lamp. She stared at him with flushing face as he came in.

“I don’t think I requested your presence,” she said coldly.

“No, but Mrs. McGee told me you were pining for a little comforting, and so I thought I’d call, since I haven’t ceased to regard you in a favorable light, you know. It was only last week, I believe, that I offered you my hand and my heart.”

She turned from him and walked toward the window, and looked out from it across the parade ground.

As she did this his admiration of her sprang full-armed into being again. “Gad, what a girl!” he thought. “Isn’t she a queen? A man could feel proud to have her for his wife.”

“I have come to apologize for what has perhaps seemed to you unnecessary harshness,” he said, in a voice wholly changed, for now it had a sincere ring, and his admiration looked from his eyes.

“It was unnecessary,” she said. “What do you intend to do with me? I have done nothing, and Mr. Stevens has done nothing!”

Barlow’s eyes hardened at that mention of Stevens. Yet when he spoke his voice was kind.

“Miss Arlington, I want you to know how sorry I am about this whole thing,” he urged. “If I were in absolute command here I should not hold either Stevens or you a minute. But you must see that I am not master here. A soldier must learn to obey, before anything else. The regulations make it impossible for me to do anything differently until the colonel comes.”

She turned again toward the window.

“Miss Arlington—May,” he said, his voice lowered, “you remember what I said to you not long ago? Well, I want to repeat it. Why can’t you give a fellow a chance, or a bit of hope? I’m not such a bad lot, and I’m certainly as well situated as this fellow Stevens.”

She turned upon him again with flashing eyes.

“Don’t take advantage of the fact that I must listen,” she said. “You once claimed to be a gentleman!”

“And I am one now.”

“Then don’t bring up that subject again. I never gave you any encouragement, and——”

“May Arlington,” he interrupted, his voice high and sharp now, “you still stick to that, do you? And you scorn me for that fool of a cowboy? Why, I’d have you know that I’m a gentleman, and the son of a gentleman!”

She turned once more to the window and looked out, but her cheeks were red, and one foot tapped the carpet impatiently.

“And——” he ripped out an oath, “I’ll see that Ben Stevens has a hard row to hoe before he gets in a position to marry you!”

“What do you mean?” she demanded.

“Just this! He was found with the nugget, stolen from the colonel, and which the colonel valued highly because it was given to him by Buffalo Bill, the famous border scout. Now, you may tell me what is generally done with a thief? You don’t need to answer. He is sent to prison, and often for a term of years. And that is the journey that Ben Stevens will be taking before another month rolls by.”

The red went out of her cheeks and they became ghastly white.

“You will try to send him to prison?”

“No.” He laughed. “It won’t’ be necessary for me to trouble myself about it; the statements of the troopers who found him with that gold will do that. But if you had spoken to me kindly and fair I might have interested myself in his behalf, and I might have even got him off.” He looked at her with a strange smile. “And to tell you the truth, May,” he added, “I might still do that—interest myself and get him off without much punishment—if you’d treat me differently. Hadn’t you better think it over? You don’t want Ben Stevens sent to the penitentiary for ten or a dozen years, I know. And that’s just where he is headed for now.”

He turned and stalked from the room, leaving her with cheeks as white as marble.

CHAPTER XX.
BRUTALITY.

A man had passed under the window of the room where Joel Barlow made that brutal and threatening speech to the girl he claimed to love. That man was the young trooper, Wilkins.

As he stopped a moment beneath the window he heard something of the talk that has been recorded. He was already angered against Barlow.

“Curse him!” he whispered. “Why should I stand his insolence? Just because he knows of my love of gambling and has kept his knowledge from the colonel, he has gradually got me in his power, until now I am lower than even he is, and that is as low as a man can get.”

He stood listening, held by curiosity and a dislike of Barlow.

When Barlow came out of the house, he walked so rapidly that he caught sight of the stooping form of Wilkins by the window, for Wilkins had not instantly hurried away. Barlow drew his revolver.

“A sneak and an eavesdropper, eh?” he whispered, thrown into a rage.

When he came nearer and saw Wilkins moving away he recognized who the watcher by the window was.

“Wilkins!” he said to himself.

He ran quickly forward; and when Wilkins, hearing his steps, turned about, Barlow dashed up to him and knocked him to the ground with a single blow of his heavy fist.

“Get up!” he then commanded, kicking Wilkins with the toe of his boot. “You sneak, get up!”

Wilkins was weak and dazed. Barlow helped him to his feet, and then dragged him through the half darkness until the screening shadows of the cottonwoods were reached.

“You sneak!” he said, standing Wilkins up before him. “You low-down eavesdropper!” He lifted his fist again.

“Don’t—don’t strike me!” said Wilkins, putting up his hands to ward off the expected blow.

“You were under that window?”

“Yes, but——”

“And you were eavesdropping there!”

“No—no—I——”

A smashing blow in the face stopped the stammering words and threw Wilkins blind and bleeding against one of the cottonwoods. When he recovered enough to crawl to his feet, Barlow was sitting before him, staring at him in the half darkness.

“Wilkins,” he said, “that’s just to teach you that you can’t monkey with me! When you go wrong again I shall shoot you, which will be a great deal worse.”

Wilkins cowered before him.

There was blood on his lip, and when he put up his hand to his face the blood got on his hand.

“What did you mean to do with any information you secured in that way?” Barlow demanded.

“Nothing; I——”

“And that’s another lie! But understand that you stand by me, or I’ll see that you get what’s coming to you.”

Feeling that Wilkins was duly cowed, Barlow rose slowly and walked away.

CHAPTER XXI.
ON THE BORDERS OF DISGRACE.

He was no sooner out of sight than Wilkins sprang to his feet, his form trembling, his eyes blazing, his brain on fire with rage and hatred.

“You low-down ruffian!” he said, shaking his fist at the retreating man. “Do you think you can treat me that way and me not strike back at you? Well, you can’t! Because you’re a big bruiser you treat me that way. Well, I’ll make things warm for you in this fort, if I hang for it.”

He was fairly crying, yet did not know it, and sobs of violent rage shook him. After all, compared with Barlow, he was a mere boy, his face still beardless.

“I’ll get even with you for that blow, you villain, if it takes me a year!” said Wilkins.

He stooped by the side of the small canal that brought water to the roots of the cottonwoods, and with this water he bathed his face; yet, as he discovered later, in removing the blood from his lip he got a good deal of it on his handkerchief.

He did not leave the shelter of the cottonwoods for half an hour, and not until he had again secured control of his nerves.

There was in his heart a shaking rage against Joel Barlow and an aching desire to “get even.”

As he walked along, going toward his barracks room, he passed close by the stockade gate.

It was swung open, after a challenge and some questions, and by the lamp which brightly lighted the gate he saw Buffalo Bill ride through to the inside.

That the great scout had been out on the vast plains somewhere, and was bringing in some report to the colonel in command, was Wilkins’ conclusion when he saw him. He stood back in the darkness and looked at the handsome horseman who passed on from the gate in the direction of the colonel’s quarters; then, after a minute of hesitation, he turned in that direction and followed.

Buffalo Bill was no more than in the room which had been assigned him before there was a soft rap on his door. When he opened it, he saw before him Wilkins, pale-faced, bright-eyed, with a lip that was fast swelling, and bruises on his cheeks.

“Come in.”

Wilkins slid into the room, and the scout, closing the door, eyed the young man keenly.

Wilkins was slender, not overmuscular, being of the light and wiry build. Just now his dark face was chalky in its pallor, and his dark eyes burning bright.

The scout, keen reader of the human mind that he was, saw that Wilkins had come in that stealthy way because of something he wished to say in private, and he guessed that the young man was in trouble.

Wilkins dropped nervously into a chair, and pulled nervously at the sleeve of his coat.

“Something I can do for you?” Buffalo Bill asked, in a tone so kind that it touched Wilkins’ heart.

“I have come to make a confession!” he blurted out.

“I can guess that you have been fighting,” said the scout.

“No, I have not; but I was struck down, brutally knocked down, by a man who thinks he has me for his life slave simply because he knows certain things against me.”

His face was flaming again, and his manner was excited.

“Yes, I see!” said the scout, trying to help him along.

“That man is Joel Barlow, now in command here in the absence of the commandant.”

“Not Lieutenant Barlow?”

“Yes, Lieutenant Barlow. And I’m going to tell you about it. I know I shall be disgraced and court-martialed, and perhaps sent to prison; but that doesn’t matter now. I’m going to tell it, if I’m hung for it.”

“I shall be pleased to hear what you have to say.”

Wilkins sprang to his feet, he was so excited, and began to walk about the room.

“Cody, you’ve always been an honorable man, but you know about these things! I’m a gambler; I seem to be a slave to cards. Barlow is another, but he’s shrewder than I am, and I think he is tricky. We played, and I got in debt to him. I owe him five thousand dollars. I can never pay it, of course, and he knows I can’t; for I haven’t five thousand cents, and he knows that, too.

“Well, just because I owed him so much he began to get me to do little favors for him. At first they were all square. Later they have begun to be crooked, and I was too weak to refuse to do them, because of that debt.

“The last has to do with you—with you, Buffalo Bill!”

“With me?”

“Yes. You know that nugget you gave to Colonel Montrose—the nugget with the strange marks on it?”

“Ah, yes, I recall that nugget. I gave it to him not long since. And a strange nugget it is. I’ll tell you about it some time.”

“Well, that nugget comes into my story—holds first place there. For it was stolen from Colonel Montrose by Lieutenant Barlow, and——”

The scout came to his feet.

“Be sure you know just what you are talking about!” he warned. “What you charge Barlow with is a crime that will——”

“I know it. It will ruin him, and I want it to ruin him. That’s why I’m telling you about it; that it may ruin him. I hope it will tear the stripes from his uniform and send him to jail. And it will!”

He walked nervously about the room.

“Better sit down and tell me this quietly,” said the scout. “I’d advise you not to shout it out of the windows. And walls have ears, you know.”

“It doesn’t matter who hears me now,” said Wilkins excitedly. “I wish these walls had a thousand ears, and a thousand tongues to tell the story!”

He strode up and down the room in a very fury of excited anger.

“It ruins me, of course, but it will ruin him, and that’s what I want. He is so high now, in the opinion of the colonel, but this will drag him down.”

“Quiet yourself and tell me the story,” said Buffalo Bill.

“As I said, he stole that nugget from the colonel, and by listening under the colonel’s window he heard its story, and knows that there are many more like it.”

“Ah! He knows that?”

“And he knows where they are; in the Moonlight Mountains, far to the southwest, on the borders of New Mexico.”

“I see that he did hear,” said the scout; “and apparently you heard, also.”

“Those gold pieces are the treasure of an old Indian medicine man, and with them he pretends to work his charms; they are sacred to that medicine man, and to all his tribe. That tribe is a branch of the Cheyennes now held on the reservation near here; and if trouble comes these Cheyennes here can be counted on to help those in the mountains.”

“Very true,” Buffalo Bill admitted softly.

“I’m telling you this,” said Wilkins, “to show you that I know what I am talking about.”

“The proof seems good,” the scout admitted, “so far as it goes.”

Young Wilkins continued to walk about the room nervously, in spite of the scout’s invitation to him to sit down.

“Barlow,” he went on, “intended to get permission to lead a small force over into the Moonlight Mountains. There was a disturbance to be made there, to give him an excuse, and he felt sure he could get the colonel to send him. Well, when he got there he meant to scheme in some way to get those Cheyennes involved and slaughtered, and he expected to get hold of that store of gold belonging to the old medicine man.”

The scout’s interest had quickened.

“Perhaps you know Smallpox Dave?” said Wilkins.

“I have heard of him,” was the answer.

“Well, he’s a borderman, a sort of renegade, I take it. Barlow was going to have Smallpox Dave slip over into the Moonlight Mountains and there start the initial trouble which was to give him an excuse for being sent there. So he had some talk with Dave; and then, later, wrote him a letter. At the time he wrote that letter he wrote another.”

“To Smallpox Dave?”

“No, to a girl named May Arlington, who lives out on the prairie here with her father. Barlow is in love with the girl, but he didn’t get on well with her; and this letter had something to do with that. She turned him down a week or so ago.”

“From what you have told me of him I judge she did the right thing.”

“Yes, she did. But about these letters. I was to be the messenger who was to carry them.”

“Then you were in the thing, too?” said the scout, looking hard at him.

Wilkins turned toward him, trembling and white-faced.

“Yes,” he admitted, “I was. I had got down that low, by degrees. I tried to tell you about it, and how it started in my gambling mania and the debt I owed him. I was helping him in this thing; or, rather, was running some errands for him in connection with it.”

“And if those gold nuggets of the medicine man were secured I suppose you were to have had some of them?”

“No; not so far as I know. Barlow made no promises to me. He said he wanted me to help him; and—well, I had so far weakened, under the threats of disgrace he held over me, that lately I had taken to doing anything he told me to, without stopping to ask questions about it. And so I was to carry those letters. They were left on a table by Barlow, who had been called from his room in a hurry. I got them mixed; and the letter with the nugget, intended for Smallpox Dave, I threw out to the girl as I passed the house where she lives. And the other letter I carried on to Smallpox Dave—the letter which rightly belonged to the girl.”

“Yes, I see.”

“It’s a long story, and the rest of it I’ll make short.

“The theft of the nugget from the colonel’s room was discovered. In some way it was believed that a man from outside did the work. In the search that was made, the soldiers—pack of fools that they were!—struck my trail, and followed it.”

“They weren’t so very far wrong,” remarked the scout. “You acknowledge that the nugget was in the letter you carried.”

Wilkins frowned; he did not like the interruption.

“They followed me. Another horseman had come to the house where the girl lived, and they arrested him, thinking they had their man.”

“I should say they were poor trailers, if they couldn’t tell the hoofmarks of your horse from his. No two are ever alike, any more than two faces are alike.”

“But they had the proof right on him, you see! He had the nugget. It was in the letter I threw to the girl as I flew by; she had shown it to him, and he was looking at it when they came on him.

“And so they arrested both him and the girl, and brought them in to the fort. He was the girl’s lover—the one she cared for—and his name is Ben Stevens. He’s a cowboy on one of these ranches.”

“And they’re here now—the young cowboy and the girl?” the scout asked.

“Yes; he’s in the prison pen, and she is with Mrs. McGee.”

“And Barlow is in command here now?”

“Yes.”

“And, being the real thief himself, he has flung this young cowboy into jail, and has held the girl?”

“Yes.”

Buffalo Bill bored Wilkins with a keen glance.

“And you—why did you come to me with this?”

Wilkins’ violent wrath blazed out again as he answered, “Because I want to depose him. I’ve told you already—it’s because I want to ruin him.”

“But why?”

Wilkins flung himself round and faced the scout, and put a finger on his swollen lip, and showed his battered face.

“That’s why!” he almost screamed. “He struck me—he knocked me down; he treated me as no man would treat a dog.”

“What was his reason for striking you? He must have thought he at least had a good reason? You had threatened to betray him?”

“His reason was that he caught me listening under the window at Mrs. McGee’s to some talk he was having with the girl; but he was mistaken in believing that I deliberately eavesdropped. I listened, but it was only by chance I knew he was talking there. And for that he struck me and abused me.”

“I suppose you know the result of this exposure of him?”

“As far as I am concerned? Yes, I know it will disgrace me. But I don’t care now. I’ve ruined myself with gambling. I expect to go down; and when I go down I’m going to pull him down with me.”

He turned toward the door.

“Think what you please of me, Cody,” he said. “It doesn’t matter now. You’re an upright man, and can’t understand these things probably; and I’m a wild and wrecked young fool on the borders of disgrace. But I swore I’d do him, and I’ve done it. The rest is for you. When you want me send for me; I’ll tell all I know, and I’ll then take my medicine. But he goes down with me, and that suits me.”

He flung himself out of the room in wild desperation, and went clattering down the stairs.

CHAPTER XXII.
OUTSIDE THE WALLS.

Lieutenant Joel Barlow had seen the entrance of Buffalo Bill into the barricaded land about the fort, and when the scout had gone on to his room at the colonel’s headquarters, Barlow had beheld Wilkins going in the same direction.

That view of Wilkins following on after the scout struck sudden suspicion into the mind of Barlow. He followed Wilkins, and saw him go toward the room which the scout, as he knew, occupied.

“Something’s up,” he whispered to himself. Thereupon he took off his shoes, and crept through the hall up to Buffalo Bill’s door.

So cleverly did he perform this feat that even the keen-eared scout was not aware that a spy stood outside with eye to the keyhole, and hearing strained to the utmost to get every word that was said. No very close listening was needed, however, for in his rage Wilkins lifted his voice.

Barlow’s face grew pale, and he shook with rage as great as that of the young man who was talking to the scout. He knew that he was being ruined by that story, and if he could have safely reached Wilkins with a knife he would have struck him dead.

When he saw that Wilkins had about finished his revelation and would not remain much longer in the room, Barlow retreated into the yard for safety.

For a minute he stood in hesitation. The desire to kill Wilkins burned like a flame in his heart.

“I’ll do it later,” he said, as he moved off; “he can’t escape me. I’ll kill him for that just as sure as the sun rises.”

He hurried to the stables. There getting his horse he rode down to a palisaded gate. Being the officer in command, and stating that he was going to ride round outside for a while, he was permitted to pass out without a word of question.

He rode straight out from the fort into the darkness for a short distance, making the hoofs of his horse clatter, for the benefit of the listening sentry by the gate. Then he drew the horse down, and rode softly back until he was near the corner of the wall on that side, and tied his horse to a stunted mesquite that grew a few hundred yards from the wall.

Leaving the horse, he was about to slip on to the wall, and climb quietly back into the grounds by a way he knew, when a dark form rose apparently out of the ground before him. He stopped, hoping he had not been seen.

“Is that you, lieutenant?”

The voice which called to him was familiar.

Barlow breathed a sigh of relief. “Yes,” he said, and immediately the dark form came forward.

“I been wonderin’ how I could git inside to see ye.”

“Don’t speak so loud, Dave,” Barlow warned, “or you may be heard.”

“It was jes’ luck that I did see ye, too,” went on the villain.

“Your eyes are keen, to recognize me in the darkness here!” Barlow observed.

“Lieutenant, there ain’t many better; I kin see in the dark jes’ like a cat. What’s up?”

“Who said anything was up?”

“You did; by the way you sneaked along there; and why was you goin’ to climb over the wall here, ’stead of goin’ in through the gate? A blind man could tell somethin’ was up by them things.”

“Don’t talk so loud!” He advanced a step and caught Smallpox Dave by the arm. “And listen! I’m glad you’re here, for I need you. You’re always ready to earn money, and I’m ready to pay you more for this job than any you ever undertook for me.”

“It’s about ther nugget?”

“Don’t speak of that—here! Do you understand? Keep your mouth shut about that. And now, listen.”

“I’m listenin’,” was the answer.

“You have a horse here, or near?”

“Right out yender.”

“I thought so. What brought you here?”

“Well, say, it was that letter you sent me. It mixed me all up. What did you mean by askin’ me fer ter marry ye, and callin’ me yer sweetheart and all them kind of things? Say, now, wouldn’t that run any man crazy? What did ye mean by it? Er was it some sort of a cipher letter you thought mebbe I’d be able to read. I tried to figger it out, thinkin’ maybe that ‘sweetheart’ meant ther nugget, and that when you said you wanted ter marry me you was only tryin’ to tell me you wanted ter see me bad. I didn’t know but maybe you was afraid ther letter would be opened, and——”

“Curse the letter!” Barlow snarled. “Don’t speak of it!”

“But why did ye send it?”

“It was a mistake—a piece of extreme carelessness on the part of the fellow who carried it. Understand?”

“Well, he didn’t stop fer nothin’; he jes’ skipped the letter ter me as he rid along, and then on he flew, as if ther Cheyennes was after his scalp. What’d that mean?”

“That meant that he was simply in a hurry; that I had told him to ride to another place and back, and he had to rush to do it and get back in the time allowed.”

“I reckon he killed his hoss, then!”

“No, he came in all right, and the horse was all right.”

“I don’t jes’ understand about that mistake?”

“That was a letter I sent to a girl, and the letter with the nugget in it, which I meant for you to get, she got, all through the work of that fool messenger.”

Smallpox Dave whistled softly. “Oh-o, I see. So you wasn’t intendin’ to call me all them sweet names? But about ther nugget, and the letter I didn’t git?”

“It was the gold nugget, and the letter appointed a place where we could meet for a talk. But you’re here now.”

“And the nugget?”

“I’ll tell you all about it when I have more time. Just now I want you to help me. Stay right here, and soon I’ll come to you. How long will it take to get to your horse?”

“’Bout three jumps and a half,” said Smallpox Dave, with a laugh. “It’s clost ter hand.”

“Have your horse ready, so that you can help me with that. And here—remember that I pay well. We may have to get out of here to-night, if we want to get hold of the rest of those nuggets.”

He slipped a coin into the rascal’s hand, and then running to the corner of the wall, he found a place where he could mount it, and soon was on top of the palisades. Then he dropped, or climbed, down on the inside, and was lost to the view of Smallpox Dave.

“Somethin’s up, more’n he was willin’ ter tell me!” thought the desperado, as he felt of the coin and dropped it into his pocket. “So he’s goin’ to make a strike to git that Injun gold? Well, I’ll go with him in that, you bet; but when we git the gold if I don’t cut his throat and skip out o’ ther country with his half as well as mine then my name ain’t Smallpox Dave. Which it ain’t!” he added whimsically.

CHAPTER XXIII.
DRIVEN BY DESPERATION.

Buffalo Bill did not remain long in his room after hearing that remarkable confession from young Wilkins. When he left it, he sought that of Corporal Clendenning.

With the commandant and also the captain absent, Joel Barlow, in his position of lieutenant, was the ranking officer at Fort Cimarron. Buffalo Bill thought of this as he went in search of the corporal.

As if to balk him, or cause him hesitation, Clendenning was not in.

“Shall I look for him, or shall I take the sole responsibility of this move?” was the scout’s question, when he found that Clendenning was not to be found readily.

While debating it, he saw in the darkness Lieutenant Joel Barlow ride down to the palisade gate and ride forth alone into the night.

This looked so suspicious that the scout lost no time in getting his horse and following. But, quickly as he moved, Barlow had returned to the corner of the wall and was talking with Smallpox Dave before the scout got outside.

Thus it chanced that as Buffalo Bill rode on and away from the fort, seeking for the crafty lieutenant, the latter, having scaled the wall and dropped down inside, was making his way toward the abode of Mrs. McGee, where the girl had been lodged.

When he approached this section of the house, which adjoined the big cook room, and found Mrs. McGee’s ample form directly in front of him, for she was sitting in the doorway and saw him before he saw her, he was forced to play again a crafty game.

“A good evening to you, Mrs. McGee,” he said, lifting his cap gallantly.

“Bad cess to the likes av all av ye!” said outspoken Mrs. McGee. “The Lard niver made ye, I know, and may the divil fly away wid his works, says I!”

“A kindly greeting, Mrs. McGee,” he said, trying to laugh and to seem at ease. “Your tongue must have been scraping over the grindstone lately, I’m judging. What are you swearing at me about?”

“Swearin’ at yez, is it? Who be swearin’ at ye?”

“Why, I thought you were.”

“I wouldn’t waste me breath swearin’ at ye.”

“I suppose you know that I’m in command here during the colonel’s absence?”

“I know it. The orneriest birds fly highest whin they git the chance.”

“Come, Mrs. McGee,” he said, hardly able to control his irritation, “what is it you have against me?”

“Do ye need to ask it?”

“I am asking it.”

“It’s about the gyrul, bless her hear-rt! She do be cryin’ her two eyes out all the time.”

“Well, that’s just what I came down here for, Mrs. McGee, to have a talk with her; I’ve arranged matters so that both she and that young fellow can be released at once.”

“Do yez mane it?” said Mrs. McGee, rising.

“Nothing else.”

“Hiven be praised, thin! And I’m takin’ back all the mane things I was thinkin’ about ye, and sayin’ to yer face as well as behint yer back.”

“Can I go in to see her?”

Mrs. McGee hesitated.

“I’ll tell her it’s you that’s wantin’ to say her.”

She set out to do this, but crafty Barlow followed her; and when she opened the girl’s door he was right behind her, and pushed on in without asking permission to enter.

Mrs. McGee retreated with as good grace as she could, but hovered in the hall, to be near if needed. She did not trust Lieutenant Barlow, and she was ready to follow her suspicions with sharp words and sharp deeds if they seemed to be needed.

The girl retreated across the room when she saw who her caller was.

“Come, now, don’t be foolish, May!” said Barlow, advancing upon her in the corner to which she had fled.

She stared at him. She could not retreat farther.

“What is it you want now?” she asked doggedly.

“You!”

“I—I don’t understand you!”

“Well, during the past month or so I’ve tried to make myself plain on that point.”

“And you have had my answer.”

“You couldn’t change it?”

“No.”

“All right, then. I’m here, as I ought to have informed you at once, to tell you that I have found a way by which both you and Ben Stevens may leave this place.”

She took a step toward him eagerly. “Do you mean it?”

“I shouldn’t say it, otherwise. I have talked with the other officers here, and with Buffalo Bill, the scout, who has just come in; and they are of the opinion that it is wrong to hold you and Stevens. I beg you to understand that whatever I did I did believing it the thing I was forced to do, not the thing I wished to do. And now if you’ll go with me I’ll see that you are furnished a horse, and you and Stevens may both leave here as soon as you like.”

She was about to follow him impulsively; but something bade her stop. It may have been something peculiar in his voice, hinting of treachery. Whatever it was, it was as if a wall had been suddenly raised before her and she was warned not to pass it.

“You mean it?” she said, looking at him intently.

“Why should I take the trouble to come here and say it, if I didn’t mean it?” he asked.

“Oh, I don’t know—I don’t know!”

He stepped to the door, expecting her to follow him, but she did not.

“Aren’t you coming?” he asked. “What’s the trouble now? You complained because I held you and Stevens, after you were brought here. Now what is it?”

Though he tried hard, he could not keep the irritation out of his voice.

“I—I don’t think I’ll go until after I’ve seen Mrs. McGee.”

“Well, Mrs. McGee is just beyond here. You can see her as we pass out.”

She saw his eagerness. Why should he be eager to have her leave that room? Again that warning, which she felt and could not understand, came to her; and again it was like a barrier.

“No,” she said; “I must see Mrs. McGee before I go with you.”

He did not want her to see Mrs. McGee.

“Come,” he urged, “don’t be foolish!”

He caught her by the wrist, and his grip was so fierce and painful that a little cry was drawn from her. Thereupon the door flew open leading into the hall, and Mrs. McGee bounced in. There was fire and fury in her manner.

“Ye rapscallion!” she cried. “It’s me that will be scrapin’ the two eyes out av yer head av yez don’t let go av the young leddy.”

Barlow was thrown into a rage. Time was precious to him, and he knew the loud voice of Mrs McGee would bring some one hurrying to the spot.

“Stand back!” he said. “I’m the commander here, Mrs. McGee, and I won’t stand any of your nonsense.”

But her rush was so fierce that he released the arm of the girl to defend himself.

“No matter phat yez are, ye’re no gintleman!” Mrs. McGee told him, as she scratched and struck at his face. “Run!” she panted to the girl. “Git outside and yell fer help, while I fight this divil here. I knew he was plannin’ the black deed. Run fur yer life!”

The girl started to run.

Barlow caught the old woman by the throat now and jammed her heavily against the wall; and, when she still fought and scratched at him, he dealt her a smashing blow between the eyes that dropped her like an ox in the shambles.

As she fell he sprang over her and dashed after May Arlington, who was running through the corridor, gasping in an attempt to make an outcry that would bring help. He overtook her with quick leaps before she gained the outside door, and again his hand fell on her arm.

“Come!” he said, “this is foolish. That old idiot butted in where she had no business. I don’t intend to harm you, and——”

May Arlington turned on him, wild and desperate; though she really did not know what she feared.

“Let me go!” she begged.

“Come with me quietly then. I mean no harm.”

“No!”

“You won’t go with me?”

“No—no, I——”

He thought he heard footsteps outside, and he knew that Mrs. McGee would soon be on her feet and yelling behind him. He could not parley, nor delay.

“I see I’ve got to save you, in spite of yourself,” he said. “You don’t understand the situation, and I haven’t wanted to scare you by telling you of it. But the Cheyennes are on the warpath and will attack the fort in less than an hour. What I want to do is to get you outside and to safety while I can.”

She stopped her desperate resistance.

“The Cheyennes?” she gasped.

“Yes, and we’ve got to get out of here quick.”

“And Mr. Stevens?” she asked.

“He is to be released and will join you!”

“You’re not lying to me?”

“Why should I? Come quick.”

She was almost convinced. “No!” she said, again feeling that warning, and also because it did not seem right for her to leave Mrs. McGee.

“You won’t let me help you, to save you from the Cheyennes?”

“No. Please release my wrist. I’m going back to see what you have done to Mrs. McGee.”

A bitter curse broke from his lips.

“Then I’ll save you in spite of yourself.”

He caught out from his pocket what seemed a very large handkerchief. Before she divined his intent he threw it over her head; and then clutching her by the throat, he stifled her cries.

The assault was so sudden and dastardly, and withal it so frightened her, that she slid to the floor in a faint.

“Thank Heaven for that!” he panted.

Then he caught her in his arms, drew open the door before him, and, carrying her thus, he stepped out into the darkness of the yard.

CHAPTER XXIV.
THE MAN IN THE SHADOWS.

When Buffalo Bill returned to the palisade gate, having seen nothing of Lieutenant Barlow, the man he had followed out on the prairie, he was careful to ask the sentry if Barlow had returned.

Being told that Barlow was still outside—a thing which the sentry believed to be true—the scout rode slowly away from the gate, intending to look farther.

Riding thus along he saw near the corner of the palisade wall the slinking form of Smallpox Dave.

He did not know who the man was, and could not see him clearly, but the renegade’s creeping manner spoke of treacherous conduct of some kind.

Thereupon Buffalo Bill softly dismounted, and, leaving his horse standing, he crept toward that corner of the wall, intending to discover just what this man was doing.

Smallpox Dave had secreted himself in the shadows by the wall. His horse and that of Lieutenant Barlow were well concealed not far off, and he was awaiting Barlow’s reappearance and further orders. He did not know that the scout was drawing close upon him, for the advance of Buffalo Bill was made as quietly as that of a panther.

When still some yards from the hiding spot of Smallpox Dave, Buffalo Bill dropped to the ground, intending to await the movement of the man hidden by the wall, whom he was now unable to see.

He had scarcely done so when he heard hurried feet within the ground of the fort, and then a whispering voice:

“All ready over there?”

Buffalo Bill lifted himself on hands and knees and felt for his revolver. He knew the words were not meant for him. Nevertheless, he would be ready for whatever happened.

The man in the shadow whispered something.

The feet were heard again on the other side of the wall, and this was followed by a scraping sound. Then the form of Lieutenant Barlow appeared on top of the wall with the unconscious girl in his arms.

“Hoist that block,” Barlow commanded.

Smallpox Dave came out of his concealment and up-ended against the wall a length of timber, slanting it against the wall. To the top of this he scrambled, and reached up his arms to help Barlow with his burden.

“Be careful there,” Barlow cautioned.

“What ye got?” was the question.

“A girl—a woman. She’s fainted. Steady there!”

He clambered over the top of the wall, and with Barlow’s help began to slide down to the ground.

At this juncture May Arlington came suddenly out of her swoon. The descending motion made her think she was falling, and she screamed.

Apparently the time for action on the scout’s part had come. Buffalo Bill sprang forward, a revolver swinging in his right hand.

“Halt there!” he commanded.

The girl screamed, and a curse of rage broke from Barlow.

“Halt!” said the scout. “Surrender that girl, whoever she is, and whoever you are.”

Smallpox Dave was unfortunately so frightened by this that he gave a wild jump backward, away from the wall; and in this jump one of his flying feet struck the end of the scout’s extended revolver.

A loud report sounded, as the revolver was discharged harmlessly into the air.

The girl and Barlow dropped together to the ground, seeming to fall in a heap.

Smallpox Dave, being down, and hardly knowing what he did, caught Buffalo Bill by the ankle, as the scout tried to leap to the aid of the girl. The result was that the scout came down heavily across the body of Smallpox Dave, who wound his arms around Buffalo Bill, and tried to hold him.

The scout smashed his fist into the face of the renegade and tried to wrench loose.

Valuable time was thus lost, and this valuable time Barlow made the most of, by catching the girl up in his arms and running with her straight out from the wall into the darkness.

When Buffalo Bill succeeded in breaking the hold of Smallpox Dave, he leaped to his feet, with the intention of rushing in pursuit of Barlow, but again he was balked by the renegade, who caught him once more by the ankles and tripped him so that he fell sprawling.

Nevertheless, he sprang up and went in pursuit of the vanishing forms as quickly as he could.

But the time lost had been all in favor of Lieutenant Barlow. The darkness was a friendly aid. Buffalo Bill could not now see him, nor, when he stopped to harken, could the scout hear him.

Buffalo Bill dropped flat to the ground, and listened with ear pressed to the earth. The only sounds reaching him were from the direction of the palisade wall. Footsteps were approaching from that direction, which led the scout to think that the man who had so troubled and foiled him there was advancing.

“Gone into hiding,” was his conclusion concerning the man with the girl; “and if he is clever at it, in this darkness he will make trouble.”

For some time he lay flat on his face listening. Finally he rose to a half-sitting position, for the man advancing stealthily from the direction of the wall was now quite near.

This man was Smallpox Dave. The villain had his knife out, and was warily picking his way along, not knowing what foe he might meet, and trying to be prepared for any encounter. He was aware that the man whom he had tackled was none other than the noted scout, Buffalo Bill. His face was bleeding, his throat ached from the clutching grip of the scout’s iron fingers, and his head roared in a dizzy way.

He was proceeding in the direction in which he had left his own horse and that of Barlow, and he was hoping there to meet Barlow and learn from him what was now to be done. At the same time he was watching, not wishing to run afoul of Buffalo Bill. Yet that was the very thing he did.

A hand reached forward and upward out of the darkness, his leg was caught, he was thrown with blinding and stunning quickness, and then the redoubtable scout was on top of him, holding a knife at his throat.

“Make a sound and you die!” was whispered in his ear, while the blade of the knife was pressed down against his throat in a way to make him lay as quiet as if dead.

“Let up!” he begged, in a hoarse whisper.

A cord was thrown round one wrist, and leg irons were snapped on his ankles, and they held him now helpless.

“Hold out your hands,” was the low command.

“See here, I don’t know ye, but I ain’t done nothin’!” Smallpox Dave whined, thoroughly alarmed now.

Buffalo Bill tied him. “You’re the man I had a fight with by the wall a few minutes ago,” he said. “Tell me who the other man was who came over the wall, and who the girl was?”

“I dunno what you’re talkin’ about!” Smallpox Dave whined.

“Oh, yes, you do; and you’ll out with it, or I’ll use this knife on you! I’m looking for that other man, and if you talk quick and talk straight it will be all the better for you. I want to know who that man was, and what has become of him?”

“Boss, I’d tell you if I knowed; I don’t know!”

Bound though Smallpox Dave was, the scout gripped him again by the throat.

“You scoundrel, speak out the truth, and speak it quick!” he cried.

Smallpox Dave gasped and gurgled. “Don’t—don’t!” he begged. “I’ll tell what I know.”

The fingers of the scout relaxed.

“Speak quick,” he commanded. “Who was that man?”

Smallpox Dave shivered—he did not want to tell, but again the scout set his fingers to the throat of the miscreant.

“Yes, I’ll tell,” the strangling and frightened wretch now wheezed.

“Who was that man?” Buffalo Bill demanded.

“Lieutenant Barlow.”

“And the girl?”

“The one that lived in the sod house out on the prairie—Arlington’s girl.”

The scout released him.

“Lie there, and if you make any sound, when I come back it will be the worse for you.”

Buffalo Bill leaped away, going once more in the direction which Barlow seemed to have taken the girl.

CHAPTER XXV.
A VILLAIN IN FLIGHT.

Lieutenant Joel Barlow was clever in his flight.

He knew that it was Buffalo Bill who had appeared at the corner of the wall, and with whom he had left Smallpox Dave fighting. And he feared the scout above all other men, for Buffalo Bill was noted as a hater of wrongs of all kinds, and as a relentless punisher of wrongdoers.

Barlow’s first intention was to gain the point where the horses had been secreted by Smallpox Dave, and with these horses make a wild flight. But he was so quickly pursued by the scout that, instead of making that attempt at once, he simply dropped down in the darkness, in a low, grassy swale, and lay there, without motion or word.

Fortunately for him, the girl had again fainted, and when he dropped her to the ground she lay there as one dead. Thus it had come about that when the scout, by pressing his ear to the earth, sought for some sound of the fleeing man no sound reached him.

Not until Buffalo Bill had engaged again with Smallpox Dave and a hot struggle was for a few moments in progress did Barlow dare to climb to his feet, when he lifted the girl in his arms, and continued his flight.

Thus while the scout was threatening Smallpox Dave and getting from him Barlow’s name and the name of the girl, the desperate lieutenant gained the screen of bushes where the horses were; and he took with him the scout’s own horse, which he encountered and captured.

“Good-by, Smallpox Dave,” he whispered; “you served me well once, but I can’t wait for you. I’d like to stay to help you; but self-protection first, you know. And it’s get out of here now for me, or a drumhead court-martial and shot to death by rifle bullets as a traitor; at any rate, I’ll be counted a traitor, when I have put this thing through. I’m off for the nuggets; and if you aren’t with me, why, then I shan’t have to divide.”

As he lifted the girl, intending to hoist her to the back of the horse, she came partly from out of the fainting state in which she had so long been.

“Poor little girl!” he said. “Yet you’ll think I’m the finest fellow in the world in a week or so, see if you don’t. Just now I suppose you’d try to scratch my eyes out, like dear Mother McGee, if you only could! My efforts were always unappreciated.”

The desperate devil in his make-up had broken bounds and now controlled him body and soul.

Barlow had been wild and reckless at school, and at West Point, where he narrowly escaped being dismissed in disgrace. He had gambled and drank, and got away with the small fortune left to him by his father, who was long since dead. In Baltimore he had become mixed up in a quarrel of a disgraceful nature, and had stabbed a man to death; but his friends swore so glibly at the trial that he was acquitted on the ground of self-defense. After that Barlow had tried for a time to lead a more decent existence. He had been sent out to this post on the Texas frontier. Then he began to gamble and to drink again.

He laughed to himself as he lifted the girl; laughed at the thought of outwitting the scout; laughed at the consternation which his deed of desperation would create in the fort; and while thus laughing cast a glimpse into the near future.

“I’ll get that gold, and then off for some other country!”

The girl moaned as he threw her brutally on the back of the horse and took the reins of the other horses. Climbing into the saddle he held the girl in front of him, and permitted the horses to walk quietly out of the little trees and away over the soft grass, which was so like a carpet that their hoofs made hardly a sound.

Yet this sound Buffalo Bill heard, as he left Smallpox Dave and started again in pursuit of Barlow.

But crafty Barlow, drawing rein and sitting in silence, also heard the scout, and he drew the girl closer to him.

“My dear, now we’re going to have a ride such as you read about!”

She shivered as she came back to consciousness, or at least partial consciousness.

“Where am I? And where are you taking me?”

“My dear May, you are with your ever-devoted servant, and we are off for a little ride. We’ll make it a pleasure trip, and perhaps there will be a wedding come of it very shortly. You don’t know me? Well, just at present I’m Reckless Joe, known hitherto as Lieutenant Joel Barlow. And here we go!”

He drove his spurs into the flanks of the horse he was riding, lashed the others, and was soon riding at wild speed away from the fort and straight out into the deep darkness of the night.

He heard the whiplike report of a revolver, and knew that Buffalo Bill had fired it to rouse the fort.

“Catch me who can!” he muttered. “It will be a long race, and I know where I am going.”

CHAPTER XXVI.
STARTLING NEWS.

Buffalo Bill knew that successful pursuit of Lieutenant Barlow would be difficult. Barlow had a good start, and the night was dark. Nevertheless, after firing that shot intended to arouse the fort, he ran to get his own horse, and found it gone.

He was searching for it when the palisade gate flew open, and Corporal Clendenning and some troopers rode forth, to see what the shooting meant.

The scout called to them.

“I don’t like to make accusations against an officer,” he said, as they joined him, “yet I must ask that an immediate pursuit of Lieutenant Barlow be made; and I will lead, if you will furnish me with a horse. Mine is gone.”

“Lieutenant Barlow!” gasped the amazed Clendenning.

“There is a man out here whom I have captured,” the scout went on. “A man came over the wall from the inside with a girl in his arms, and this man tried to help him. I failed to stop what seemed to be an abduction; the abductor escaped, and took the girl with him. The man who is now my prisoner confessed that the other man was Lieutenant Barlow. The girl is the young lady who was brought here charged with the theft of that nugget. You will, I’m sure, find her gone.”

They gathered round him, with astonished questions.

“But Lieutenant Barlow wouldn’t——”

“I ask for an investigation. Can any one find Barlow in the fort, or find the young lady? Let a search be made; and, meanwhile, some of you come with me and see my prisoner.”

They found the rascal, Smallpox Dave, trying to crawl away. He had made good progress, too, in spite of his being bound; but he dropped back sullenly when the scout and the troopers rode up to him.

“Tell these men what you told me,” the scout commanded; “I mean the name of the man who came over the wall with the young woman in his arms and has now ridden away.”

Smallpox Dave’s wrath blazed out now like the flash of a gunpowder explosion. A great oath ripped from his lips.

“Yes, and cuss him for the coward he is; he’s cut out, takin’ my hoss, as well as his!” he declared. “I’ll settle with him fer that!”

“His name?” said the scout.

“His name? Why, it’s that lieutenant, Barlow! And we was to work together, and I was to have half of it, and——”

“The name of the girl?”

“Ther one he was sweet on—ther Arlington girl, livin’ over yender on the prairies.”

“But there may be—must be—a mistake,” urged Corporal Clendenning. “Lieutenant Barlow wouldn’t do a thing of this kind. Besides, we can’t accept the word of such a man as this scoundrel. Cody, I’m afraid you’re making a mistake, and——”

“Corporal Clendenning, you’re the man in command here now. Give me some men to make a pursuit with.”

“Cody, I shall——”

“Furnish me a horse, then. My own horse is lame at present.”

“But Cody——” objected Clendenning again.

“Can I have a horse? Every moment makes pursuit more difficult.”

“In my opinion, Lieutenant Barlow is within the fort now, and this man is lying,” said Clendenning. “What his object is I don’t know.”

As Corporal Clendenning was unwilling to believe the statement of Smallpox Dave, and so was reluctant to furnish the scout with a horse before making an investigation, Buffalo Bill returned into the grounds of the fort with the troopers, taking his prisoner with him.

They were no more than inside when Mrs. McGee appeared, raging and almost hysterical.

“Oh, the thafe!” she cried. “That I should live to see it, and that he should strike me in that way! Och, whin I get me two hands on him I’ll choke him black in the face! Who was it? ’Twas Lieutenant Barlow! I’ve knowed he was that crooked he c’u’dn’t walk straight! And it’s the gyurl he has taken wid him, bad cess to his picture! I don’t understand it at all, but——”

“There, Clendenning, is part of the proof you want!” said the scout. “Look for Lieutenant Barlow here, and you’ll find him gone. Look for the girl here, and you’ll find, likewise, that she is gone. Give me a horse, so that I may go in pursuit, if you don’t dare to take the responsibility of conducting such a pursuit yourself.”

There was a stir beyond the palisade gate, together with the challenge of a sentry.

“Who goes there?” the sentry asked.

The answer was sharp and clear:

“Wild Bill Hickok. My good friend, it’s so dark that I don’t even know myself, but if you’ll speak that name to Buffalo Bill, who I think is on the inside, he may bring a lantern out here and light up my face enough to recognize me.”

“Hickok!” cried Buffalo Bill, with joy. “The one man above all others that I should most prefer to see just now!”

He turned to the gate.

“That’s Wild Bill Hickok,” he said to the sentry. “I know his voice, even if he hadn’t announced his name. I’ll guarantee with my life that he is all right.”

Hickok was permitted to enter; and, as most of the men there had seen him, and all had the highest regard for him, there was almost an ovation as he came in through the gate.

He was mounted, and he threw himself out of the saddle to clasp the hand of his old pard, Buffalo Bill.

“Glad to see you—more than words can tell, Hickok! What’s the news?”

“I came to bring it,” said Wild Bill, “and you’ll say it’s important. Half a hundred young Cheyennes broke from the reservation last night and have gone on the warpath. I’ve got news for you, too, Cody; but I reckon it’ll have to wait.”

The news of the outbreak stirred the fort. But the sensation it created was not so great as that caused by the discovery that Lieutenant Barlow had departed in that wildly sensational manner, bearing with him the young woman who had been brought into the fort but a few hours before as a prisoner, charged with the theft of a gold nugget belonging to Colonel Montrose.

That they might know more of this, the troopers gathered round Smallpox Dave, asking him questions. But by this time Smallpox Dave had become cautious. He was frightened. In telling of the wickedness of Barlow he saw that he was only incriminating himself, for he had assisted Barlow in the things he had done. So now he refused to talk, and refused to answer the questions that were hurled at him.

He was taken to the prison where Ben Stevens had for some hours been held.

Buffalo Bill went to that prison and succeeded in getting Clendenning to release Stevens.

The young lover was frantic when he learned what had befallen his sweetheart, May Arlington.

“Give me a horse,” he begged, “and I will follow him alone!”

It was the cry that had been made by Buffalo Bill.

Already the scout had made up his mind to set forth, if in no other way, mounted with Wild Bill on the back of Wild Bill’s horse.

But Clendenning now relented.

“I can furnish you a horse, Cody,” he said. “I beg your pardon if I’ve been wrong, and I hope I’m not wrong now. It all seems strange. I wish I could do more, Cody; but you may have a horse, and as many of them as you want.”

So much delay had resulted that it seemed almost like making the proverbial search for a needle in a haystack when Buffalo Bill and Wild Bill rode forth from Fort Cimarron in pursuit of Lieutenant Barlow. With them went the young cowboy, Ben Stevens.

“I’ll follow him to the ends of the earth!” said Stevens; “and when I find him it’s his life or mine! This world ain’t big enough to hold the two of us from this on!”

CHAPTER XXVII.
THE SKY MIRROR.

With the aid of torches, an effort was made to pick up the trail close by the fort.

The scouts found some hoofmarks, and from them gained what they believed to be the general direction of Barlow’s flight.

It was known, however, that Barlow was shrewd, and the chances were good that he would change his course after leaving the fort some distance behind him.

When daylight came nothing was to be seen by the scouts but the broad expanse of prairie grass lying before them.

In that section of country the grass is not the tall prairie grass of better-watered regions; but it is the short “buffalo grass,” growing but an inch or two high. It is fine and mossy in texture and of a gray-green in color, and when the land is clothed with it the traveler looks out on a gray-green expanse that widens before him like a limitless carpet.

Here and there a few “groves,” or patches of mesquite, a bush of the size of a small peach tree, broke the otherwise illimitable sweep of the eye.

Besides these breaks of mesquite there were, as the scouts knew, innumerable swales and “draws.” These were low land, some being grassy depressions but a few yards in diameter, others of much greater extent. In addition, and resembling them, were the old “buffalo wallows,” depressions which the buffaloes had gouged out with their heads and horns in the rainy seasons in their efforts to rid themselves of mosquitoes and other insects.

The two scouts and their young companion sat quietly on their horses and saw the sun rise out of this grassy sea like a ball of red fire. It was truly a glorious sight.

“Nothing down Panhandle way,” said Wild Bill, as he looked southward into Texas—that portion of Texas known as the “Panhandle.”

“And nothing over toward No Man’s Land,” said Buffalo Bill.

“No Man’s Land,” it may be said, is that extension of the Indian Territory stretching between the Panhandle of Texas and western Kansas. It was formerly a possession of the Cherokee Indians, and was called the “Cherokee Outlet,” or “The Neutral Strip.” Over it the Cherokees were privileged to pass from their reservation eastward to the hunting grounds of the West. In later years, being a neglected and forsaken country, with little pretensions to an exercise of legal authority, it became the resort of desperadoes of all sorts and degrees, and was known as “No Man’s Land.” In it were a few towns with no recognized legal standing, some cattle companies that were really lawbreakers by being there, and certain Indians herded on reservations. To these must be added outlaws and “bad men” generally of the kind that infested the frontier.

But when Wild Bill and Buffalo Bill looked out on its peaceful surface that morning, with the red sun rising in the east as if it were a disk of red gold which some giant hand was pushing up out of the ground, there was nowhere a suggestion of anything unlawful, of any bloodshed, or red ruins of the border.

Not an outlaw, not an Indian, not a soldier, was in sight; nothing was visible except the three horsemen, who sat their horses as if they were carved images and who looked, with their horses, like figures in bronze, as the gold of the sunlight fell on them.

“Nothing anywhere,” said Stevens, struggling inwardly with despair and suspense.

He was a handsome fellow, this young cowboy, with tanned face, clear, flashing blue eyes, muscular body, and broad shoulders, with thick brown hair curling under his wide-brimmed hat. He was such a man as a woman would quickly learn to love.

“Nothing anywhere in sight, anyhow,” said Wild Bill; “but that don’t prove that there ain’t any number of redskins, or outlaws, or maybe peaceful folk, within no more than a mile of us, hiding in some of the hollows and draws.”

As if to show that this region was not wholly devoid of life, at that moment a band of antelopes broke from a ravine less than a mile away and went gamboling over the short grass, furnishing as pretty a picture as the eye could wish to see. The white patches on their flanks glistened in the sunlight.

“No, Injuns, or other kind of cattle, over there,” commented Wild Bill, when he saw them. “Or, if there are, they’re lying too still for the antelopes to see them.”

The antelopes swept on across the level land and disappeared in another depression a mile or more away.

“The thing we’ll have to do is to separate and look for the trail,” said Buffalo Bill. “We can cover a good deal of country in a couple of hours, and then we can come together and compare notes.” He glanced around again. “You see the mesquite grove straight ahead, with the tall mesquite growing in the center of it like a sentinel? What do you say for that as our rendezvous?”

“Good enough!” assented Wild Bill. “We’ll meet there in two hours and compare notes.”

“And if we strike the trail, either of us, let a pistol shot announce the fact,” said Stevens; “and then the others can join him.”

He was anxious to be in motion again—to be doing something. His haggard face told how he had suffered mentally during the night.

When this was agreed to, the three separated, riding in different directions, each with eyes on the ground, searching for the lost trail.

It was plain that Barlow, in his flight, had not stuck to the direction he had taken in setting out, yet it was likely, or possible, that he had merely deviated from a direct line to baffle pursuit, and was really keeping on in the same general direction.

An hour after this separation Buffalo Bill heard a distant shot.

“The signal!” he said. “And it’s from Hickok. He has struck the trail.”

When he looked in the direction from which the sound had come a blue, sealike expanse seemed to float before him.

They had been numerous, those lakelike illusions, and he knew what they were—the deceptive mirage of the dry lands of the high plains. That blue “sea,” and a sort of heatlike shimmer that hovered above it, made it impossible now for him to see a mile in the direction of the shot, whereas before those deceptive things appeared the eye could range to the very limit of vision. While trying to look through that blue illusion he fancied he heard the distant trampling of hoofs.

Instantly he dropped from the saddle to the ground and laid an ear against the turf, to aid his hearing.

A confused trampling of hoofs reached him now, and he thought he heard a yell, followed by another shot, and then a volley.

Lying prone on the ground, the scout looked again across the sealike levels of grass. Then he beheld something that almost frightened him.

In the sky over that level grass land the picture of a tragedy was thrown by that strange refractive power of light which produces the mirage. The sky for the moment had been changed to a mirror there, and in that mirror was shown a scene that was being enacted on the ground below.

A number of Indians were rushing on a white man. He had evidently fired the cartridges out of his revolver and stood now at bay. The Indians, who were Cheyennes, judging by their general appearance, rushed upon the man with knives and struck him down.

Buffalo Bill stared, helpless, fascinated, by that terrible scene. “It is Wild Bill!” he groaned; “and they have killed him!”

Buffalo Bill knew that he was looking at a scene in a mirage, yet he knew as well that the mirage pictured something that was happening at the moment. He knew, too, that he was too far from it to be of any immediate help to his old friend. Yet he jumped up from the ground and leaped to the back of his horse. Whether there were ten or a hundred of the red devils, he was going to the aid of Wild Bill.

He drove his heels into the flanks of the horse and sent it on with great bounds that bore it over the level land with almost the fleetness of the wind.

Where Ben Stevens was at the moment he did not know and had not time to inquire. All he knew was that ahead of him somewhere Wild Bill was in peril of his life, if not dead.

The blue heatlike shimmer before him still held up its concealing veil, and the lakelike illusion still continued.

It was as if he were galloping toward a wide reach of smoky blue water, yet this “water” fled ever before him as he galloped on.

He knew he could never come up with it, for it was of that miragy character which has more than once lured thirsty travelers to death, as they followed the blue vision, in the belief that it was a lake of real water.

Mile after mile, until three were cast behind the hoofs of his horse, did the scout ride on in that wild way; the mirage changing its appearance constantly, so that at one time it seemed a wide lake with islands, and at other times a stream broken into innumerable rivulets.

Then he rode down into a grassy swale, and there saw trampled grass showing hoof marks.

He jumped from the saddle and bent over them.

“Just as I thought; Cheyennes!”

He stared about as if he half expected to see a feathered head close by. He could not see far because of the smoky haze that still lay on everything.

Soon he remounted, and began to follow that trail.

Two horses, or Indian ponies, had passed along. They were unshod, and the scout was certain they were Cheyenne ponies. Soon other trails joined these two.

“Ah, here is where they first saw him!”

Other hoof marks had come in there; after which there were evidences that all of the ponies had started in a sudden burst of speed.

To the experienced eye of Buffalo Bill this was as plain as the print in a primer. The Cheyennes had here seen Wild Bill and had charged on him.

A few hundred yards beyond, the scout came to the scene of the fight—the scene he had seen pictured so clearly in the sky mirror. He looked the ground over.

“Here is where he made his stand,” he said, “for here are the empty cartridge shells from his revolver; and here is where they rushed on him, and captured or killed him. It was hot work; for here are bloodstains, and indications that somebody was killed, and perhaps more than one. Of course, the Cheyennes would carry away their dead and wounded. And it will go hard with Hickok, for I guess he wiped out one or more of them.”

He followed along, reading the signs, plain as print to one as skilled as he.

“Here I think they set him on a horse, for the hoof marks of this pony begin right here to sink deeper into the ground, showing that an extra weight was put on its back. Yes, they tied him here, for here are the ends of rawhide cut from the thongs they put on him.”

The great scout and trailer stood up, his face brighter and more hopeful. He had feared that soon he would behold Wild Bill’s dead body.

“That proves that he wasn’t killed, and also shows that he was not so badly injured but that they thought they must tie him. Hickok forever! It’s hard to down you, old pard of mine!”

Buffalo Bill’s voice thrilled with the pride he felt in the ability and achievements of his old and true friend of the border.

“Yes, and they went in that direction. This is a body of a young Cheyenne buck, I judge, which is proof that they belong to the desperate young herd that broke away from the reservation. They are not returning to the reservation, though, but are heading toward the southwest. What does that mean? What is in that direction?”

He followed the trail, keen-eyed and wary, leading his horse by its bridle. He had no way of knowing but that Cheyennes, eager for his blood, awaited him in some grassy hollow, and would shoot him when he came in range, or jump out upon him unawares and tomahawk him. He was taking no more chances than he was forced to. Yet he kept straight on, dragging at the reins of his horse and keeping his eyes on the trail, spelling out its meaning as he advanced.

Looking ahead, he saw that the blue mirages were disappearing; the advance of the sun into the higher sky was driving them away.

“The Cheyennes will have me in sight soon, if they’re near; and they’re not so very far, that’s sure!”

He came to a hollow. Fortunately it was two or three feet deep, and before it grew some mesquite bushes.

He stopped in this hollow, and there picketed his horse with his lariat, driving an iron pin into the ground with his boot heel, and attaching to the pin the lariat end.

He had no more than done so when the blue mirage vanished.

It was a singular thing. A fog lifts or falls slowly, and does not disappear for some time. But this was almost uncanny in the quickness with which it disappeared. At one time the blue sea of the mirage lay before him, with the shimmery-heat appearance above its surface. Five minutes later it was not there. It had not gone anywhere—neither up nor down—but it simply was no more to be seen. Where that blue sea, or lake, had seemed to be, stretched now the level grasslands, just as in the earlier hours of the morning, when the rising sun shone on them, and the eye could penetrate now to the limits of the horizon.

Buffalo Bill ducked behind the screen of the mesquite bushes, and he was glad he had taken the precaution to conceal his horse. For there, two or three miles away, was a band of mounted Indians.

The sun glistened on the tips of their spears and tomahawks, and glittered on their gun barrels. Feathers floated from the manes and tails of their ponies, and feathers floated from the plumed headgear of the warriors.

The scout unslung the field glass he usually carried, and leveled it, lying again prone in the grass and looking out from behind the mesquite.

The powerful glass drew the Indians well within range of his eyes.

“Yes, Cheyennes,” he said, “and young bucks from the reservation; and they’ve got Hickok, more’s the pity! Those young rascals are out for scalps and plunder. When they get ‘good’ again, they’ll hurry back to the reservation, slip in some dark night, and swear that they have never been away from it a minute.”

Wild Bill rode upright and seemed not to be seriously hurt, as Buffalo Bill was glad to observe.

Buffalo Bill even fancied that with the glass he could see the proud and defiant look that he knew was on the face of Wild Bill.

The Cheyennes saw neither Buffalo Bill nor his horse.

The scout swept the surrounding country with the glass, looking for Ben Stevens, but saw nothing of him; those Indians were the only things moving, or visible.

“Perhaps he has seen them and has got under cover, just as I have,” was Buffalo Bill’s thought. He knew that Stevens, as a cowboy, was not inexperienced. He was a good borderman and understood Indian ways, and what to do in emergencies. The cowboy life makes one quick of thought, and it does not breed weaklings.

Buffalo Bill lay behind the screen of the mesquite, watching the young Cheyennes until they were out of sight. He saw that they were heading steadily toward the Southwest, and that they were hurrying.

Apparently they feared a pursuit of troopers from the fort; and for that reason, though they probably knew that Wild Bill was not the only white man out on those level grasslands, they feared to tarry or go after those others.

The troops of the government inspired a good deal of fear and respect in the minds of the Indians, and not even bloodthirsty young bucks, who usually were ready for any deviltry or bloodshed, cared to meet them.

“Heading straight southwest. Oh, yes, there is another band of Cheyennes on the border of the Territory of New Mexico! Perhaps they are intending to join them. The thing is likely. And then they’ll stir up trouble on that border. I wish I could get word of this to the fort.”

The important thing now was to follow the trail of the Cheyennes and see what could be done to effect the rescue of Wild Bill. Yet Buffalo Bill knew that it would but jeopardize the chances if he began an open pursuit, or showed himself so that the Cheyennes would see him.

Nevertheless, it was tedious and wearing work to lie there and see those young Indians riding out of sight with his old friend.

“I’ll have to meet Stevens at the agreed rendezvous, and then together we’ll strike the Cheyenne trail and hold it until we do something. Or if he won’t go on, I’ll have to go alone. But there’s that rascally lieutenant and the girl to find. If I were about a dozen men just now I think I wouldn’t be too many for the need.”

The Cheyennes were now out of sight behind a roll in the land, and the scout drew the picket pin, and mounting, set out for the point where the three friends had promised to meet.

He set the horse at a sharp gallop, for he was anxious to follow the Cheyennes.

“If he isn’t there I’ll leave written word for him, so posted that he can’t fail to see it when he comes, and then I’ll push on after the Indians,” was his conclusion, as he thus rode forth.

CHAPTER XXVIII.
BARLOW AND THE GIRL.

While Buffalo Bill was thus riding toward the rendezvous to meet Ben Stevens, and the Cheyennes were riding hard toward the Southwest with Wild Bill in their midst as a prisoner, the dastardly young lieutenant, Joel Barlow, and the girl he had abducted so boldly from Fort Cimarron, were pursuing their separate ways.

May Arlington recovered from her swooning condition after Barlow had gone some distance, and she began to ask questions, which were rather hazy at first, but became sharp and pointed when she more clearly understood just where she was and recalled what had happened.

Barlow was lying like Ananias, in order to deceive her and make her think his motives honorable.

“It’s on account of the Cheyennes,” he said.

At the same time, so far as he was concerned, this was a bare falsehood, for he did not then know that the young bucks had left the reservation and gone on the warpath.

A horrible fear gripped the heart of the girl, at that mention of Cheyennes; yet she was of the courageous border kind, and soon she was again asking questions and demanding answers.

“If the Cheyennes are out, then the fort would be the safest place for me,” she urged.

“That’s because you don’t understand the situation,” he told her. “I understand it thoroughly. The fort can’t be held against them. It’s nothing but an old hulk, and has been so for a long time. The palisades are rotten and are ready to fall down. The Indians can beat them down without trouble.”

“If that is so, why haven’t you and the other troopers done something to repair the palisades?”

“Just the dry rot of carelessness,” he said. “The Indians have been peaceable so long that no one could believe there would ever again be trouble; and so the walls have been neglected, and everything is in as bad a shape as it can be.

“I saw the danger you would be in,” he went on. “You are young, and you are a handsome girl; some buck would take you for his squaw as soon as he saw you. That’s why I’m getting you away from there.”

She stiffened in his arms. She did not believe him.

“Let me down, please!” she requested.

“What for?”

“Because I know that you are lying, and I refuse to go farther with you.”

“Why, my dear girl——”

“What black scheme have you in mind now?” she demanded.

“May Arlington, you wrong me! I have no plan. I’m doing this because I want to help you, and because I love you.”

“You have left Mrs. McGee; and Ben Stevens is in that jail there, a prisoner and helpless.”

“I meant to save you, at any rate.”

“I will not go with you. Unhand me.” She struggled in his arms.

“Don’t be foolish, May!” he said. “What would you do?”

“Let me have one of the horses, and I’ll return to the fort.”

“Alone? In the darkness?”

“Yes. Give me one of the horses.”

“No.”

“Then, I’ll walk.”

He held her tight, and her struggles were useless. But she was making trouble, for the horse was growing restive.

“Stop it!” he commanded.

“I will not stop it! Release me!”

“See here,” he said, “I know what I’m doing.”

“And I know what you are intending. You’re carrying me away into the darkness, and where you’re going with me I don’t know. But I won’t go with you.”

“I’m taking you to safety!” he protested.

“Let me down!” she begged.

“No.”

“Whoa!” she cried to the horses.

He struck the spurs into the one he rode, and it started on with such a jump that he was almost thrown out of the saddle.

She began to scream then, though they were so far from the fort by this time that her screams could not reach it.

“I’ll have to force you to stop that, if you don’t stop it yourself,” he threatened. His anger was growing.

In spite of the threat she screamed the louder, and threshed about so violently that he began to fear he could not hold her on the horse.

In the midst of this there was a clatter of pony hoofs, and a mass of dark riders loomed before them as if they had leaped out of the ground. The next minute Barlow and the girl were in the midst of a body of Cheyennes.

The young Indians clutched the horses by the bridles and threw them back on their haunches. They pressed close up to the riders, and grunted when they saw that one of them was a girl and the other an officer of the army.

“What do?” the leader asked in broken English.

The cries of the girl had drawn them, though it seemed probable they would have heard Barlow in his flight any way.

Barlow was himself very much startled and frightened. However, he took courage, for the Indian who spoke to him, he discovered, was one he knew; a young buck he had once aided, and with whom since he had been more or less on terms of friendship.

“See here!” he shouted. “Is that you, Red Wing?”

Red Wing and the other young Cheyennes grunted.

“Is that you, Red Wing? I’m Barlow, you know—Lieutenant Barlow, at the fort.”

Red Wing pushed nearer. All the girl could see in the darkness was the outline of his feathered head and the glitter of his eyes.

“What got?” said Red Wing, peering at the girl, who shrank from him.

“This is my sister, Red Wing. We were on our way to the home of a friend who lives out here. You’ll let us go on?”

The other Cheyennes began to murmur.

Their restive, prancing ponies, the guttural talk, and exclamations, the fluttering of their feathers, combined in the darkness to give to the girl such feelings of terror that she could hardly keep from again screaming outright.

“The Wolf Soldier speaks with a straight tongue?” questioned Red Wing.

The other Cheyennes set up a clamor, fearing the prisoners were to be released. These were the first white people they had encountered in their efforts at raiding, and they did not want them to slip through their fingers now.

“I speak with a straight tongue, Red Wing,” Barlow protested. “She is my sister, and we are going to visit a friend.”

But they were not to be permitted to go on.

“Wolf Soldier stay with me, and she stay with me,” was the announcement, whereupon the Cheyennes closed in about their prisoners.

But because the Wolf Soldier was known to Red Wing, the prisoners were not tied, nor were they treated to any savage brutality, as would otherwise have been the case.

“Steady now!” Barlow whispered in the ear of the girl. “I told you that the Cheyennes were on the warpath, which you doubted. We have blundered into a body of them. But luckily I know their leader. He is a young buck I once saved from a wolf, after he had been badly scratched up by the brute, and he hasn’t forgot it. It’s the thing that will help us, and finally save us. But you’ll have to do as I say, or we’ll never come out of this alive.”

He wanted to impress the girl with a sense of her danger, and also with a sense of his truthfulness and kindly intentions.

The Cheyennes moved forward, clustering round the prisoners.

Having secured temporarily his own safety, and also having no longer to contend with the frantic struggles of May Arlington, whom fright had subjugated for the time, Barlow transferred her to one of his led horses, and so was rid of her weight, which had begun to grow irksome.

Now that she was actually in the hands of the savages whom she had so long dreaded, May Arlington began to show something of the spirit of a heroine. She did not know how much of Barlow’s statements were true or false, but she did know that she was a prisoner of the Cheyennes.

Apparently Barlow’s statement that they had gone on the warpath were true. Judging by that, it might be that his statement that he was taking her from the fort in order to protect her was also true, though she could not yet believe it. But whatever was true or false, she realized that she must try now to escape; and to do that she would need all her strength, energy, and coolness.

She must, therefore, learn self-control! No longer could she throw herself about, as she had been doing, for that was exhausting. It would also be quite useless with these Indians. Their bloody practice was to bury a tomahawk in the head of a prisoner if that prisoner became troublesome.

She bent toward Barlow as the cavalcade galloped on. “Can we escape?” she whispered.

He leaned toward her, to hear what she said; and she repeated the question.

“I think so, later,” he whispered in answer. “We shall have to be careful. They’re treating us well now because of what I did for Red Wing; but if they find us tricky they’ll be severe with us. I’m trying to think out a plan. I’ll save you; and some day you will know that I’m not the black devil you’ve been thinking me.”

That was a long and wearing ride for May Arlington; it taxed her strength to the utmost.

To be hurried forward through the gloom of night surrounded by feathered Indians who are on the warpath, having for a companion a white man whose actions had been brutal and seemed to be treacherous, was a situation about as bad as can be conceived.

Yet May Arlington tried to endure it without a murmur, and even tried to cherish hope, and to think of some plan herself whereby a release might be brought about.

When daylight came the Indians were still in motion, and the girl was almost ready to drop from her saddle.

Some time afterward the Cheyennes sighted a horseman, and contrived to get out of sight in a big “draw” without being seen by him.

The horseman was Wild Bill.

When he came near enough they charged him, and a sharp fight ensued. Two of the Indians were killed and another wounded; and then Wild Bill was at their mercy.

It was the fight and the capture which Buffalo Bill saw in the sky mirror.

The Indians in their rage and revenge would have slain Wild Bill, but they recognized him as a scout and one of the pards of the dreaded Long Hair, as Buffalo Bill was known to them. Therefore, instead of killing him outright, they simply brandished their weapons about his head in efforts to frighten him, and reserved him for a more horrible fate later.

Long before this time Lieutenant Barlow had apparently set up amicable relations with the Cheyennes. Even the exhausted and alarmed girl noticed it. He was not treated as a prisoner, but more as if he were one of them. Red Wing rode much of the time at his side, and conversed with him, sometimes in Cheyenne, a language with which he was familiar, strangely familiar it seemed to May Arlington.

The bodies of the slain Indians were tied to the backs of ponies. The wounded Indian was borne in a blanket slung hammock-wise between two ponies; a position that must have brought him pain, although he gave no sign of it.

Wild Bill had been tied hand and foot, and a rope wound round the body of the horse to which he was tied held his legs under the horse’s belly. He observed that Barlow and the girl were not bound.

Barlow put his horse finally by his side.

“Sorry to see you here, Hickok,” he said, with professed sympathy. “I’m a prisoner, too, and I was afraid to try to get nearer to you sooner. Some of the Cheyennes suspect me; but I have the good will of the chief, because I saved him once from a wolf. On account of that he calls me the Wolf Soldier.”

Wild Bill looked hard at him.

“It’s a good name, I think; that young Indian must be a fine character reader. The Wolf Soldier just about fits you.”

Barlow’s face turned red. “What do you mean?” he demanded.

“That you are a wolf soldier, or a wolfish one, as you please. I understand how you happen to be here. You’re on good terms with these red villains, because you’re a renegade.”

“This is insulting, Hickok,” said Barlow; “but considering your excitement, and your position, I’ll not hold it against you. I don’t know what you’ve heard, I’m sure; but I know that what you say wrongs me, cruelly wrongs me.”

Wild Bill lifted his voice recklessly, and shouted to the girl:

“My dear young lady, don’t trust this rascally lieutenant a minute, nor believe anything he says; he’s a wolf in sheep’s clothing, and these Cheyennes hit his character right when they call him the Wolf Soldier.”

A cry of rage broke from Barlow.

“Hickok,” he shouted, “you lie; you lie like a dog!”

The hot blood reddened the face of the bound man.

“You’ll have a chance to take that back, if these red gentlemen don’t make short work of me,” he said. “Never does any man tell me to my teeth that I’m a liar, and afterward live to brag about it. He’ll meet me with pistols in hand, and one or the other of us will turn up his toes to the daisies. You’ve heard of Wild Bill.”

Barlow’s face paled. Wild Bill, the dead shot of the West, did have rather an unenviable reputation as a dead shot and a duelist; and it was said that he was quick to resent an insult, and would fight to the death at the drop of a hat. His black, sparkling eyes glittered now in a way to make Barlow quail. Yet Barlow reflected that this Western dead shot was a prisoner of the Cheyennes now, and that the chances of his getting away and avenging the insult were very slim.

Barlow could afford to smile at the impotent rage of Wild Bill at that time.

“You’ve heard what I said, Miss Arlington,” Wild Bill shouted again. “This wolf soldier is a traitor. He has turned renegade and joined the Indians. Believe nothing he says. But look out for yourself. I may go under, as he has it in for me, and these red fiends hate me worse than the devil hates holy water. So my chances are not good. But I want you to know the truth, if I’m to go under, that you may look out for yourself as well as you can.”

With a snarling curse Barlow rode closer and seemed about to strike him, when Red Wing broke through, and with the flat of his tomahawk smashed the redoubtable and courageous scout in the face. The blow was not delivered with force enough to be bone-breaking, but it made a red outline of the tomahawk blade on the bruised flesh.

“White man keep tongue still or me cut it out!” Red Wing shouted.

Wild Bill subsided, having given his warning.

He was sure that Barlow had become a renegade, and he was sure also that it was in part Barlow’s influence that was heading these young Cheyennes toward the Southwest and away from Fort Cimarron. Barlow was no more anxious to have the troopers from the fort overtake these Cheyennes than were the Cheyennes themselves.

“I never yet knew a renegade that didn’t end badly,” was Wild Bill’s thought. “Deviltry generally gets paid in its own kind. But I’ll help that girl, and protect her with my life, if I can. Anyway, I couldn’t do less than shout to her that warning.”

Barlow was returning to the girl’s side; he wanted to say something to counteract Wild Bill’s accusation.

CHAPTER XXIX.
A DARING RUSE.

Barlow and the Cheyennes knew that they would be pursued without delay.

When a band of fiery young Indians break away from a reservation, the first thing to do is to send troopers after them, to bring them back, or whip them into subjection before they have time to do any harm.

In addition, the flight of Barlow from Fort Cimarron with the girl who had been held there on the false charge of the theft of the nugget would send pursuers after him.

All this Buffalo Bill likewise knew. And he knew, further, that one of the things pursued Indians are likely to do is to trap their pursuers.

After the scout had rejoined the young cowboy, Ben Stevens, he and Stevens drove hard after the retreating Cheyennes, watching for one of these traps.

While making this pursuit, and watching for ambuscades, the scout left telltale signs along the trail, which should direct the troopers whom he expected would soon follow. On one or two high points he planted signals, thrusting mesquite bushes up so they would attract attention, and to these mesquites tying written messages, which told all that he knew.

The retreating Cheyennes set no traps, being in too great haste. But shortly after nightfall they halted for a bit of rest, in a considerable grove of mesquite, where they cautiously built fires and cooked some food.

Buffalo Bill was not far behind them, and his keen eyes caught the gleam of their hidden camp fires. He had been over this trail before, and he had surmised that they would go into camp at this spot, and accordingly he had been making some plans.

He now took Ben Stevens’ horse, which had all the characteristics of an Indian pony, removed the saddle, and for its bridle substituted an Indian one taken from the pouches of his saddle. This Indian bridle was a very simple affair, consisting of rawhide thongs, with a rawhide to be placed through the mouth and round the lower jaw for a bit.

Behind his saddle the scout had carried an Indian blanket.

His hat and his boots and some of his clothing he concealed in a hole on the prairie, which he marked with a stick.

From the saddle pouches came also head feathers, Indian paints, and beaded moccasins. Putting on these, the scout was soon transformed, with the further aid of the Indian blanket, into a very presentable specimen of the Cheyenne Indian. His mustache and imperial could not be so well concealed, but he held the blanket up round his mouth in the Indian fashion, and these facial ornaments were not observable in the night.

Thus attired and disguised, and mounted on Stevens’ Indian pony, the scout could not have been distinguished from an Indian a yard away in the darkness.

After he had made this hasty but rather remarkable transformation, Buffalo Bill held out his hand to the young cowboy.

“Good-by!” he said, squeezing Stevens’ hand. “I’m going into danger, and we may not meet again. But I’ll save the young lady, if the thing can be done; and Wild Bill, too. Look out for yourself. If you hear the whistle of the bull elk, you’ll know you’re to make the fake charge on the Cheyenne camp and stir things up to draw attention from me. And look out that they don’t capture you, while you’re hovering outside.”

He sprang to the bare back of the pony, drew the blanket closely round his shoulders, and rode silently through the darkness in the direction of the Cheyenne supper camp.

He knew the Cheyennes would be moving on again shortly.

He circled the camp, so as to approach it from the other direction; and was guided in his work by now and then seeing a flash from one of the sputtering fires where the Cheyennes were roasting their meat. They had brought down an antelope during the afternoon, and they were preparing for a feast, which never comes amiss to the stomach of an Indian.

When he was close up to the camp the scout slid to the ground, and then led his pony on, with hand held ready to catch it by the nose, if it showed signs of wanting to neigh.

Off at one side, in a grassy space where the mesquite did not grow, he discovered the Cheyenne ponies feeding. They kept close together, and he was sure from that that a herder had them in charge, though this herder he could not see.

The Cheyenne ponies fed slowly toward him. One of them snorted, and then neighed; and at that a young Indian was seen by the scout gliding among them.

The motion of the Indian set the ponies to moving, and they drifted toward the scout, and soon he was in the midst of a small group of them.

This suited him, for when they began to feed again, putting their heads to the ground, he permitted his pony to feed along with them; and he kept his body and head close down to the earth, that he might not be seen by the herder.

The feasting at the Indian camp fire lasted longer than he had thought it would; the Cheyennes had made a good ride that day, and as they ate they were planning and boasting of the red work they intended to do along the New Mexican border, after they had joined their fellow tribesmen down there and had stirred them to go on the warpath.

But at last they were ready to move again. The scout’s keen ears apprised him of the fact, when they called some questions to the pony herder, and the herder shouted back to them.

A number of young Cheyennes streamed out from the camp, and began to get their ponies and lead them toward the fires.

The time for which the scout had waited so long had come. He, too, led his pony along; and with his Indian disguise and blanket he seemed but one of the Cheyennes leading in his pony.

When the Cheyennes mounted and were ready to move on with their prisoners, the scout was mounted and in their midst, and they did not know that a rider had been added to their number; they could not have told that without making a count, and they did not think to do that; in truth, they did not once suspect that an enemy was in their midst, or near.

As the Cheyennes thus rode forth again in the darkness, heading still toward the Southwest, Buffalo Bill rode with them, silent and watchful.

He understood the Cheyenne tongue, as he did most of the Indian languages and dialects of the border, and he was ready with answers, if questioned by any one. But he was not questioned.

By careful work he located the prisoners, and by work as careful he edged his pony by degrees toward them, nearer and nearer.

Wild Bill did not dream that his old border pard was within miles, and he was rather startled when a gruff Indian voice ordered him in Cheyenne to sit up straighter, and then the Indian who gave the order bent toward him and whispered, in the voice of Buffalo Bill:

“It is I, Cody; I’m one of them, you know! But mum’s the word. I’ll get you and the young lady out of this. Stevens is outside, keeping shady, but hanging to the flanks of this party, and stands ready to help me when I summon him.”

Wild Bill gulped with astonishment. His heart jumped into his throat, he was so amazed. He was familiar with the daring and cleverness of Buffalo Bill, but he had not expected this. It came almost as a shock.

“Can I tell the girl?” he whispered.

“If you find chance; but be careful. There you are! Take this.”

The supposed Indian, lifting himself, for he had apparently been examining the bonds of the white man, spoke again to him in harsh, guttural words of reproof.

In reality, Buffalo Bill had slipped a keen knife through those cords, and Wild Bill sat on the back of his pony, free, the cords dropping unnoticed to the ground as the pony moved on.

Then the knife itself was thrust into Wild Bill’s hands. Following this came a loaded revolver—a weapon which the Western dead shot knew as well how to use as any man on the wild frontier.

The possession of those weapons made another man of Wild Bill. With a good revolver in his hand, and a knife ready, he was ready to fight his weight in wild cats at any time; and that meant, in the Western style of speech, that he was afraid of nothing on earth.

That suspicion might not be attracted to him, Buffalo Bill now drew his pony back, while Wild Bill spoke to the girl.

“A fine evening,” he said, in his musical voice. “This is an evening when one likes to see friends. It would not surprise me if friends were near. The stars up there look friendly, and the mist we have been having is clearing away.”

He spoke in English, enigmatically, that no Cheyenne understanding English might comprehend, hoping that the girl would know what he meant, or at least get ready for an emergency. Then he carelessly pushed his hand against her arm, extending the knife given him by the scout.

“If one only had weapons!” he said, with meaning.

She felt the pressure of the knife against her arm.

Because she had been with the Wolf Soldier, who was a friend of Red Wing, the girl had not been tied. The Wolf Soldier, otherwise Barlow, rode not far off; and he, like the girl, was not tied.

Though astonished and startled, the girl grasped the knife.

“The stars are friendly,” she said, being quick of comprehension. She did not know how it had been done, but she knew that Wild Bill’s hands were free, and that he had given her his knife.

“If one of the stars should fall, I should not be surprised,” he said. “In fact, I’m always prepared not to be surprised at anything.”

“It seems to me you’re finding your tongue, Hickok!” Barlow grumbled.

“As I’m not addressing my interesting remarks to you, I do not know that they call for an answer from you,” Wild Bill retorted.

“You’re still believing that nonsense, that I’m in with these redskins?” said Barlow, who was chagrined by Wild Bill’s curt reply.

“I don’t waste my breath on renegades,” said Wild Bill scornfully.

Red Wing, hearing the words, began to edge near, and Wild Bill dropped the unprofitable discussion.

“Does the Wolf Soldier want the white scout lashed with a whip?” Red Wing asked, as if he longed to do that lashing.

Barlow wanted to say “Yes;” but he knew it was not then politic to do so.

“He is a fool!” he said. “His words are but wind, Red Wing, and I do not hear them.”

“Yes, he is a fool!” Red Wing agreed.

“Aye, that he is, Red Wing! I wonder that the ears of the jackass do not grow on his head. They would fit him.”

Buffalo Bill was hearing all this, for he was riding not three yards from the speakers; yet never was he suspected, for the Indian blankets and his disguise concealed him effectively.

Then the unexpected happened. A genuine bull elk whistled out in front.

It was the signal Ben Stevens had been awaiting—the whistle of a bull elk, from Buffalo Bill, and he thought this came from the scout. Thereupon he charged wildly on the flank, firing his revolvers, and yelling in his most startling fashion.

CHAPTER XXX.
THE CHEYENNE STAMPEDE.

The sudden, unexpected, and astonishing demonstration of Ben Stevens had a tremendous effect. It threw the young Cheyennes into a panic.

They had been expecting pursuit by the troopers; and, though they had felt sure none had been made, or, at least, that no troopers were near, this seemed to prove that the troopers had pursued and were now charging. And a charge of United States troopers, made in that way on a hostile Indian camp in the darkness of the night, was a thing before which Indians had never been able to stand. There was always something so irresistible in its character that it seemed to sweep them off their feet like the blast of a hurricane.

The Cheyennes bunched together, yelling, and began to shoot into the darkness in the direction of the yells and the revolver fire.

Buffalo Bill’s time for action had come. He jerked at the rein of the horse which carried the girl, turning it about; and he yelled to Wild Bill:

“Now is the time!”

The words he used were in the Blackfeet Indian tongue, and were not understood by the Cheyennes, though they were understood by Wild Bill as well as if they had been English words.

Wild Bill yelled back in the same tongue, to show that he understood.

It seemed that the effort would be successful.

As Buffalo Bill and Wild Bill turned their horses about, Buffalo Bill dragging at the rawhide rein of the bridle of the horse ridden by the girl, a half dozen of the young Cheyennes turned in the same direction.

In a flash Buffalo Bill, by his quick movement, had become their leader, showing them by his movement the direction in which they should ride, though that was far enough from his intent. And so, pell-mell, through the darkness, rode Wild Bill and Buffalo Bill and the half dozen young Cheyenne bucks, who were in a frenzy of excitement and fear, thinking that the troopers were upon them.

They screamed their yells, and, whirling around on the backs of their ponies, they poured a stream of rifle and revolver shots in the direction of the firing of Ben Stevens.

This bunching and crowding together of the Cheyennes and of the horses ridden by the scouts and the girl, caused some wild stumbles and much fractious rearing of the horses.

The other Indians were riding wildly through the darkness, as could be told by the thunder of hoofs. The Cheyenne party had been suddenly split open as if it had been struck by a tornado. And all by the reckless daring of one white man, who seemed able, in his yelling and shooting, to make as much noise as if there were a dozen men about to charge!

The rein of rawhide which Buffalo Bill held was jerked from his hand; but he shouted to the girl, now in English, telling her to follow, and to keep close by him.

Her horse stumbled; and the scout stopped and again got hold of the rein.

The darkness caused indescribable confusion.

“This way!” Buffalo Bill yelled to his pard, again in Blackfoot.

Wild Bill shouted back; and they tore thus through the crowding and scrambling mob of frightened Indians, who fell apart, thus giving a free passage.

The darkness had grown so dense that they could see nothing clearly; but when they had ridden two or three hundred yards in that wild way they drew rein, the horses panting.

“All right?” asked the scout.

“All right here,” Wild Bill answered.

“Are you all right, Miss Arlington?” the scout asked.

There was no answer.

Buffalo Bill rode close to her horse, struck by a sudden fear.

She was not on the horse!

“Good Heaven,” he cried to Wild Bill, “the girl isn’t here!”

“No?” Wild Bill was equally astonished.

“No, she isn’t here; and I was sure all the time she was with us.”

“She fell from her horse in the rush and crush,” said Wild Bill, surprised and troubled.

They sat listening.

The yells of Ben Stevens had died away, and now the Indians were yelling to each other, for they were beginning to discover that they had been in a foolish panic.

There were no charging troopers near, so far as they could discover; at least, no large body of them; otherwise, as they knew, the troopers would have pursued, and would have been pistoling and sabering right in their midst. But even yet they did not know just what had happened.

Red Wing was calling loudly to some of his braves. Near him Lieutenant Barlow was shouting to the girl. Yet his voice showed that he did not know where she was. Ben Stevens had utterly subsided.

“What next?” said Wild Bill.

“We will have to work our way back from where we came, in the hope of finding her. If she is hurt, she is lying near the line of our flight. Can we follow it back in the darkness?”

“We can try,” said Wild Bill.

They turned their horses about.

“Too bad that this happened,” said Wild Bill, “just when we had the thing cinched. She may have been hurt, struck by a bullet or an arrow, or may have been badly hurt by her fall.”

They rode slowly back over the way they had come, trying hard to keep to the direct line of their flight.

Soon they saw some of the Cheyennes, dimly in the darkness; and then they were almost in the midst of them. One who rode close to Buffalo Bill shouted to him.

“What was it?” he asked.

The scout answered promptly, in Cheyenne:

“I know not. It may have been some of the spirits of the Moonlight Mountains.”

Indians are proverbially afraid of spirits; and, in the darkness, their superstitions are sometimes easily excited.

The Moonlight Mountains were near, and mountains are by many Indians, particularly plains Indians, supposed to be filled with strange spirits, or ghosts.

The Cheyenne who had called to the scout mumbled something; and the scout knew his words had made an impression.

Wild Bill bent low on his saddle, and rode bare-headed; for he had no blanket with which to disguise himself, to make him look like an Indian.

As they thus rode slowly along, at intervals the scouts slid to the ground, and felt about in the gloom, calling to the girl in low voices. This was safe enough, for the Cheyennes were making a horrible babel with their yelling and questioning of each other. But the girl could not be found; Barlow had subsided; and when the scouts had gone as far as they believed was necessary, and saw before them the gleaming embers of the camp fires, they were ready to confess themselves baffled.

“We’ll go back over the same way, and spread apart a little. We must make a thorough search,” said Buffalo Bill.

They returned along the line of their search, dismounting more frequently, and making a more complete hunt; but the result was the same as before.

The Cheyennes were now bunching not far off, and were yelling and calling, to summon all the members of the band.

“I’m afraid they have captured her again,” said Buffalo Bill reluctantly.

“We might edge closer in and see,” Wild Bill suggested.

“I’ll do so; it will be safer for me. You hang around out here. I’ll join you soon. I must see if the girl is there.”

Wild Bill did not like to be separated from his pard, but he saw the wisdom of the proposal.

Poor as the light was, the Indians, with their keen eyes, were likely to spot him as a white man, if he came too near them.

Buffalo Bill, with his blanket and head feathers, could more readily fool them. Hence he rode slowly toward the Indians, and when one of them spoke to him, he answered in Cheyenne of such excellence that the redskin was thoroughly deceived.

In order to determine if the girl was a prisoner, he rode into the very midst of the chattering group, and looked about as well as he could.

“Where is the Wolf Soldier and the white squaw?” he asked, with characteristic boldness.

They did not know. Some of the Indians were still out on the prairie, and were riding in.

The scout stayed with the chattering redskins, hearing their wild talk and speculations; and was amused by hearing the Cheyenne he had spoken to some time before make the startling suggestion that the strange attack had been made by spirits of the Moonlight Mountains.

Red Wing, who was rather an intelligent Indian, scoffed at this, but some of the others were ready to accept the idea. It accounted for the singularity of the attack, which had begun so strangely and ended as suddenly and mysteriously as it had begun.

The scout saw some of the absent Cheyennes come in, and listened to their reports.

They were of a laughable character; for they reported seeing strange sights and hearing strange sounds; and one even declared that he had seen a headless white man galloping round on a gray pony.

As Wild Bill’s pony was gray in color, and he had stooped low to keep from being seen, Buffalo Bill understood what gave rise to the Indian’s fancy of a headless white man on a gray horse.

This report made the more superstitious of the Cheyennes ready to accept the theory that the wild attack had been really the work of mischievous spirits from the near-by mountains.

Some of them looked off in the direction of the mountains, showing fear of them and a desire to remove themselves from their vicinity.

Confident that the Cheyennes knew nothing of the whereabouts of the girl, or of the Wolf Soldier, Buffalo Bill dropped behind as they moved on in a body, and succeeded in getting safely out of their dangerous company. Then he returned quietly toward the point where he had left Wild Bill.

“I’m looking for a headless horseman!” he said, when he rejoined his head. Then he explained, to the great amusement of his pard.

But Stevens was still missing.

“What next?” asked Wild Bill.

“I don’t know.”

“I’m feeling jubilant, so far as I’m individually concerned,” Wild Bill admitted, “and you’ll agree that I’ve a reason; for a little while ago I was a bound prisoner of those red devils, and they were talking about the fun they were going to have in torturing me as soon as they joined their friends. And now I’m free, with you, old pard; and I’ve got a good revolver, and a good horse under me. If it was the proper thing, I think I could do a little yelling, just for purpose of celebrating the great event.”

But he did nothing of the kind.

Together they began to ride after the moving body of Cheyennes; and as they rode along, they kept a sharp lookout for Ben Stevens, and also for the girl, and Lieutenant Barlow.

CHAPTER XXXI.
THE THEFT OF THE NUGGETS.

When Lieutenant Barlow discovered that May Arlington was not with the Cheyennes, he dropped out of their midst and began a search for her.

On his part there was no superstitious belief that the spirits of the Moonlight Mountains had been concerned in that “attack” on the Indians. He knew he had heard the yelling of a white man.

Who that white man was he did not know, of course; but he suspected Buffalo Bill. As for Ben Stevens, Barlow thought Ben was in prison at Fort Cimarron.

He had all along believed that Buffalo Bill would lead a hot pursuit; and he had fancied, too, that the scout would have at his back a strong body of troopers. His experience as a soldier had taught him that the troopers would not delay in following the young bucks who had broken from their reservation. Hence, as he set out to look for the missing girl, he had in mind the possibility of meeting white men; and it was a possibility which was very disturbing, for he knew full well that if captured and taken a prisoner back to the fort he could expect little mercy there.

He had very definite ideas as to what he wished to do.

First, he must find the girl; for he wished to take her with him. Her beauty had inflamed his mind, and he intended to force her to become his wife, in some remote place to which he would flee when he had secured the store of gold which he sought. That was, after all, the chief end—the securing of that gold. With it, he would be independent. Without it, he feared he could do nothing, unless it were to live by his wits as a card sharper.

Luck seemed to be with him, for he soon came upon the girl, finding her afoot and alone, bewildered and frightened in the darkness. She had fallen from her horse in the stampede, and had run from the noise of the Indians, thinking safety lay in a direction away from them.

She ran from him, thinking at first he was an Indian; and then ran still harder when he called out to her and she knew who he really was. But he overtook her very quickly, being on horseback, and drew rein beside her in the darkness.

“Miss Arlington,” said the renegade, bending from his horse, and then leaping down beside her, “I have been looking everywhere for you.”

She drew herself up defiantly, and answered him with cold scorn.

“Mr. Barlow, I refuse to go with you; I’d rather fall into the hands of the Indians.”

“That’s foolish,” he said; “I intend to help you.”

“I refuse to go with you!” she repeated desperately, and she began to run from him.

He followed, calling to her in persuasive tones, and leading his horse.

Seeing that he was likely thus to lose her in the darkness, and that his words were without effect, he remounted and pursued her, and overtook her again in a short time.

“You are acting silly in this matter,” he asserted. “Let me help you. Here, you may ride my horse.”

She stopped, in hesitation; for the thought came to her that she might get on his horse and then make an attempt to leave him.

But he knew what was in her mind.

“You may ride,” he said, “and I’ll walk. We’ll not go near the Indians, if you say not to; though, since I know that young chief, you’re really safer there than any place else.”

“Who was it made that outcry?” she asked.

“No one knows. Some crazy herder likely. There are sheep herders down in this section, I’ve heard.”

“Then you don’t think that it could have been some one from the fort?”

“I don’t think it could have been,” he said.

She felt helpless and bewildered in the darkness; and she really feared the Indians. So, after some further hesitation and questions, with protestations of good intentions on his part, she mounted to the saddle he had vacated. But he took care that she should make no attempt to get away, for he led the horse by the bit, walking at its head.

He went in the direction of the Cheyennes, while protesting to her that he meant to do nothing of the kind, and that as soon as it was light enough to see he would start with her for the fort.

She did not believe him, but she felt so helpless she did not know what to do, and drifted on in this manner.

Then, almost before she knew it, they were again in the midst of Red Wing’s band of young Cheyennes, and she was as much of a prisoner as she had been before.

Wild Bill had disappeared, however, from their midst, and she hoped he would follow and try to release her, for she had heard of him, and knew him to be the friend of any one in distress.

Before day came again, the Cheyennes were in the midst of the village of their friends, who were Cheyennes that had fled to this part of the country after the last Cheyenne war, and had been permitted to remain there.

As soon as he was safe in this village, Barlow had the girl placed in one of the lodges, in care of an old Indian squaw, assuring the girl that it was the best he could do, and that she would not be harmed there. Then he began a search for the old medicine man who was said to have that store of sacred gold nuggets.

He found the medicine man without trouble, for the old fellow had a lodge of immense size not far from the heart of the village, where he mumbled his charms and incantations, and performed the mysterious rites which awed the Cheyennes and gave him so much power over them.

Barlow did not get to enter this lodge. The old man would not permit it, not even when Barlow was accompanied by Red Wing. Thus the young renegade got no chance to see the nuggets.

He knew their story, having overheard it from the lips of the colonel at the fort, the colonel having received it from Buffalo Bill.

The nuggets were all undoubtedly of Aztec origin; but how they had come into the hands of this medicine man was unknown. He had given one of them to Cody, as a sign of his good will and friendship, at a time when the scout had brought him out of a fever, which all his own skill and the skill of the tribe could not combat.

It was that nugget which the scout had presented to Colonel Montrose, of Fort Cimarron. The other nuggets the medicine man sacredly guarded.

The Cheyenne village was thrown into a flutter of excitement and alarm by the coming of the young Cheyennes, for it was expected that troopers would be hot upon their heels.

That night Lieutenant Barlow invaded the lodge of the medicine man, attacked him, and left him senseless on the ground, and secured the nuggets.

They were more than twenty in number, and were contained in two buckskin bags covered with strange markings and bead work.

The renegade got out of the lodge with the nuggets without discovery. He next secured a horse, for, being the “friend” of Red Wing, he was permitted to come and go freely in the village.

When he had got his horse and secured it beyond the village lodges, he came back, and called at the lodge where the girl was held as a prisoner by the old woman.

The old squaw mumbled unintelligibly, and seemed about to raise an alarm when he entered, but he gave her a shining silver piece from his pocket, which she examined with strange cackles by the light of her grease lamp.

May Arlington had started up in alarm.

“I have prepared a way of escape,” he whispered to her. “Come!”

He might have spoken the words aloud, so far as the old woman was concerned, for the hag knew no English.

May Arlington again hesitated, then she rose, trembling, and followed him.

Within the folds of her dress she had secreted a knife, which she had picked up in the lodge; with it, if necessary, she would kill Barlow, or herself. But she knew she must get out of that village. Some looks given her by certain Indian braves had terrified her so that anything was preferable to staying there.

Barlow and the girl were hardly beyond the line of the lodges, when a wild chorus of charging yells and cheers broke on the air.

Buffalo Bill and Wild Bill, with Ben Stevens, were out there, and with them was a body of troopers from Fort Cimarron. The scouts had found Stevens, and then had encountered the pursuing troopers, who, under the leadership of the scouts, had been able to make so stealthy an advance that this charge on the Cheyennes was a complete surprise.

Barlow seized May Arlington by the wrist, and started to run with her.

“Halt!” was the command, for the troopers had seen him. The light was not good, and so they thought he was an Indian, who was running to get out of the village, taking, perhaps, the white girl prisoner who was known to be there.

Barlow disregarded the command to halt, and ran to get his horse, dragging the girl with him. She began to scream, and to try to release herself, but Barlow clung to her, and to his stolen nuggets.

Another command was bellowed at him, but he still disregarded it.

There was a flash of fire and the report of a rifle. The man giving the command to halt had fired.

Barlow fell, pitching forward on his face.

The attack swept through the Cheyenne village like a whirlwind.

The Indians who sought to fight were pistoled. Where they made no resistance they were unharmed, and where they surrendered they were merely made prisoners.

Red Wing tried to lead a fierce resistance, and fell at the head of his following.

The other young bucks who had taken so gayly to the bloody warpath broke and fled, most of them being captured the next day, while some, resisting, were killed. Thus the threatened Cheyenne war was nipped in the bud.

The medicine man, though wounded by Barlow, escaped otherwise unscathed.

Buffalo Bill insisted that the sacred nuggets should be returned to him; which was done, though some of the troopers would have despoiled him if they had been permitted.

Thus the end came to Lieutenant Barlow, the young renegade, in the moment when he hoped for the success of his plans.

The end of the campaign was a quiet wedding, in the little sod house out on the prairie near Fort Cimarron.

Buffalo Bill and Wild Bill attended the wedding, and so did Colonel Montrose, and many of the troopers from the fort. As a wedding present, the colonel gave May Arlington the gold nugget which had first been brought to her in the letter.

No happier bridegroom ever lived than Ben Stevens. As for Wilkins, the young man who had carried the letter and had been to some extent the tool of Barlow, he made a full confession at his trial by court-martial. He lost his position in the army, but was not otherwise punished.

CHAPTER XXXII.
ALCOHOL AND ELOQUENCE.

“There were extenuating circumstances for the young fellow,” remarked Cody to Wild Bill, commenting on the trial of Wilkins, a few days later. “Chief of them is his youth. I really felt sorry for him when he told me about his difficulties.”

“Well, you certainly helped his case as far as possible,” Wild Bill replied. “It’s a pity we didn’t get that scoundrel, Barlow, to serve as an example of military punishment!”

“No use regretting that now; the dog is dead. Well, for my part, I’m off again.”

“Where do you intend to go now? To Scarlet Gulch?”

“Yes; I think it’s about time I investigate those rumors about my crimes, that are floating around in that section of the country.”

“So do I. If you remember, that’s what I came here to tell you; but we’ve been busy with other matters. When will you start?”

“To-day. I’ve said good-by to the colonel. Will you join me, Hickok?”

“Not just now. I’ve got business to attend to in Eldorado. I may meet you later, if good luck or adventure brings us together.”

The two friends parted, soon after this, and went on their several ways. Buffalo Bill rode slowly and cautiously across the plains, in the direction of Scarlet Gulch, thinking over the points which his friend had given him, and wondering how he should proceed against the gang of ruffians who were in league against him, under the leadership of a man known as “Panther Pete.”

“The first one to tackle is that fellow Slocum,” he thought. “I suspect he has schemes of his own, though he appears to be the tool of the others. I’ll get him first, and I reckon I’ll find him in the Flash Light Saloon.”

As it happened, this guess was correct. Even then, while Buffalo Bill was on his track, “Bug-eye” Slocum was standing in front of Rainey’s saloon in Scarlet Gulch, talking in a loud voice.

Bug-eye was shabby and disreputable, but he had a sonorous voice and a way of “slinging words” that was calculated to make the average citizen of Scarlet Gulch sit up and take notice.

“Feller citerzens, it’s this here way,” said Bug-eye, with an oratorical wave of his hand, the other hand being tucked under and engaged in waving his coat tails, “when a man who’s been honored as Buffalo Bill has been honored; when a man who traveled to the ends o’ the earth and showed benighted lands what the reel and ginoowine wild West, which we have here, looks like; when sich a man, I say, stoops so low as to dishonor hisself by becomin’ an ordinary holdup thief, a-leadin’ holdup gangs, and so dishonors the glorious Stars and Stripes that he lives under, and which gives him perfection—then I say that it’s time fer us, feller citerzens, to put him where the wicked cease frum troubling and the weary aire at rest.”

Applause greeted Bug-eye’s oratorical effort.

“He’s a-raidin’ ’round through this country,” Bug-eye went on, tiptoeing to make himself look taller, and flirting his coat tails until the dust fairly flew from them, “pertendin’ to be here ter pertect us, and then, in a sneakin’ way, holdin’ up stagecoaches and lone and wanderin’ wayfarers, work which he tries ter make people think is done by the reg’lar road agents. Feller citerzens, the time is ripe ter put an end to his masqueradin’, and night roamin’ with a handkerchief over his face, and elevate him by a rope to a handy tree limb, and there let him do a dance on nothin’.”

The roaring cheers broke out again.

“And so now I nomernate fer judge of a Judge Lynch court, that shell do unto Buffalo Bill as he’d ought to be done to, our esteemed feller citerzen, Nate Rainey, the keeper of the Flash Light Saloon here—a man what sets out the best redeye that’s set out over any bar in the whole area of this broad and magnificent country; feller citerzens, I nominates Nate Rainey, ther man what all of us delights to honor.”

Nate Rainey, a hatchet-faced man, with a billy-goat tuft of whiskers on the tip of his chin, popped up like the occupant of a toy jack-in-box. Every one there was yelling his name, and he flushed with pride.

The scene was the wide piazza in front of the Flash Light, and the time late afternoon. In the street were several score men of the border type—miners, cowboys, ranchmen—together with the scum and rabble always to be found in such a place.

Few of the reputable citizens of the town of Scarlet Gulch were in that noisy crowd; they had something more important to do than to hang round Nate Rainey’s saloon and listen to the big words of Bug-eye Slocum. But all the dangerous elements of the community were represented, from the blackleg gambler to the cheap street loafer.

“I ain’t no orator, like what my friend Slocum is,” Nate Rainey apologized, as he stood before the yelling mob, “er I’d try ter make ye a speech. It’s acts that talks fer me, says I; and so I say, jist bring Buffler Bill before me, and prove that he’s been doin’ these hyer things that everybody says he’s doin’, and up he goes, at the end of a rope, quick’s a cat kin wink her eye; and now you hear me!”

Then everybody yelled, and they yelled again, louder than ever, when Rainey invited them to step into the Flash Light and “likker” at his expense.

The situation at Scarlet Gulch, as set forth by Slocum and Rainey, was singular. For, if credible reports were to be believed, Buffalo Bill had departed from his traditional honor, and had not only engaged in holdups and robbery of various kinds, but had organized a band of blacklegs and cutthroats, who had become known popularly as “Buffalo Bill’s Border Ruffians.”

Who the members of this desperado organization were no one could say; but it was a fair supposition that many of them lived in Scarlet Gulch itself, and probably some of them were in the crowd before the Flash Light cheering the words of Rainey and Slocum.

As strange as anything in this situation, according to the reports, was that, when Buffalo Bill first came into that section, he had come in his customary capacity as the upholder of law and order. He had been there but a short time, however, when he was caught robbing the safe of the First National Bank, which he blew open with a stick of dynamite, getting all the money in the cash drawer. He had been seen and recognized, and after that he had been too wise to exhibit himself openly in the town; though his Border Ruffians soon began to make things warm for travelers on the surrounding trails, and had once ridden boldly, by night, into Scarlet Gulch, and robbed Payson’s hardware store, in the very busiest section.

The men who crowded to the bar of the Flash Light to accept Rainey’s invitation to “likker up” talked of these things, and threatened what they would do when Buffalo Bill was caught.

When the drinks had been served, Slocum hopped to the top of the sloppy bar, posing again oratorically, with one hand waving and the other under his coat tails.

“And now, feller citerzens,” he cried, his face beaming with joy and drink, “we’ll give three cheers for our esteemed feller citerzen, Nate Rainey—the man who is to be Judge Lynch hereafter in this young and enterprisin’ town, and is ter deal out jestice to all who deserve it, and give the rope to every man who is doin’ sich things as we know that Buffalo Bill has done. And now three cheers fer him, sizzlin’ hot an’ rip-roarin’.”

They gave the three cheers with such will and vim, and stamped the floor so hard, that several bottles were shaken from their positions behind the bar and fell crashing to the floor, the liquor running out.

Bug-eye Slocum looked longingly at that flowing liquor; but yelled in an abashed voice as he saw two or three men throw themselves flat down on the floor and begin to lick it up:

“Sam Wagner there, ain’t you ashamed o’ yerself; and ain’t you ashamed o’ yerself, Foxfire Bascomb, to be actin’ in that way, lickin’ likker frum the floor, as if you was dogs er cats, and the likker was milk?”

“Oh, if they’re so desert dry as that,” said Rainey, “I’ll set ’em up ag’in.”

He was mightily pleased with the uproarious cheers which had been given him.

Then there was more drinking, and more talk about Buffalo Bill’s Border Ruffians.

After that the vigilantes were appointed, a dozen men, with Rainey as judge; and they were to try Buffalo Bill as soon as he fell into their hands, and then hang him.

The “trial” would not be much; for, even before his capture, Buffalo Bill was thus adjudged guilty, and sentenced to be hanged.

But Bug-eye Slocum and Nate Rainey had accomplished their purpose.

This vigilantes band could be used not only against Buffalo Bill, but against the enemies of Slocum and Rainey as well.

Thereafter, if a man gained their ill will, the only thing necessary to get him out of the way would be to accuse him of some crime before this court of Judge Lynch, support the accusation with false testimony, and forthwith the man would be swung on high at the end of a rope and promptly choked to death.

It was almost as quick work as ordinary murder, and much safer for the murderers; for they could always show that they were acting for the good of the community.

When the vigilantes had been chosen, of men selected beforehand by Slocum and Rainey, there were again drinks all round; and then the meeting broke up, and the half drunken and excited crowd flowed out into the street in front of the Flash Light.

CHAPTER XXXIII.
A KINDLY WARNING.

In spite of his repeated potations, Slocum walked as straight as he had ever walked in his life, as he took his way along the street to Hargous’ livery stable, where he kept a shaggy Indian pony, noted for its fleetness and untiring endurance.

Bug-eye Slocum had been a cowboy in his younger days, and he declared that he could not live unless he stretched his legs over the back of a horse at least once a day. He nearly always rode forth alone, presumably for a jaunt over the prairies or through the near-by hills; where he went he seldom told, and people did not question.

He rode forth again, as usual, this afternoon, waving his hand to the people he met in the streets, a hand waving that had an air of patronage and condescension, though Bug-eye was half the time in disreputable rags, and the man patronized thus might have been dressed in the best of clothing.

As soon as he had left the town behind him Bug-eye drove the pony into a sharp gallop that carried him on for a mile or two and sank the town out of sight behind him. Then he drew rein, and looked carefully about.

Not observing any one in sight, he wheeled sharply to the right, rode into a depression that cut through the level land here, and headed for the hills.

When within the hills and not to be seen by any one chancing to be out on the prairie, he changed his course again, and galloped on for a mile or two farther.

Here, in a depression between the hills, he drew rein once again, and sat apparently waiting for some one.

Hoof falls soon sounded, and several horsemen appeared.

The foremost was a tall, handsome-looking man, wearing a mustache and imperial, his get-up and clothing causing him to resemble in a remarkable manner Buffalo Bill. Even the real Buffalo Bill’s closest friends would have mistaken this rascal for him at a short distance, and would certainly have made the mistake at night even, if close by him. Naturally resembling the great scout in many particulars, he had by carefully growing a mustache and imperial of the style worn by Buffalo Bill, and then wearing clothing of the same pattern, still further heightened the rather remarkable likeness. But while thus outwardly resembling the scout, he was otherwise a man of such different character that he was now playing this despicable part.

“Hello, Slocum!” he called, with a wave of his hand; and then he lifted his hat in the Buffalo Bill manner, with a graceful and gracious bow.

“Does yer ears burn?” asked Slocum.

“Not that I’m knowing to,” said the man.

“Well, ’tain’t true, then, ther sayin’ that if people is talkin’ about ye, yer ears will burn hot like fire; fer yer name has been used most tremendous hard this afternoon, as I’m knowin’ to, havin’ had a hand somewhat in usin’ it myself.”

“My name?”

“Well, not yer real name; and come to think of it, maybe that’s why the thing didn’t make yer ears burn. They was talkin’ about ther things you’ve been doing, but ther name used was Buffalo Bill.”

“I am Buffalo Bill!”

“You’re the man they was talkin’ about, anyway. And I was boostin’ ther thing along.”

He looked hard at the big man, and at the latter’s followers, who now crowded round him.

“What’s the news, Slocum?” the man asked.

“Well, they’ve organized a vigilantes committee fer ter hang ye soon’s you put foot in ther town; and I’ve rid forth ter tell ye about it, so’s you won’t git caught too easy.”

“To hang me?”

“That’s what ther vigilantes was organized fer, and they——”

“And you was in it?”

“But I’m explainin’, Panther Pete, and——”

“Stop!” The command was shot out like a bullet from a gun.

Bug-eye Slocum stopped as suddenly as if he had been cut down by a rifle bullet.

“What is it?” he gasped, his mouth open, looking nervously at the chief, who was fingering a revolver.

“It’s that name—Panther Pete! Use that again, any time or anywhere, and I’ll pump a bullet straight through you. You know me—I’m Buffalo Bill!”

“Ye—yes!” stammered Bug-eye. “I knowed it, only I forgot.”

“Fergittin’ ain’t healthy where I am, when any friend o’ mine uses that name. I’ve shed it like a snake sheds its skin; and I’ve taken on a new skin, and——”

“And a rattlesnake’s bite, after it has shed its skin, is as pizen as before,” said Bug-eye, trying to be humorous, though his nerves were shaking. “I didn’t mean no offense, nohow.”

“Well, don’t use it ag’in!”

“I won’t; I’ll remember.”

“You bring news of the formation of a vigilantes committee that’s goin’ to get after me.”

“They only think they aire,” said Bug-eye, waving his hand impressively, for the oratorical habit was strong on him. “They think they’re goin’ ter git after ther fake Buffalo Bill that’s makin’ the trouble in this section; but I’ve got ther mine laid which will shoot ’em into ther real Buffalo Bill.”

“How’s that?”

“Yer see, it’s this way: Ther real Buffalo Bill is comin’.”

“Is that so? That’s important. When did you hear it?”

“I heard it last night—got ther news by grape-vine telegraph; otherwise, it was brought me secretly by Jim Welch, ther stage driver. He heard it over near Fort Cimarron. Seems that Buffalo Bill has got wind of ther things that’s goin’ on over in this section, and ther way his name and reppertation is bein’ fly-blown on, as ye may say, and he’s comin’ over ter see about it.

“I knowed at once that would queer your little game, Pan—I mean Buffalo Bill”—he dodged as if he expected a bullet—“and so as soon as ther thing had been done I hiked out here ter tell ye about it and give ye warnin’.”

“Yes, I see.”

“We’re goin’ ter hang the real Buffalo Bill soon’s he strikes ther town. Rainey and me got up ther scheme, and it’s a handsome one, if I do say it; and it will put William F. Cody nicely under the daisies.”

“Yes, I see.”

“And when he’s out o’ ther way, there won’t be so durned much danger fer fellers like you and me what has ter make our livin’ by workin’ ther public in one way and another. But, of course, ther vigilantes, except two or three more in addition ter me and Rainey, don’t understand that, and we don’t want ’em to; they don’t know nothin’ about there bein’ two Buffalo Bills. And so we’ll bag him as soon as he hits ther town. And then he dances hornpipes on the thin atmosphere, and it’s all over with him, and we gits peace out here fer a while fer men of our stripe. I calls it a handsome plan, and so does Rainey. And so does Poker Dan, the gambler. We three really ’riginated and developed the scheme, and it’s a dandy. We didn’t want you to walk into the trap, and maybe have ther vigilantes hang you; and so, as I said, I rid fer this p’int, with this here warning.”

“I thank you for that, anyway, Slocum. When will Buffalo Bill be here?”

“That’s what we don’t know,” said Slocum, observing that Panther Pete’s followers pressed forward to hear what he said.

“I knew he’d come sooner or later, Bug-eye; this business was sure to reach him. And I wanted it to.”

Slocum stared.

“For, you see,” Panther Pete went on, “it’s a little game I’ve been playing here myself, to git him hung. He put me in jail once, a year ago, and I ain’t forgot it. When I broke out o’ that jail, I left behind me a little note fer him, tellin’ him that we’d meet again in the sweet by and by, and I would settle accounts with him. Then I planned to play this trick. I thought it would ruin him in reputation, maybe; and, at any rate, that when he did arrive here a mob would get him, fer the crimes I’d been doing.”

He looked hard at Slocum.

“I was on my way to the town. Will it be safe to go now?”

“I’d advise agin’ it, as I said, and that’s why I’m here. Keep away frum it.”

“All right,” he said. “Work this trick, and hang Buffalo Bill as soon as he hits Scarlet Gulch. Then we’ll have a free hand for a while, and I’ll have the revenge I swore I’d have when I broke out of that jail. But, just the same, I’m going into the town to-night. I’ve got a reason which says I’ve got to go, and I’m going.”

He laughed recklessly.

“Call off your dogs of war, Slocum, while I’m there; get ’em all to drinking in the Flash Light. You can get ’em so drunk on Rainey’s pizen that they won’t know anything until morning. I’ve got a reason to be in that town, and in I’m going, even if Buffalo Bill was there himself.”

CHAPTER XXXIV.
LURED INTO DANGER.

It needed no very strong invitation to set the crowd at Rainey’s to filling themselves full of “pizen.” A simple hint from Slocum that Rainey was “setting ’em up” was all that was necessary.

Slocum drank with the rest of them; but while the others were soon half intoxicated, Slocum’s red face, growing redder and redder, and the strange and shiny brightness of his prominent eyes, alone indicated that he had been drinking more than his ordinary amount.

While the loafers and the “bad men” of the town were thus celebrating at the Flash Light, a handsomely dressed mounted man appeared in the streets, accompanied by three others.

The cry went forth that he was Buffalo Bill, but in reality he was none other than the scoundrel known to his intimates as Panther Pete.

He had drawn his big hat well down over his eyes, shading them and the upper part of his face, thus making it difficult for even one acquainted with him to say this was not Buffalo Bill.

He did not tarry with his men in the principal street; he had only entered it because he could get into the town and to the place he was going by that main street.

Leaving it, he struck off into a side street, and soon was in front of a small house, that sat at some distance from other houses. Here he dismounted, swinging agilely to the ground, and threw his reins to one of his followers.

“I’ll be out in just a minute,” he said, “and when I come be ready, for I’m betting that there will be something doing.”

He ran lightly up the steps of the house, and set his hand to rap on the door. As he did so the door flew open, and in the doorway stood a young man, his face showing an angry flush.

“You’ve come here again, you scoundrel, to see Ellen West!” said the young man.

Panther Pete dropped a hand to the revolver that swung at his hip.

“Is it any of your business?” he asked hotly.

“It is. I’m her friend, and I’ve discovered that you’re a scoundrel, and I came here just now to tell her so.”

“She isn’t here?” was the cool question.

“No. I came here to see her myself, and——”

“Tell me where she is, Denton.”

“Go to the devil!”

“Of course, you warned her that I was coming here this evening, and told her to clear out?”

“Of course, I didn’t.”

“What have you been saying to her about me?”

“Nothing yet.”

“You couldn’t well say to her that I’m what the drunken fools of this town pretend that I am; for she knows that Buffalo Bill has always been a man of honor.”

“I begin to doubt that you are Buffalo Bill,” the youth declared. “I’ve always heard that he was a gentleman, and you’re not; and I’ve always heard that he was an honorable man, and if what I hear now is true, then you’re the blackest scoundrel that ever walked the face of the earth.”

“And you would have told her this? You’ve already talked against me to her?”

Panther Pete’s voice was cool, and even sounded kindly. Whatever his feelings, he had marvelous control of them.

“Not yet.”

“And why not?”

“Because, you see——” He stopped, hesitating.

“Make it as black against me as you please, but I’d like to hear it.”

“Well, I’ve delayed, because I was afraid if I said to her what I think and have heard about you she might think my words were due to jealousy.”

“Kind of you, I’m sure!”

“Oh, don’t thank me for it; I’d like to tell her, and I came here to tell her to-night, and take the chances.”

“Denton, you’re simply crazy jealous. If I take a notion to a girl, I’ve just as much right to do so as you have; and to marry her, if I can. You’re in love with the lady; and so you want to say to me, ‘Hands off!’ But I don’t have to do what you ask. I’ve come here to-night to see the young lady, and I know she’ll be glad to see me. So, if you’ll kindly tell me where she is, I’ll——”

Denton flew into a rage and cursed the tall man before him, denouncing him with wild anger and opprobrious epithets. Meanwhile, the men who sat on their horses not far away squirmed with excitement when they heard that outburst.

“See here,” said Panther Pete, pushing back his hat, and showing, as he opened his mouth, cruel white teeth that gleamed like the teeth of the animal whose name he bore, “I’ve killed men for less; and I don’t allow any man to call me such names. So, this—for you!”

Panther Pete’s revolver leaped out, there was instantly a flash and a report, and the reckless young man pitched forward off the steps, falling prone on the walk. Panther Pete spurned him with his foot.

“You fool!” he said; “you got what you needed. Why did you make me do it? I didn’t want to shoot you, but I can’t stand everything. Well, you’ve got your medicine, and you won’t trouble me any longer.”

He looked about, and glanced at the house.

Apparently no other person was in the house, for no one appeared or came forth upon the street to ascertain the meaning of the shot. That was no doubt due to the fact that in Scarlet Gulch there was each night good deal of reckless shooting, which usually meant no more than that the shooters were drunk.

Seeing that he was apparently unobserved, Panther Pete walked quickly back to where the men were holding his horse.

“Now for the other house,” he muttered. “I know where she is likely to be, even if that fool thought I didn’t, and wouldn’t tell me.”

When he mounted he said nothing of the man he had shot, and who lay now sprawled out on the walk in front of those steps. “Into the other street,” was his short command, as he took the reins and sprang tip into the saddle.

They clattered away and were soon in a street which ran parallel with the one left behind them.

Apparently luck favored Panther Pete, for, as he rode up in front of a larger house, he saw a young woman come down the walk and through the gate. He reined in, and called to her.

“Ellen!”

She had already seen him, though she had not observed him closely; now she stopped, and then turned toward him, but hesitated.

“Ellen,” he said, “I’d like to speak with you.”

Ellen West, all unaware that her lover had been shot down but a few moments before in front of her home by this man, advanced to where Panther Pete sat on his horse.

“Why, it’s Mr. Cody!” she said, in a tone of pleased surprise. “I didn’t know you were in the town.”

“I just came in.”

She glanced about, and at the men who were with him.

“I can speak safely?” she asked.

“Yes; and glad to hear your voice, no matter what you say,” was his flattering answer.

“Well, they’re telling awful stories about you, Mr. Cody; and you’ll not be pleased to hear them.”

“I’ve already heard them,” he said, “and they annoy me. Your father sent me here to-night.”

“Father sent you?” She had come quite close up to his horse and now looked up into his face, while he bent toward her from the saddle.

“Yes, I heard these reports this morning. Your father was with me at the time; and he told me to come here at once. You know I’ve advanced him money to work that mining claim out in the Blue Hills?”

“Yes, I knew that,” she said frankly.

“I was out at the claim when the news came to me. The accusations are against your father as well as against myself; and the vigilantes that organized to-day at the Flash Light Saloon intend to hang him, as well as me, as soon as they can catch us.”

“Then you’re in great danger!” she cried. She was startled, and her tremulous voice showed that she was concerned for the safety of her father.

“Yes, I know it,” he answered; “but I’ve braved it to bring this word to you from your father. He wants you to take one of these horses and ride out with me to that claim to-night. We’ll be your escort, and you’ll be perfectly safe.”

“Out to the claim to-night?” She was amazed. It would be a long and wild night ride.

“That was his request; and I’ve come at his request. He is to be hung by the vigilantes, if they catch him; and he fears that they will even treat you harshly, and so he wanted you to get out of the town at once.”

She hesitated. She did not like the thought of that long night ride, even though she did not yet distrust this fake Buffalo Bill, for she believed him to be the real Buffalo Bill. It seemed strange to her that her father should ask her to do this thing, for she reasoned that he ought to know she would not personally be in any danger in the town.

“I think I ought to see Mr. Denton first,” she said.

Though Panther Pete’s anger flamed at that name, he still maintained his outward composure.

“I have already met him and sent him out there!” he said.

“Mr. Denton has gone out there?”

“Yes; he was in as much danger as either your father or myself, and I told him so. He was riding, beyond the town, and I urged him to hurry on to the claim. I told him I’d get you, with this escort, and see you safe to the claim to-night.”

The thing seemed so impossible to her. She did not, however, have the least inkling of the truth—that this cold-blooded and smooth-tongued villain had shot Denton but a few minutes before on the very steps of her own home.

“Come!” said Panther Pete, as she hesitated, “I can’t stay long. Those vigilantes will know soon that I’m in the town, if they don’t know it already, and then I’ll be in peril of having my neck stretched so long that it would be easy to tie bowknots with it.”

His words were flippant, but his manner was not.

“Oh, is the danger so great as that?” she cried.

“I’ve risked my life to come to you,” he said, with pretended earnestness. “Please hurry,” he urged; “for I’m in danger every minute we delay.”

One of his men slipped to the ground.

“We haven’t a sidesaddle to offer you,” said Panther Pete to her, “but this will do; and you’re a good rider.”

“Oh, I can ride well enough,” she declared. “So father thinks I ought to ride out to the claim to-night? It seems strange; and stranger still that Mr. Denton should ride on in advance. I should have thought he would wait for me.”

“He had to take a message in a hurry,” lied the pretended Buffalo Bill.

“I’ll go,” she assented; “just wait for me a minute.”

She ran back into the house, and when she reappeared a woman came with her.

“It’s too bad to take a ride like that in the night,” said this woman; “and for my part I don’t think Ellen is in a bit of danger here. I think she oughtn’t go.”

“But if father says for me to?” she objected.

“He’s scared at nothing, so far as you’re concerned. There ain’t a soul in this town would hurt you, Ellen.”

“You know what a wild lot some of the men are!” the girl urged.

“There ain’t one of ’em would say a harmful word to ye!” the woman protested.

Nevertheless, assisted by the dismounted horseman, the girl climbed into the big saddle, and then she took the reins and was ready to ride away.

“Good-by, Mrs. Dean!” she said. “I’ll be back soon, perhaps to-morrow. This trouble won’t last long. I don’t feel that I’d be in danger here, but if father says for me to come out to him I must do it.”

“You’re a sensible girl and an obedient daughter,” said Panther Pete, as they moved along the street, leaving the dismounted man behind.

CHAPTER XXXV.
MOBBED AND THREATENED.

Panther Pete and his escort, with the girl, were seen as they galloped out of the town.

A hue and cry was raised immediately, and the story was circulated that Buffalo Bill and some of his Border Ruffians had invaded the town and had kidnaped the beautiful Ellen West.

The young man who had fallen from the steps under Panther Pete’s pistol fire, and had been left there by Panther Pete as dead, revived sufficiently to crawl to the next house, and to raise the alarm.

Mrs. Dean, on being interviewed, told her story; but it did not change the general belief that the girl had been abducted; it being argued that “Buffalo Bill” had used persuasions that were false to get her out of the town, so that in truth it was an abduction.

Mrs. Dean had heard Panther Pete’s declarations that young Denton had already departed for West’s mining claim in the Blue Hills; and, of course, this was seen at once to have been a lie.

Hence, it was believed that the statement that the girl’s father had asked her to go out there was also a lie.

A tremendous excitement was created.

The half-drunken men at the Flash Light heard the news of the abduction, and of the shooting of Denton. They roared their rage, and the vigilantes rushed about as if they hoped to capture the man they had already determined to hang.

While this tremendous excitement was at white heat, Buffalo Bill rode leisurely into the town.

Riding up to the hitching rail in front of the Flash Light Saloon, where, as he saw, something exciting was occurring, he calmly tied his horse, and was on the point of entering the place when he was seen.

A wild roar of surprise and rage rose. Then a swarm of men stormed out of the saloon and quickly surrounded him.

He could not at first understand the nature of their clamor, but he saw them fingering their weapons, and saw that their tones and manner were threatening in the extreme.

“What’s the trouble, friends?” he asked.

“It’s you!” was bellowed at him.

“Is that so? Let us go into the Flash Light, where you may all drink at my expense, and there we will talk it over.”

“Here come the vigilantes, with Slocum and Rainey!” some one howled.

Rainey and Slocum had quickly gathered their following, and were now descending on the scout. Slocum was in the lead, spectacularly waving his hand, and Rainey carried a revolver.

“Surrender!” Slocum shouted, almost hysterically.

Buffalo Bill looked amazed. “Surrender! Why should I surrender?”

A roar of wrath went up.

Slocum planted himself in front of the scout, in an oratorical attitude. “Because, sir,” he shouted, “you are a would-be murderer. Not a half an hour ago, sir, you shot down in cold blood one of our esteemed feller citerzens, Ben Denton. That he’s livin’ is not your fault. He got a bullet in his left shoulder, sir, and it came near wingin’ him on the way to that land where murderers like you, sir, can never hope to go. That’s the first indictment we bring against you before the court of Judge Lynch, sir.

“I am,” he waved his hand, “the prosecuting attorney, charged by the citerzens of this town with assistin’ the judge in the performance of his duty, and in the bringin’ to jestice of them that has willfully and wickedly violated the law.

“My second charge against you, sir, is that you are the leader of that rascally and villainous organization of thieves and cutthroats, known hereabouts as Buffalo Bill’s Border Ruffians; and that as such head of this villainous organization aforesaid you have been robbin’ stagecoaches and wanderin’ wayfarers on our highways, and filchin’ the hard earnings of the miners of this great and growing community, sir.

“In other words, you are Buffalo Bill—the man who came to this peaceable section posing as an honest and honorable man, and then has secretly done deeds that the light of day shudders, sir, to look at.

“In chargin’ you, sir, with these crimes, I now mention the runnin’ away a while ago with Miss Ellen West. And fur these things I ask that the vigilantes, organized for this purpose, take you, and tie a rope round your wu’thless neck, and swing yer wu’thless carkiss to that tree limb over there; and may God have mercy on your soul!”

The scout had listened at first in amusement and amazement. He now saw that there was black meaning back of all this fustian; that in truth this bombastic orator represented a committee of vigilantes determined to take his life. He saw, too, how easy it was for these men to mistake him for the man who had been masquerading in his place.

“See here,” said Buffalo Bill, “you are making the greatest mistake of your life. I have heard of the rascal for whom you take me, and I agree that if what has been reported of him is true he deserves hanging; but I am not that man. I am William F. Cody, known as Buffalo Bill. There is a man, I am told, in this section, who has been posing as Buffalo Bill.”

They interrupted him with howls of anger and laughter.

He saw now that he would have to fight his way through that crowd if he hoped to get away, and he swung with a quick movement into his saddle. But as he did so, he heard an ominous clicking of revolvers and saw that more than a dozen were trained on him.

To attempt to break through the crowd, it seemed, would be simply suicide. He might kill one, or several, of these men, but they could get him in spite of that; and then they certainly would make short work with him at the end of a rope.

They pushed toward him angrily, and three or four jumped to get hold of his bridle reins.

“Will you listen to reason?” he said. “I came here because I had heard of the things done by that masquerader who was sullying my good name.”

“Oh, we don’t take no bluff like that!” was yelled at him.

“We know that you’re Buffler Bill, all right,” another shouted. “And it’s Buffler Bill we’re wantin’.”

Some of them took hold of his legs as if to drag him out of his saddle.

“You won’t believe that you are making a mistake?”

“Hang him!” roared the mob.

Some one flourished a rope suggestively, while the crowd surged round, roaring and shouting.

Buffalo Bill now drew a revolver. He did not intend to be hanged by this mob. If his life was to be lost he would lose it fighting, not at the end of a rope.

Suddenly he drove his spurs desperately into the flanks of his horse, having before that, by a slash of his knife, released it from the hitching rack. It made one jump, then a revolver cracked, and the horse fell sprawling, a bullet in its brain.

The scout would have been hurled violently to the ground if he had not disengaged his feet from the stirrups and landed in an upright position.

As he struck the ground he held a revolver in each hand, and he was ready to use them.

He felt that his last hour had probably come, but he meant to meet it like a hero; these men would not have it to say afterward that he had gone to the rope like a cringing coward. And if he had to die, he would take dear toll to pay to the grim ferryman.

But before he could use his revolvers there was a shout in the street, a loud clatter of galloping hoofs, and a man came dashing up into the very fringe of the howling mob.

CHAPTER XXXVI.
THE WESTERN DEAD SHOT.

The man who had galloped with that yell right into the crowd was none other than Wild Bill, the Western dead shot.

Many of the men there recognized him, and they were sure his sudden dash meant an attempt to rescue Buffalo Bill.

Wild Bill reined in his horse so quickly that he threw it back on its haunches. It reared, its pawing front feet making the men there scatter, and when it came down, Wild Bill, with a touch of the spur, drove it to Cody’s side. Then he half wheeled his horse, lifting his cap to the astonished crowd.

“It seems to me, from the look of things, that you’ve got the wrong steer by the horns! I know that my friend Cody is too white a man to ever do anything that would call for a hanging bee.” He smiled upon Buffalo Bill. “Eh, pard, what have they got it in for you for?”

Not a man there but had heard of Wild Bill, and many of them knew him by sight; so that when it was known that this was Wild Bill, the most dare-devil and reckless shot of the West, the man who feared not the face of clay, and if report spoke correctly would rather shoot than eat, there was a falling back. Yet they still surrounded Buffalo Bill and this new rider, and seemed no more disposed to give up their prey than if they were a band of wolves.

Wild Bill had seen many mobs, and he knew their moods and methods; yet his flashing eyes betrayed no sign that he really understood the very dangerous and ticklish position which he and his noted pard were in. He even seemed to be merry.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “won’t some one enlighten me? Here am I, a wayfarer, blundering into this tragic scene, but knowing no more what it is about than if I were the off hind wheel of a prairie schooner. I can see, though, that you are harboring some sort of hard feelings against my friend Cody, as white and true a man as ever breathed the breath of life. What is it? Spit it out!”

They began to “spit it out,” telling him the things with which Buffalo Bill stood charged.

“And he denies it? Strange that he should deny anything like that! I’m afraid, though, that I’ll have to help him deny it. For I know that there is another man who goes round here pretending to be my pard Cody. I got word of it, not long ago, over in the Bitterroot country, and I’ve ridden over here to hunt the devil down, just for my pard’s sake.”

The great scout gave him a look of gratitude.

“I didn’t know that Cody was here, and——”

“That’s jist it!” was yelled at him. “You didn’t think that Buffler Bill would do the things that it’s known he’s done. Nor we didn’t think it, till we had the proofs and had to. And here, when you come, you find him, caught for doin’ the things you wouldn’t believed of him. And now that we’ve got him we’re goin’ ter make him dance on air.”

Again that roar of rage broke forth from the surging and excited mob. The whisky these men had swallowed in the Flash Light had helped to transform them into human wolves.

For a few moments after Wild Bill had thus tried to interfere they had held back. They were astonished by his boldness and they feared his deadly revolvers; but they did not intend to be balked of their feast of blood. They intended to have the life of Buffalo Bill; and if Wild Bill interfered and stood in the way, then so much the worse for him, for they would promptly hang him, too, for being a meddler and an obstructer of border justice.

Both Wild Bill and Buffalo Bill understood what was seething in their minds; and, if they had not so understood, the cries that now went up would have quickly informed them.

“Stand outer the way, thar, Wild Bill!” a man yelled. “We ain’t got no fight against you; but t’other feller we’re after, and aire goin’ to have.”

Slocum stood on the outskirts of the crowd, trying to make his voice heard in the uproar. Close by him stood Rainey, revolver ready for bloody work.

Half of the crowd had revolvers out, and in their drunken condition they were ready to shoot.

Buffalo Bill spoke again, repeating his story and his denials.

“Hang ’em both!” was roared. The crowd surged forward. The rope was flourished by the ruffian who parried it, and from some other point a cowboy’s lasso was hurled forward, for the second noose intended for the neck of Wild Bill.

The dead shot crowded his horse close against the scout, who, since the death of his own animal, was afoot.

“Up behind me, pard!” he said, stooping over so that Buffalo Bill could hear him. “We’ll make a break together, and go down together, fighting. I think I’m good for a half dozen of these wolves before they get me, and you’re good for as many more. There will be something occurring in the graveyard business here to-morrow, anyway.”

His eyes flashed fire, and his voice was tense with determination.

Buffalo Bill saw that delay only increased the danger. Soon those nooses would be round his own neck and the neck of his friend; and when that happened the end was not far off.

“All right!” he cried.

Wild Bill swung the horse around as Buffalo Bill sprang for its back. As he did so, his gold-mounted revolver glittered in the light of the Flash Light’s lamps.

The time for desperate action on the part of the two pards had come. What the end would be they did not know, but they were prepared to die fighting.

CHAPTER XXXVII.
THE MAN WHO INTERFERED.

In an upper room of the boarding house that occupied the story above the Flash Light Saloon a man sat at an open window, looking down on the exciting scenes described.

He had taken that room the day before, had haunted the bar of the Flash Light a good deal since that time, and hinted that he was the wonderful inventor of something that would produce rain. He had not touched much liquor, due doubtless to the fact that his finances were obviously at a low ebb. At least, this was the opinion of Rainey, who sized up the financial ability of every man who came his way.

Rainey had paid little attention to this man, who had signed his name on the boarding-house register as Silas Deland.

Silas Deland had been sitting by that upper window when Buffalo Bill rode up in front of the Flash Light and had been surrounded by the mob, and he had continued to sit there until after the appearance of Wild Bill. He seemed deeply interested in what was occurring, and leaned now and then from the window. After a while he produced a revolver.

Finally he went to the “grip” from which he had taken some cartridges for the revolver, and dug out of it a round object of the size and shape of an egg.

With this in his hand, Silas Deland returned to his post by the window, and again looked down on the mob that surrounded the two prairie pards.

Once or twice he lifted the hand which held the egg-shaped object, as if he meant to hurl it into the midst of that screaming crowd. But he hesitated, and continued to watch and listen until he saw Wild Bill draw his horse around and Buffalo Bill leap to mount behind him. Then the man’s hand went up again, and the white, egg-shaped object shot through the window.

There followed a quick exploding puff at the point where it struck the ground, and out of that exploding puff shot a very rain of fire and smoke. Instantly the street was obscured by the smoke and fire, and the members of the mob fell back, thinking that a bomb had burst in their midst.

There was a quick leap of Wild Bill’s horse, and, as it sprang away through the smoke, two men were mounted on it, and they were the prairie pards.

“Hang tight!” Wild Bill had said, as he drove the spurs deep and the horse made its first wild jump.

It was out in the street and away from the Flash Light Saloon so quickly that the mob did not know it. In fact, the men there were paralyzed for the moment by the strange explosion. They had rushed pell-mell, trampling and pushing, and even treading each other down.

At the window above, all unsuspected, sat the strange man of the red face and fiery nose; and he chuckled audibly when he saw the panic his little bomb had created.

The two border pards were in the main street, on Wild Bill’s fast horse, and were getting out of Scarlet Gulch at almost railroad speed.

“Ho, ho!” cackled the man at the window, as he saw them go. “See what a great splutteration a little smoke and fire kindleth!” He peered down into the street.

“To see the combobberation that thing kicked up one would think that a dozen men are lying dead down there! Yet I’ll bet, unless some of ’em got burned a bit by the fire, not a single man Jack of ’em is hurt in the least.”

It was true, as the members of the mob were already beginning to discover. If the thing that had exploded in their midst had been a bomb of deadly character, it had not harmed a man. As soon as they saw that, their shattered courage began to return.

Rainey and Bug-eye Slocum began to roar their wrath again, and to shout commands to their followers.

“Foller ’em!” yelled Rainey.

“Those bomb-hurling miscreants, who had imported the methods of Russia into this land of the free and home of the brave, must be captured at once,” screeched Slocum, oratorical even in his rage. “What, ho!” he yelled. “A hundred simoleons to the man what brings either one of ’em back, dead or alive!”

No one was heartless enough at the moment—or thought enough, perhaps it ought to be said—to ask Bug-eye where he expected to get the hundred dollars he offered so freely, for not once in a decade was he known to have so much money.

No one stopped to question. They were furious as baffled foxhounds, and all were yelping, to the effect that the escaping men must be pursued and brought back, and hung for this outrage.

The man at the window above looked down and chuckled, and then laughed and chuckled again, rubbing his hands together in a sort of delirious glee.

“Ho, ho!” he said. “They think the bomb was hurled by one of the prairie pards. Well, it’s natural that they should! They’d never suspect poor old Silas Deland up here of doing a thing like that. Poor old Silas is too simple-minded and altogether too innocent an old whisky tub to even think of doing a thing like that. Ho, ho! Hear the heathen rage and imagine vain things. It’s fun to the man up the tree.”

A pursuit was begun in hot haste, the members of the mob seizing whatever horses they could lay their hands on. But with the scouts already out of the town, and the darkness heavy beyond the circle of the street lamps, it seemed unlikely that any pursuit could be effectual.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.
DENTON AND DELAND.

There was one man in Scarlet Gulch who, if he had had any doubt of the masquerading of Buffalo Bill’s double, had that doubt completely blown to the wind by what he witnessed in the street before the Flash Light Saloon. That man was young Ben Denton, the lover of Ellen West.

He was far from dead; though wounded in the shoulder, and by the shock of the bullet and his heavy fall rendered temporarily unconscious.

On recovering consciousness, he discovered quickly that Ellen West had been induced to leave the town with the man who had shot him, and he knew she was unaware of that shooting, and had gone with the man in full faith of his sincerity and good intentions.

Having crawled to his feet, and then received aid from friendly hands, who bandaged his shoulder and gave him stimulants, the young fellow’s courage gave him strength to get down into the street before the Flash Light Saloon, where, he heard, Buffalo Bill had been captured and was about to be hanged. He heard the scout’s explanation and declarations of what had taken place, and he was sensible enough to see that this man was really the great scout, of whom he had so often heard, but up to that moment had not beheld. He saw how he and the girl, and all their friends, had been fooled by the man who had been so boldly masquerading as Buffalo Bill.

Denton was in that wild throng when Wild Bill made his appearance, and he was still there when Silas Deland hurled the smoke-and-fire bomb into the crowd, with such spectacular effect.

He saw the escape from the mob of the real Buffalo Bill, on the back of Wild Bill’s horse, and accompanied by that redoubtable fighter. Still lingering and weak, he heard the angry shouting and denunciations, and the wordy commands of Slocum and Rainey, and saw the hasty attempt being made to follow the fleeing men.

Then he still further gathered together his strength and his courage, and, getting a horse from a stable near, he mounted, white-faced and panting, but courageous and undaunted, and rode out of the town himself, intending to be close to the mob of pursuers.

The drunken mob scattered as they left the town behind, some falling out and returning almost at once, others continuing on. But though Slocum and Rainey led, the pursuit was but a disorganized and disorderly thing, and showed little capability.

“They’ll never do anything,” said Denton.

He turned from the racing and drunken pursuers, and rode away alone, shaping his course in the direction he believed the false Buffalo Bill had taken.

He had gone but a little way in this manner when he heard galloping hoofs. Some one else was heading in the same course.

A mounted form loomed up out of the darkness, and this mounted form drew rein.

“What, ho!”

“Who’s there?” said Denton, clutching the revolver he had armed himself with before starting.

“Are you Ben Denton?”

Ben did not recognize the voice, and to be thus addressed rather astonished him.

“Yes, that is my name,” he answered.

The horseman rode near; then he saw before him a man he had once noticed in the Flash Light Saloon, a man whose face and nose were very red as if from much drinking.

“Ho, ho!” cackled this man. “This is hard riding! I’ve been follerin’ ye fer nigh about an hour, seems to me.”

“What for?” Denton asked suspiciously, and sharply.

“Because of what I know about ye, and what I heard about ye. You’re interested in the rescue of the young lady that has been run away with by an imp o’ Satan who has been goin’ round playin’ a ruffianly Buffalo Bill?”

“Yes.” Denton was puzzled. How did this man know so much?

“Well, I’m Sile Deland. I’ve been puttin’ up at the boardin’ house over the Flash Light. I was gittin’ a horse fer myself when I seen you git that’n and cut out. And I follered ye.”

“What for?” Denton wondered if this man was to be trusted. He knew nothing about him.

“Because I’m a human bein’, and so am naturally int’rested in the capture of the same man that you aire; and I didn’t know but that we could hunt together, like a pair o’ wolves, say; and maybe I could help you, and you could help me.”

“You know something about that man?” Denton asked.

“I don’t, but I know he’s a rascal. My name’s Silas Deland.”

“But I don’t know you,” the young man protested. “What do you want to capture that man for?”

“Same as you do—to see that he gits what’s properly deservin’. Shall we two jog along together, er do we sep’rate right here? Maybe I could help ye. I was told you’d been shot; and when I seen ye go, I recognized the fact that you wasn’t fit, and was takin’ some mighty big resks.”

Denton, who had been holding on by sheer strength, felt a sudden weakness, which he conquered.

“I think I’d prefer to go on alone, unless you can tell me just where I can find that man, and who he is.”

“If I knew where to find him, I’d be happier than a fool; but I don’t know. As to who he is, I don’t mind in tellin’ you that among them that knows him best he’s called Panther Pete. So I’ve been told.”

“Panther Pete!”

“Ho, ho! I see you’ve heerd that name?”

“The name of the leader of the Black Bandits!”

“Jest the same feller. He cut up sich blood-and-thunder shines over in the Bittersweet country that he had to light out of there. Buffalo Bill was after him hard at the time. He disappeared, dropped out of sight, and then reappeared here, callin’ himself Buffalo Bill, and doin’ ther things you’ve heard hereabout. Well, that’s him, Panther Pete—the blackest, meanest, most contemptible villain that walks under the sky. He was down in Arizony onct, when I was there, and so I know that much about him.”

“You’re after him? Who are you?”

“Me?” he cackled again. “Call me Sile Deland, and you’ll hit it. I’m after him only because I think he ought to be punished, and I like the excitement of a man hunt. Shall we strike hands together as pards, and make this hunt in pair?”

The young man hesitated. “I think I’ll go alone,” he said finally. “Thanks for your kind offer; and because I don’t accept, don’t think I don’t appreciate it. But—I don’t know you; and I’ve found out that when out here you don’t know a man it’s safe to let him alone.”

“You’re cautious, and caution usually wins, young man. I don’t blame ye. So long!”

When young Denton went on again, Deland held in his horse until the young man had passed on. Then he gave his horse its head and permitted it to follow in the same general direction, drawing rein now and then to listen to the clattering feet of Denton’s pony.

Suddenly there was confusion in those clattering hoofs.

“Ah! I expected it.”

Silas Deland rode forward finally, and soon he came on a sight that startled him. Young Denton, overcome by weakness and loss of blood, had tumbled blindly from his saddle. One foot clung to the stirrup, and his horse was dragging him.

Silas Deland yelled to the horse, rode up to it, leaped to the ground, and stopped it; and then, disengaging the young man’s foot, he laid the unconscious youth down on the grass, and began to work to restore him to consciousness.

“It’s what I looked for, young man! Your courage is bigger than any other part of you—bigger even than your common sense, or you’d never tried this thing in the condition you’re in. It’s a good thing for you that I tried to keep close to you. You, and that young lady, too, seem to be needin’ help about this time.”

He drew a metal whisky flask from his pocket and poured some of the whisky down Denton’s throat.

“Oh, ho! You ain’t dead, ’tany rate! You’re comin’ round. Nothing like this here wine of life to put a man’s breathin’ apparatus to work when it’s gone on a sudden strike. Fer myself, though, I never teches it, unless I’m snake bit, er dyin’; and I only prescribes it in oncommon needy cases, like this here. You’re comin’ round! Well, now, mebbe, you’ll have more respect for yer humble servant. And we’ll go huntin’ that girl together, so we will.”

He gave Denton some more of the powerful stimulant, and was pleased by his signs of returning animation.

When Denton opened his eyes to consciousness again, the first thing he was aware of was that the queer stranger was sitting before him in the darkness, chuckling like some strange animal, and offering him a drink of whisky out of a metal bottle.

CHAPTER XXXIX.
IN A WEB OF LIES.

Ellen West rode forth from Scarlet Gulch in doubt, with Panther Pete, believing him to be Buffalo Bill, a man she felt she ought to honor, yet troubled by unpleasant forebodings.

He had told her that her father, who was working a claim in the Blue Hills, some distance away, wished her to come there, and had sent him to escort her.

When they were beyond the town, he said:

“Miss West, I didn’t want to tell you, but your father is not well.”

“Not well?” she said, alarmed. “You mean he is very sick, dying perhaps?”

“The fact is,” he exclaimed, “he fell and hurt himself in that tunnel he is digging; some rock fell on him, and——”

“Oh, he is dying! I know it. Why didn’t you tell me at once?”

“I didn’t want to scare you,” he answered.

“He is dying?”

“No, not so bad as that; but he is hurt, and I thought you ought to be out there. Girls are scared of the dark, you know, and so—well, I done the best I could. I didn’t want to make you feel bad, either; but I reckon the time for you to know it has come.”

She asked him again and again why he had not told her at first of the injury to her father, and urged him to give details; until, in replying to her, he had constructed such a piece of fiction that he felt rather proud of it and his abilities in that line.

Two or three miles from the town he was joined by half a dozen rough-looking riders, who peered at the girl from under their slouched hats in a way to make her uneasy. These wild figures fell in behind her and the supposed Buffalo Bill, as if they were the escort.

“Friends of mine,” said Panther Pete. “Some of the members of my band of scouts.”

“Oh, your scouts!” she said, much relieved.

“I’m the chief of the scouts, you know.”

“Yes, I have heard that. And these are some of them?”

She glanced at the sky. Being a prairie girl, she knew the stars by sight, and was able to tell which was north as well as any one. She saw the Big Dipper, with its two outer stars pointing to the north star. She had observed that a change had been made in their course, and she saw that a further change of course occurred now, a change that surprised her, for she knew it was not the right direction to take her to her father’s claim. She spoke of it to the man who rode beside her.

“Oh, yes, right ye are! But, you see, it’s this way: There’s danger now in going the straight course, and so we make this circle. We’ll be steering in the other direction soon.”

“What is the danger?” she asked.

“Outlaws,” he said gravely.

“Outlaws?”

“You’ve heard of the stage holdups? Well, it’s the fellows who have been doing that work. These men here saw them over in that direction this afternoon, and so we’re trying to get round them. I didn’t want to worry you by mentioning it.”

This satisfied her for a time, but when, in the course of two or three hours of brisk riding, they passed through a deep cañon pass and came to a hollow in the hills, at a point which she was sure was a long way from her father’s mining claim, and there saw some log huts of poor construction, and the party was challenged by a guard, her fears sprang up.

“What does this mean?” she demanded.

“We’re going to get a stronger force here,” said Panther Pete, still thinking that lying would serve him best. “We need a large escort.”

Again she was silent, and they passed into the valley.

Some dogs barked loudly, but were driven back to their kennels; and then she was before one of the huts, and was told to dismount.

Panther Pete swung down and helped her from the saddle.

“We’ll rest a little while,” he explained. “Then we’ll go on again.”

“But we ought to hurry right on, for father may be dying,” she protested.

“We’ll need a little rest,” he urged, and he opened the door of the hut and showed her within.

She stood in the darkness, inside, hesitating, for she began to feel that something was wrong.

Panther Pete followed her into the hut, and then lighted a lamp, which stood on a low table at the opposite side of the room. By its lights she saw that the hut contained but one room.

“Just stay here and rest a minute,” he urged, “and I’ll be right back. I’ll have something brought for you to eat, and then in a little while we’ll go on again.”

However, when he retreated and closed the door, she distinctly heard the key turned in the lock.

“Mr. Cody,” she called after him, still hearing his retreating footsteps. “Mr. Cody!”

She shook the door, and then pounded on it with her closed fist, and called again; but he did not answer, and he did not turn back. Bewildered now, and badly frightened, she shook the door again and again, and raised her voice in loud calls.

One of the dogs set up a barking outcry, hearing her, but no human being responded.

There was no window in the hut, but near the roof were some small holes that let in light and air. She could not climb up to those holes, and it would not have helped her if she could have done so. In despair, she glanced round the room.

It contained a rude bed, some chairs, and a table and lamp, and nothing else. The floor was of earth, beaten hard.

She sat down to await the return of the man who had locked her in. By and by she heard him coming, and she heard the key turn in the lock when he opened the door.

She was on her feet, facing him, as he entered.

“I must ask you to explain this—this——” She panted and hesitated for words.

He closed the door quickly, and stopped in front of it.

“What is it?” he said.

“Why, you locked me in when you went away! Why did you do that?”

“For your protection,” he said, still thinking it best to lie to her.

“For my protection?”

“Yes; some of these men here I don’t trust. They’re all right as scouts, and all that, but I don’t trust them. We’ve got to stay here a little while, until we can get more men; for the outlaws, it’s reported, are in strong force between here and the Blue Hills.”

His manner had changed, and the truth suddenly came to her, with its startling revelation.

“You are not Buffalo Bill!” she cried, gasping.

“Who’s been telling you I’m not?” he said, startled.

“Oh, I know it! I feel it! You can’t be Buffalo Bill. I did hear rumors, and thought them——”

“What rumors?” he demanded.

“That Buffalo Bill was not in this part of the country, and that you were a fake Buffalo Bill. But I didn’t believe them, for you——”

“For I was making love to you and all that?” He laughed harshly.

“No; because you were father’s friend.”

“Well, I’ve been good to him, for your sake,” he said brazenly.

She became terrified, for this seemed almost a confession that he was not Buffalo Bill.

“I’ve been good to him,” he repeated, “and he knows it, and he don’t doubt that I’m Buffalo Bill. I let him have a thousand dollars to help him out with that claim, and he doesn’t forget it.”

She regarded him with terror, for there was a change in his manner—a reckless change apparently.

“You will take me on to father’s claim as soon as possible?” she said.

He dropped to a rough stool close by the door, in such a manner that the door was still guarded by his body.

“Well, what if I’m not Buffalo Bill, as you say?”

“I—I am afraid you’re not.”

“And if I ain’t?” he demanded.

“You have told me you were!” she gasped.

“And you’ve said I wasn’t. Well, I ain’t.”

He paused to note the effect of his words. She withdrew toward the other side of the room, alarm and fright showing in her face and manner.

“I’m not Buffalo Bill, though I reckon as that ain’t the name that his mother gave him I’ve as much right to it as he has. In other words, I’m not Bill Cody. And I reckon, too, that you’ve heard of me; most people round here have. Do you want to know who I am? I’m Panther Pete.”

She screamed, and crowded closer against the wall when she heard that dreaded name. Panther Pete! It was a name of infamy, a name that reeked with blood, a name to blanch the cheek of woman or man; for the miscreant who bore it was notorious as a murderer and outlaw, with innumerable black and bloody crimes laid at his door.

“You’ve heard of me, I see,” he remarked, with a sardonic smile.

She did not answer, but stared at him, large-eyed and fearful.

“And now that you know who I am, what do ye say to it? Ain’t I as good-looking as I was before—as I was when you thought me Buffalo Bill? Buffalo Bill! Faugh! He’s a milksop, that tries to make people believe that kindness pays when you’re dealing with Indians and cattle like that; and then has to go out and shoot up them same Indians for their deviltry, and thus eat his own words. It ain’t been any special honor to me to play Buffalo Bill; but I had a reason for doing it, which was to get him in a sling. I think he’s in that sling about now, and he won’t get out of it easy.”

It was a long speech, but he seemed to enjoy his words, and the terror they brought to the countenance of the girl.

“Please—please take me to my father!” she begged.

He laughed again harshly.

“You believed that part of it, too, did ye?”

“Please take me to my father!”

“Well, that’s a thing I ain’t thinking of doing. I couldn’t afford to deprive myself of your charming presence, ye know. I’ve taken a fancy to you. My dear, I’m dead in love with you.”

She wanted to scream again.

“You know I told you that once, at your home over there in Scarlet Gulch,” he continued calmly. “You thought I was Buffalo Bill, and you smiled when I said it. I’m the same man, and when I say it now you show a weak disposition and a tendency to holler, which is unkind of you.”

She turned on him in wild desperation. “You must let me out of this house!” she cried. “I won’t stay here. You promised to take me to my father, and——”

“Promises made to a handsome woman are like the proverbial pie crust, made to be broken. I wanted to bring you here.”

“And lied to me?”

“Yes, I lied to you like a sinner. I might as well admit it. I ought to have told you the truth at first; only I thought you’d yell, and there would be a sweet muss of it in the street, maybe with a lot of fellows chasin’ me and trying to shoot me full of holes. So I lied to you.”

“And my father?”

“I ain’t seen your father for a good while. That was a lie, too. I think he’s well and healthy. I don’t expect to see him again soon.”

“And you intend——”

“Just to keep you here a while, my dear, out of affection for you, pure and simple; and then, as soon as it’s safe, we’ll hike out for a preacher I know about, who’ll marry us. He ain’t in good standing in the church just now, but he can tie the matrimonial knot as tight for us as the next one, and that’s what we want. You see, he got into trouble at the last church he presided over, and, when some of the deacons and leading members wanted to put him in jail, he just jumped the country and came to me; and I’ve treated him better than ever they did, and he’s makin’ more money.”

“He is a member of your band of road agents?” she cried.

“I don’t call ’em that; they’re gentlemen of the road, doing good to the world by taking money from rich folks who don’t need it and handing it over to poor folks that do, with just a little for themselves by way of toll for the trouble. And yet people say hard things against us, and invite us to necktie parties and all that. It’s unjust and unreasonable.”

Ellen West had never before seen the devil displayed in human form as she now saw it in this smiling, handsome fellow, who said these things as coolly as if they were but jest, and sat there, his white teeth showing as he laughed. He looked to be a fiend incarnate.

Realizing just what he was, and all the horror of her own position, she wanted to shriek. Then she began to beg him again to let her go; and he answered in the same way, laughing at her words, and making light of her fears.

“Miss West,” he said, “you’ll find us just the finest lot you ever met. So don’t be afraid and go off into a fit. I’m going to make you my wife. I’ve sworn to have the life of Buffalo Bill. I planned a little trick that I think will get him as soon as he puts his nose into Scarlet Gulch. If it doesn’t, I’ve got some other plans that will. I intend to do him up, for some things I owe him.

“That will, of course, necessitate my sudden retirement from this section. I shall emigrate, get out of the country, and go in search of pastures new. And I know where those pastures are—green, and flowing with gold dollars and milk and honey.

“I want somebody to go with me for company, and I’ve hit on you as the female angel that will soothe and console me in that time of retreat and trial. I’ve got a snug abode just built for two up in the mountains, and we’ll bill and coo there like a pair of turtle doves, and forget those awful times down here.”

He sat before her, his elbows on his knees, his hands supporting his chin, and looked at her; and she stared at him, as the charmed bird is said to stare helplessly at the serpent.

She saw how helpless she was in the power of this man. About her were the plains and the rolling hills, and darkness and distance. She did not even know where this hut and this valley were situated; nor how far she had come after leaving Scarlet Gulch. But she knew that in this valley were the road agents who acknowledged the authority of this man—Panther Pete. Yes, she was helpless, and she realized it.

“Oh, let me go!” she begged in terror, throwing herself on her knees before him. “Please—please let me go! I shall pray for you every day of my life, if you will let me go. I once considered you an honorable man, and——”

He put out his hand and touched her head, causing her to shiver.

“My dear girl, have a little sense!” he said. “Is it such a terrible thing to think of marrying me? I’ll bet that, when you thought I was Buffalo Bill, you were of the opinion that I was rather a stunning fellow in general appearance! Now, didn’t you? And I’m as good-looking now as then. Come, be sensible! I’m not going to scalp you, or feed you to my dogs out there. In fact, I’m not going to hurt you at all. I’m simply going to hold you until you’re willing to go before our parson and marry me. Think what that will mean! You will be the wife of Panther Pete, and queen of the road agents! Doesn’t the prospect allure you? If it doesn’t, it ought to. To be queen of our road agents isn’t so small a matter as you may think it. They’re a jolly lot, and fighters every one, from the ground up. There are worse jobs than being queen to a set of fellows like that. Why, if you should be kind to ’em, and say a good word now and then to ’em, there ain’t a man among ’em wouldn’t die for you, and feel happy if you paid him with a smile.

“I’m going to let you think about this. Think it over for a time, and carefully. We’re not such a bad lot. We do our robbing and stealing boldly, and risk our lives. Other men steal and rob under cover—by giving short weight, cheating their customers, stealing from the bank depositors and covering it up with lying figures, and in a thousand other ways; and the world thinks such fellows are great stuff. They’re thieves as much as we are here; but they’re cowardly thieves, which makes them worse than we are. Many a man that lives in a big house in the town and drives his wife out Sundays in a shining carriage is a whole lot more of a bad man than I am, and the world thinks he’s fine as silk. It all depends on how you do the stealing. Make the stealing respectable, and you’re respectable. Steal boldly, and the penitentiary waits for you.”

He rose from his seat by the door.

“My dear,” he said, as his hand fell on the knob and he seemed about to go, “just think that over. I’ll be good to you. I’m actually half in love with you, and I’ll be wholly so if you’ll give me a chance. You’re as handsome as a picture, and I like a pretty woman. I’ll play fair by you, I’ll treat you well, and you may have anything in the way of fine clothes or other finery that you want.”

His brow darkened, as a new thought came to him.

“And understand that it’s just as well to do as I say, and do it gracefully; for you can’t get away. Accept my offer, and you’ll have no trouble. But make trouble for us, and—well, you can see that we’ll have to make trouble for you.”

He drew the door open and stepped through to the outside, with his hand on the knob and on the key.

She saw that she could not escape by a wild rush, and he seemed to read her thought.

“No, there ain’t no use tryin’ it, for you couldn’t get away, even if you got out of this house. The entrance to this valley is guarded, and there are the dogs. They’re kind, unless we set them on the trail of somebody, and then that somebody had better look out, if the dogs overtake him. So don’t try. I’d hate to have the dogs chew you up. Not but that you’d make dainty eating for them; but I shouldn’t like it, and for you it would be mightily unpleasant.”

He started to lock the door, drawing it half shut.

“Think it over,” he urged. “I’m serious, and in this game of robbery I’m not a hypocrite, but play the game fair, and risk my life like a man in doing it. Think it over. To be queen of Panther Pete’s road, agents won’t be so bad as you may think. Take time to study the situation. I’ll make you a good husband, if you’ll give me the chance. And, if you don’t willingly, I’ll be your husband anyway, and you’ll have your trouble for your pains.”

He closed the door and locked it, and she heard his footsteps as he departed.

Then she threw herself blindly on the floor, in a very paroxysm of terror and anguish, sobbing. “I must—must get away from here!” she cried. “I must—to-night—to-night! Oh, I must get out of this house!”

CHAPTER XL.
THE RAIN MAKER.

Panther Pete was not fool enough not to know that there would be a pursuit of himself, although he hoped that Bug-eye Slocum and his friend Nate Rainey would be able to divert that pursuit in a wrong direction.

Yet he was taking no chances; so he sent back over the various trails that led in the direction of Scarlet Gulch what he called “stool pigeons,” clever members of his road agent band, men whose shrewdness he could rely on, and whose judgment and courage he could trust.

It was the business of these men to draw any pursuers into a certain trap—a peculiar place, rock surrounded, not far from the hidden valley, where they could be slaughtered readily by the road agents.

Bill Hatfield was one of the “pigeons,” and about the shrewdest of the lot.

He had been sent out, and he had climbed into a low, thick tree, after morning came, and from that coign of vantage was watching the trail that stretched in the direction of the town, expecting momentarily to see in it something worth while. What he saw after a time was Silas Deland and young Ben Denton. They were mounted, but were coming on slowly, for Denton’s wound made him weak. He was hollow-eyed and pale; in this respect his face being in most marked contrast with the red face of Deland.

“’Tain’t Buffler Bill,” said the “pigeon” in the tree, “ner anybody like him; but they’re from ther town, and what they’re out hyer fer nobody don’t need ter ask. So, I reckons, according to the order of ther boss, it’s my duty to cut in, if I can.”

Yet he did not descend from the tree, but sat crouched in the thick branches, watching the advance of the pair.

When the horsemen reached the tree, which stood on a little eminence, they halted, just under him.

“I reckon we’ll light down here a little while, and rest ye,” said Deland kindly, glancing about and seeing no signs of enemies.

“I believe that place is not far from here,” said Denton. Though pale and weak, the fire of courage and determination burned in his eyes and revealed itself in his voice. “I’d like to push right on.”

“There aire more of our crowd, and our kind, out here some’eres,” said Denton’s companion. “And I’m fer signalin’ to them.”

“It will draw the attention of the road agents, if they’re near.”

“Well, what if it does? I’d like to bring a little rain. This country is more droughted up than the desert of Sahiry. And that’s what brung me to Scarlet Gulch, ye know, as I’ve been tellin’ ye, the droughty condition out here. Says I to myself, ‘If I can go out there and bring rain, it means the biggest kind of big money in my pocket.’”

He had slipped from his saddle, and was helping the young man to dismount.

When Denton was on the ground, and had groped his way weakly to the foot of the tree, where he dropped down with a sigh of relief, Silas Deland turned his attention to a “grip,” or hand bag, of queer make, which he had hung at the horn of his saddle. He set this on the ground by the tree; and then, dropping down by the side of Denton, he opened it.

“I was tellin’ ye about that,” he said, “and about the luck I had over in Arizony. Well, the land is that dry and burned up in Arizony that men are compelled to drink whisky because there ain’t water enough to go round.”

He sprung open the bag, and within lay a number of small, egg-shaped, white objects.

The spy in the tree craned his neck to see them, and stared with popping eyes. At first he thought they were eggs. But, when Deland took one of them out and began to talk about it, the spy discovered his mistake.

“It’s this way,” said Deland, turning the white object around in his fingers, handling it as gingerly as if it were an egg and he feared to break it; “this land out here is the driest part of creation. The last good rain was, I reckon, when Noah had his flood and the mountains became seas.

“It was funny”—he turned the egg-shaped thing around in his fingers again—“the way them scalawags humped when I pitched one of these things into the midst of ’em there in Scarlet Gulch; they thought they’d been dynamited.” He chuckled so much that for a second or two he could not go on. “But it was harmless—perfectly harmless—unless a man should get some of the fire in his hair, or in his skin, or on his clothing, and then it might burn him some. Otherwise, it was perfectly harmless. But you saw it! And did you ever see so small an object made so much fire and smoke? And didn’t that gang of vigilantes fall all over themselves in trying to get out of the way? But perfectly harmless—perfectly harmless!”

The spy in the tree stared harder than before.

One of their members had been with the mob in front of the Flash Light when the explosion came, and he had told about it to the other members of Panther Pete’s gang, narrating a wonderful story.

So the rascal in the tree knew what was meant by the singular words of Silas Deland—knew quite as well as did young Denton.

“It was strange,” Denton assented wearily.

It was plain he was not interested. He was thinking of the perils of Ellen West, and was chafing at what seemed an enforced and needless delay. He wanted to be hurrying ahead, instead of resting there under that tree.

“You’ve heard about my rain-making experiments?” said Deland.

“No, I don’t think that I have, except what you’ve told me,” Denton answered.

Deland looked surprised and disappointed. He had fancied that his fame had preceded him.

“Well, it was at White Cloud, Arizony, where I made my biggest experiment. No rain there for nigh about a year, and everything dry as a powder mill. There wasn’t a speck of cloud in the sky when I went there. I says to the people of White Cloud, ‘Give me a thousand dollars after it’s done, and I’ll bring you all the rain you want inside of twenty-four hours.’”

He stopped and looked at the sky, and then pointed a finger, seeming to the spy in the tree to be pointing straight at him.

“Looky there now! When I set off that bomb in the crowd before the Flash Light, there wasn’t a cloud as big as a man’s hand anywhere in sight. I’ll leave it to you if there was.”

“No, there wasn’t.”

“And now, look at the sky—all covered over with clouds; and it will sure rain inside of twenty-four hours, especially if I set off some more of ’em. I think I’ll turn this one loose; it will signal to our friends, maybe, and bring ’em to us; and it will bring rain to fill up some of these hollers, so that we’ll have water fer ourselves and our horses, and won’t be in danger of thirsting ter death before we get back.” He toyed with the little bomb. “What do ye say?”

“I’m too tired to form an opinion,” Denton answered.

“Well, we need help, and that’s a fact. We don’t know where we’re goin’. We’re jes’ amblin’ along, trustin’ to luck. Luck is a good thing, but some other things aire better. This is.” He patted the egg-shaped thing. “So, if you don’t object, I think I’ll touch her off.”

“The road agents are as likely to see it and come as our friends.”

“We’ll keep our eyes open. And there’s one thing: If any road agents aire drawn by it, we kin keep out of sight of ’em; and then we can trail ’em, and by trailin’ ’em we’ll find where their hotel is out here; and we’ll be close, then, to the place where they’re holding the young lady.”

This was to Ben Denton the most convincing argument of all.

“Go ahead!” he said wearily.

He sat against the tree, his hat pulled over his eyes, his whole appearance showing that he was on the verge of exhaustion.

“All right,” said Deland, “here she goes. But this is a different kind from that I throwed in the street. This kind you touch off like a rocket, by lighting this end, when it shoots up into the air. You’ll be surprised when you see it go. It’s my own invention; all of ’em aire. And I think I’ve hit on a thing that’s goin’ to make my fortune.”

The spy in the tree had grown so interested in all this that he had nearly forgotten what he was there for.

He saw Deland set the small white object on its large end, on the ground; and then he saw him light a match and touch the lighted match to the sharp, or upper, end. Almost instantly there was a flash and a roar.

Something that was blazing bright shot by him with a whistling screech, so alarming and astonishing him that he emitted a yell, and fell headlong out of the tree.

The bomb sailed on into the sky, sputtering like a rocket, as the “pigeon” struck the ground.

Though Deland and Denton were both astonished by this tumble of the man out of the tree, they were not too surprised to act promptly. Deland sprang on the man, and bore him backward to the ground, as the fellow tried to rise. He yelled for Denton to come to his aid, and this Denton did with such alacrity that he seemed not to be very weak, after all.

As for the spy, the fall had knocked the breath out of him. This, with his astonishing tumble from the tree, and the thing that had preceded it, made him an easy victim. Almost before he knew it, Deland had him by the throat and was choking him, and the younger man was also throwing himself on him, helping to hold him down.

The rockety thing that had flashed into the sky exploded there, emitting a big puff of white smoke that sprayed out and began to form what was in shape a small cloud.

“Let up!” the spy gurgled, as he felt Deland’s fingers dig into his throat.

However, Deland did not let up until young Denton had secured one of the horsehair lariats, and from it had made cords and bound the prisoner.

By this time the “pigeon” was almost black in the face and half senseless.

Deland turned his attention to the sky, and to that floating smoke cloud, as soon as he could do so. Just then a few drops of rain spattered in his upturned face.

It was but a natural phenomenon, of course, but Deland was ready to ascribe that spatter of rain to the effect of his exploding rain bomb. He yelled with glee, and stretched out his hands, calling on Denton to witness that it had actually rained.

“Denton,” he cried, “if I should send up enough of them things, I could drownd the world, same’s it was in ther days of Noah. Did you notice that beautiful sprinkle?”

Denton was paying attention to the prisoner.

The spy gurgled and coughed, wriggled about, but was helpless. Then he recalled that bright thing which had startled him by flashing with a hissing roar past his face, and his tumble out of the tree. He lay back on the ground, groaning. Then his face brightened, for he realized that he had not played in such bad luck, after all.

The command of Panther Pete was for him to intercept one of the pursuing parties, let that party capture him, and then offer to lead it to the hidden home of the outlaws; when Panther Pete would have a force ready to wipe the said pursuers out.

Deland came back from the clouds, and gave some attention to his prisoner.

“Who aire ye, and what was you doin’ there in the tree?” he demanded; a thing which Denton had demanded already.

“I’m Bill Hatfield,” confessed the rascal, sure they had never heard his name before. “I’m a peacerble citerzen.”

“What was you doin’ in that tree?”

“Come!” cried Denton, and he produced a revolver. “I know who you are, all right. You’re not from the town, and that’s proof to me that you’re one of Panther Pete’s men. Admit it, or I put a bullet through you.”

Hatfield squirmed; then said, with seeming reluctance:

“Well, what you goin’ to do about it? I am one o’ them fellers, but——”

“Ah, I knew it! And you were doing what, up in that tree?”

“I seen ye comin’, and jest shinned up there ter keep ye frum seein’ me. And say”—he turned to Deland—“what was that thing you shot at me, anyhow?”

“That was a rain bomb,” said Deland proudly. “Young man, I didn’t shoot it at ye, but you were permitted to see then a marvelous exhibition; an effort to bring rain from rainless clouds, and a successful one, too; for, see!” He held out his hand. “It’s sprinkling; and it’s been dry as a bone in this country since about the year one. Now, ain’t that so?”

Denton still held the revolver ready cocked, and again he pointed it at the rascal’s head.

“You know where Panther Pete has his lair. You’ll tell us, or down you go.”

The rascal wriggled and squirmed. Yet this was the thing he wanted.

“I don’t dare to tell,” he protested.

“Why?”

“’Cause Panther Pete would kill me.”

“And I’ll kill you if you don’t. So there you are. Take your choice.”

There was a strange flush of excitement on the face of Denton, and a bright and staring light in his eyes.

Hatfield saw that in his present mental condition Denton was not a man to fool with.

“I’ll shoot you, sure,” said Denton, “if you don’t tell me promptly where Panther Pete is.”

“I—I——” Hatfield stammered, a bit terrified.

“Out with it!”

“I couldn’t tell you, but I might lead ye to—to the place.”

“That’s as good.” Denton turned to Deland.

“It’s sprinklin’,” said Deland joyfully, “by all the frogs of Egypt, it’s actually sprinklin’, and in this country where——”

“Deland, did you hear what he says? That he will guide us to the lair of Panther Pete?” He pointed the pistol again at the head of the prisoner. “Another question,” he said: “Is there a young lady held prisoner there?”

The spy again hesitated.

“Out with it!” shouted Denton.

“Well—yes, there is.”

“It’s the young lady, is it, who was taken last night from Scarlet Gulch—Miss Ellen West?”

“I don’t know her name,” said the spy, “but it’s her; for she was brought from that town.”

“And she’s in that place now, held there by Panther Pete?”

“You’re right. Anyway, she’s there, in one o’ the houses.”

“So they’ve got houses there!” He turned to Deland again. “Get the horses ready, Deland, and this fellow is to be put on mine. I’ll sit behind him, and make him guide the horse and pilot us. And, if he tries any treachery, I’ll shoot a hole through him.”

His voice quivered. He was in deadly earnest.

“Correct ye aire,” said Deland, and he brought up the horses.

“Now, I’m going to untie your feet, so that you can get into that saddle,” said Denton; “but, if you try to get away, I’ll pot you with this pistol. Understand?”

He cast off the cords that held Hatfield’s feet, and the rascal mounted to the saddle agilely enough.

“Now, Deland, give me a lift.”

Deland gave him the “lift,” and Denton secured a seat behind the prisoner.

“Now, Deland, tie his feet under the horse’s belly.”

Hatfield did not like this, but he could not help it, for he had a healthy fear of that big revolver; and his own weapons had been taken away from him.

Deland also mounted, and they were ready to start.

The smoke from the rain bomb had dissipated, but there was a cloudy sky and a threat of rain.

“I’d like to fire off some more of the bombs, and jest see what’d come of it,” said Deland wishfully. “I’ll bet we’d have a flood before night, if I did. But I ought to save ’em, I s’pose, to try fer rain down in the town. That’s why I came there in the first place. You can tell what an awfully dry country it is by seeing the people hurry to the Flash Light.” He laughed humorously, and studied the sky. “By Jove, I’d like to try some more of them bombs!”

He had the “grip” at the saddle horn in front of him as he thus rode forth.

Hatfield smiled to himself, with face turned away. He was not pleased to be tied up so tightly, but he was pleased by the fact that these men had commanded him to lead them to the lair of Panther Pete. He was leading them now toward the “trap” in the rock-girt hollow, where he knew Panther Pete would have sharpshooting riflemen lying in ambush.

Those riflemen, he believed, would cut the riders down with bullets, and he would be free again, and in a very short time.

CHAPTER XLI.
A GIRL’S HEROISM.

When the first shock of fright and terror had passed away, Ellen West began to consider her situation with more calmness.

The feeling that she must escape was so strong that she searched the little hut carefully, trying to discover some method of breaking out.

It would not have resisted the efforts of a good burglar, but it was built too strongly for her to make any breach in the walls or door.

She studied the floor of hard-beaten earth, wondering if she could not tunnel under the walls. With this thought in view she inspected the little table. Finally, she tried to break the table up, hoping to get a substitute for a spade from one of the boards.

She succeeded in breaking off one of the table legs, but that was as far as she could go in demolishing the table.

The table leg made a good club, but a poor digging implement. In despair she began to try to claw a hole under the wall with her fingers; but made such poor progress that she desisted after a time, breathless and discouraged, although she still was resolved to get out, and to get out before the return of the human fiend who had captured her.

Making the round of the room again, and studying it by the light of the lamp burning on the floor—she had placed it there when she took it from the table—she observed that over the door was a projection of the upper door ledge. Back of that was a small space, where the stout logs fell away, making a sort of cranny, or cupboardlike hole, over the door and under the roof.

She wondered if, by reaching that, she could not with the club poke a hole in the roof, and so get out that way.

She drew the broken table up by the side of the door, and, mounting it, she reached up and took hold of the door ledge. To get up into that cranny would require the exertion of all her strength and climbing skill.

She made the attempt, holding in one hand the table leg; and, in doing so, overturned the table, and for a moment or so hung suspended there by her hands.

But she drew herself up pluckily, and by gaining a foothold in some inequalities of the wall she, with great exertion, climbed up to the ledge. Having gained the cranny, she dropped down, breathless and nearly exhausted.

Before she had sufficiently regained her strength to attack the roof with the table-leg club, she heard footsteps outside, sounding like the footsteps of Panther Pete.

If he came into the house, she felt that she was lost. He would at once see the broken and overturned table, and find her above the door, and would drag her down and take steps to prevent her escape.

The thought nerved her to desperation.

She heard him come up to the door, and heard him fumbling with the key in the lock.

In very desperation she crouched above the door, holding the club.

The door flew open, and he started to enter the room.

She steeled her nerves and summoned all her strength. Then, quick as a flash, and before he could do anything, she brought the table-leg club down on his head with all her might.

The blow was a heavy one, and, without a moan or a groan, Panther Pete fell forward into the room, lying in a heap just where he fell.

The girl almost collapsed with horror at the deed she had done; but she saw that now was her time to escape, before this deed was discovered by his followers, or he returned to consciousness, if she had not killed him.

She feared she had killed him, he lay so still.

The thought held her, trembling, for a full minute on the ledge. Then she climbed down, stumbling against him as she half fell to the floor.

He moaned and moved, and this so frightened her that she sprang through the doorway to the outside.

She still held the club; but she was too frightened to stop and close the door, or put out the light. All she could do was to run; and she ran as fast as she could, with trembling limbs, straight away from the horror of that hut.

She saw other huts not far off, and from the window of one a light gleamed. She thought she heard men talking, and the bark of a dog, yet she hardly knew what she saw or heard, the horror of the thing she had done so filled and terrified her.

To her mind, it was an awful thing to take a human life, even the life of such a man as Panther Pete. So she ran on blindly, almost heedlessly, yet somehow managed to avoid the other huts, and was not observed by either the men or the dogs.

Soon she found herself close up by a wall of rock that formed part of the rocky hill on that side.

As she could not climb over the hill, she ran on along its base.

This hill formed one side of the little valley containing the lair of Panther Pete, and as she followed on she was taken toward the narrow entrance, where, as she knew from his words, guards were stationed.

She thought of this as she stumbled on, and slowed her pace, trying to become wary, and listened for some sound which would tell her where the guards were located.

Every moment she expected to hear a clamor behind her, announcing the discovery of her flight from the hut and the condition of Panther Pete.

When she thought of what a pursuit by the dogs meant, she could hardly hurry on at all, so weak did that thought make her. But the discovery of Panther Pete was delayed, and she continued to advance along the base of the hill toward the entrance.

As she approached it, she recalled its shape, for through it she had been brought. It was like the neck of a bottle, the valley forming the bottle. High walls were on either side, and the bottle neck was the pass, guarded by sentries probably stationed in the trail, and by others watching on the sides of the walls.

The darkness aided her. She grew more and more cautious, and was able after a time to control her shaking nerves and her fear-wrought fancies, when a pursuit by the dogs and the outlaws was not made.

She saw before her the narrow opening, the sky above making the upper parts of the walls visible.

She crouched low, and almost crawled forward, her listening strained to the utmost tension.

She tried to subdue her hurried breathing, and realized that to do so she must go very slow, and so permit herself to regain breath. At times she seemed hardly to move at all, as she kept close by one of the dark walls, seeking the deepest shadows for security.

She saw no guard, yet was sure they were there.

Perhaps for the reason that the sentries did not expect any one to come from the valley, and therefore were directing all their attention to the front, where if danger came it would be in the form of pursuers, she passed the sentinels on the walls without being seen, and also came close up to the one who was stationed down in the pass.

Luckily she saw this man, for he was moving about, his gun on his arm.

She dropped to the ground as if dead when she discovered him, and lay there studying the situation, wondering how she was to get by without discovery.

She saw that he walked a beat like a sentinel, from one wall to the other, and that always, when he looked at all, he looked toward the outer entrance.

When she had discovered this, she waited until he turned to walk toward the opposite wall, and then crawled on with the utmost care. She meant to spring to her feet and make a wild dash to pass him if he saw her.

When he had reached the opposite wall, and before he turned, she was lying flat on her face, and could not be seen by him.

As she made a second advance it brought her so near to him that, when he returned, she was within two yards of him.

She was almost sure he could hear her breathing and the heavy beating of her heart; for both sounded to her very loud. But he turned back again, toward the other wall.

She crawled on, and was beyond him when he came back.

When she made her next advance and stopped, she was well beyond him.

Then came a terrifying thing.

The discovery of her escape was announced by low calls from the huts, and by the hurried tramp of feet. Men were rushing about in there, and she knew what it meant.

The guard heard the sound, and turned his attention to the valley.

“What’s broke loose?” she heard one of the sentries ask on the wall.

She crept on, snaillike, it seemed to her, hugging the ground. Then she heard the dogs being called, and their baying, as they began to search for her trail.

One of the guards on the wall voiced his disapproval of this move.

“I dunno what the boss is thinkin’ ’bout, makin’ sech a racket! That row kin be heerd a mile.”

The girl took advantage of the talk that followed to slip on a short distance. She discerned that the confused sounds of the men and the dogs were coming toward the pass, and regardless of the guards, who were still near, she rose to a more erect posture, and stole on along the wall, keeping well within the shadows. Soon she was running; and, as she got farther on, she ran the faster.

Then before her opened the more open country, which gave a better light, and she realized that she had got through the pass and was outside of the hidden valley.

It gave her hope. Only a terrible fear of those mouthing dogs clung to her, and this fear made her run on and on.

As soon as she was able, she shifted her course, and climbed the high ridge on that side. She stumbled and slipped, and more than once fell; but the courage of fear kept up her strength and sent her on.

When she gained the top of the ridge, the valley lay below her and the pass also, both dark as pockets. She could see nothing down there, but above her the stars shone brightly, and the light on the high ridge was good enough to enable her to see her way.

She was breathing hard, and trembling; but her determination to escape was in no wise abated.

Then she began the descent, knowing not what was before her, although behind her she knew were those dogs and outlaws, and perhaps the dead body of Panther Pete.

She shuddered at that, and at the recollections conjured up by his name, and the recollections of the time when she had believed him to be Buffalo Bill. And she thought of her father, and of her lover, Ben Denton. It should be said that she thought of Denton continuously. Fortunately for her peace of mind, she did not know that he had been shot down in the town by Panther Pete.

By the time she had descended from the high ridge, her clothing was torn, her hands scratched, and her shoes were becoming ragged; but still she kept on.

Then, to her alarm, she heard the dogs more distinctly. They seemed to have gained the top of the ridge, and their loud baying rang out.

CHAPTER XLII.
ANOTHER STOOL PIGEON.

Buffalo Bill and Wild Bill had gained the Blue Hills in the region of Panther Pete’s stronghold.

They had escaped from the vigilantes in a manner that was not even yet clear to them, for they had no present means of discovering who threw the bomb which gave them the opportunity to get away from the mob. Whoever he was, they felt grateful to him, and called him their friend.

As their purpose was to hunt down Panther Pete as soon as they were safely out of the town, they shaped their course in the direction of the hills where, as they had previously learned, Panther Pete had a stronghold.

It seemed a blind attempt to locate it, for the Blue Hills were of large area. However, the daring scouts had more than once set out with less to guide them in their efforts to run down some desperado, and had succeeded.

They were sure that a pursuit would be made from the town, and they knew that, if hard pressed, the Blue Hills would give them refuge, as well as it gave Panther Pete.

As they rode on, both mounted on one horse, they discussed Panther Pete and what they had heard of him, and the singular fact, as it seemed to them, that both had appeared at about the same time in Scarlet Gulch, led by the same motive.

They pitched camp in the borders of the Blue Hills, and awaited there the coming of day.

Sunrise was no more than upon them when they beheld a man who had set forth to find and misguide the pursuers of Panther Pete; a man who was one of the “stool pigeons” already described.

This man came up to them, riding a piebald pony. He had keen black eyes that bored them through and through. His clothing was nondescript, but the rifle he bore and the revolvers he carried were of the best and latest patterns.

“Howdy!” he said, and he looked Buffalo Bill straight in the face, knowing at a glance who he was, for the resemblance to the man who was his leader was remarkable. “I been lookin’ all round fer ye,” he added, with rare confidence and nerve.

The scouts were a bit puzzled.

“Yes?” said Buffalo Bill. “And now that you’ve found us?”

“Well, I didn’t know what orders you might have fer the boyees.”

He was making the daring pretense of believing that this man was the fake Buffalo Bill.

Buffalo Bill dropped a hand to his ready revolver.

“Who do you take me for?” he asked.

“Buffalo Bill, o’ course,” said the man, with a meaning grin.

“Yes, that’s my handle, as we say in this country; but I don’t seem to know you.”

The man opened his eyes in professed surprise. “Don’t know me? Me—Sam Garland? I reckon you’ve got a sudden trouble of yer head, if ye don’t know me.”

He stopped, and made a pretense of staring harder and in astonishment. His acting was really excellent, so excellent that it fooled even the clever scouts. Suddenly he wheeled his horse, jerking it round.

“Stop!” Buffalo Bill shouted, snatching his revolver.

The man pulled in with a jerk that threw his horse well back. “Don’t shoot!” he yelled. Again his acting was astonishingly clever.

“Surrender!” Wild Bill commanded, covering the fellow with a revolver.

“Yes; don’t shoot!”

The man sat trembling in his saddle, his actions still being but a clever pretense; he was one of the best of Panther Pete’s “stool pigeons.”

Wild Bill caught the bridle of his horse.

“Dismount!” Buffalo Bill commanded.

The man slid from the saddle.

“Now, I’ve got you covered, and shall bore you through if you start to run,” said the scout.

“And I’ll bore you through, if you don’t talk lively and give some straight answers,” added Wild Bill.

“Yes; don’t shoot!” begged Garland, in professed terror.

“You thought I was the fellow who is riding about this section claiming to be Buffalo Bill?” said the scout.

The man hesitated. He knew he had to steer carefully now; a false movement might mean his death.

“Yes,” he said, “that’s what I thought.”

“And that man is Panther Pete?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I’ll inform you that I’m the real Buffalo Bill. And, if your leader looks enough like me to fool even one of his own men, I shall begin to be ashamed of my personal appearance, for I understand he’s one of the worst desperadoes of the border.”

Garland did not answer this.

“How far is Panther Pete’s home from this place?”

Garland hesitated; not because he did not know, but to pretend a hesitation he did not feel.

“Speak up!” commanded Wild Bill tartly.

“I don’t know jes’ how far,” said Garland.

“You could lead us to the place, of course?”

“Y-es, I—guess I could.”

“We’ll have you do that. You’ve just come from there?”

“Y-es.”

“Bear in mind,” said Wild Bill, “that, if any trickery is played, you’ll be dropped first thing with a bullet through you. There will be no fooling.”

Garland’s face paled a little. These men had a reputation for being quick and sure shots, and he knew the danger he had placed himself in. Then his nerve returned.

“If I’m shot,” he said, “it will be by some o’ ther boyees, or by ther boss, fer betrayin’ ’em, I’m thinkin’.”

They tied his hands, and then compelled him to mount to the back of his horse.

Wild Bill mounted behind him, and Buffalo Bill tied the feet of the rascal together under the horse’s belly.

“We’ve got a horse apiece now, old pard,” said Wild Bill, laughing. “I didn’t think we’d stay long without mounts for both of us. Now, heave ahead, Sam. And, mind you, no trickery. We won’t stand it.”

Garland indicated the direction to be taken, which he claimed was the right direction to Panther Pete’s stronghold. In reality the direction he pointed out was that toward the “trap” into which the “stool pigeons” were instructed to decoy pursuers.

So they rode along, with Garland and Wild Bill leading the way.

CHAPTER XLIII.
THE CAPTURE OF PANTHER PETE.

Panther Pete was not dead.

The sturdy blow of the girl had felled him, and he had fallen insensible to the earthen floor, and there he lay for some time as unconscious as a log. For the girl had struck hard, and she had struck true, though her strength did not enable her to deliver a blow of skull-cracking force.

Panther Pete came back to consciousness, and himself discovered that the girl was gone, and that the door of the hut stood wide open. The discovery stirred him into renewed life.

He crawled out of the hut and called for aid; and, when he gained the attention of some of his men, he berated them in hard language for their inattention, which had enabled the girl to escape thus from the hut, and pass, as she had done, almost through the midst of the camp.

It was at this juncture that the outcry was raised which the girl heard as she fled away through the pass toward the more open country beyond.

Panther Pete staggered into his own hut, and took down from a shelf a bottle of whisky, from which he drank, tipping it to his lips, and drinking deep and long.

The fiery stuff brought back his strength somewhat, and put a furious courage into his heart.

The top of his head had a lump on it that was swelling fast, and felt as big as a goose egg; but, when one of his men examined the place, they could not find that the skin had been broken.

But the blow had given him a terrific headache; he said he felt as if the top of his head was caving in; and now and then, as he tried to hurry about, and ordered others to hurry, he staggered, as if the liquor had already taken effect in his legs and had made them wabbly.

However, he ordered up his horse; and then followed the pursuers, whom he had sent on ahead, and who were trailing the girl with the dogs.

Panther Pete disliked to use the dogs, for their baying could be heard a long distance, and, if so heard, might guide to the place persons whom he would rather not see there. He knew that his position was at the time peculiarly perilous. Friends of the girl could be expected to make an immediate search for her; and, besides, Buffalo Bill and Wild Bill, he felt sure, were now in that section, with designs against him. For this reason, after the dogs had gone on a while, and then had begun to bay louder, he called them off, lest the baying should reach farther than he wished. He wanted to recapture the girl, but he desired his own security even more.

This withdrawal of the dogs, though not understood by the girl, came as a blessed relief to her, just at a time when she was on the point of despair. They had gained the top of the ridge, and were hot on her trail, with their loud bellowing puncturing the night air in a way to carry terror to her very soul. Then suddenly their deep booming ceased, and was no more heard.

She fancied they had lost the trail, and had turned in a wrong direction; and, with a prayer of thankfulness, she hastened on again, her feet now torn and bleeding and her strength fast giving way.

Panther Pete led that night pursuit of the girl as well as he could; and he cursed her and himself with fiery anger, calling himself a fool for being so kind to her and so careless, and calling her by epithets she would have blushed to hear.

When daylight came this pursuit was still being carried on, but it had lost its first force, and was conducted by the men as an almost aimless search of the country close about the entrance to the hidden valley.

After the sun rose Panther Pete took it up again himself, giving earnest orders to his men, and instructions as to how to use the dogs. Then he set forth alone, looking for the trail in what he thought the most likely places, following along the narrow path that led directly away from the valley entrance.

This took him by and by across the trail which led from the outer plains toward the “trap” where his sharpshooters were at the moment in hiding and to which his “stool pigeons” were at the time conducting the men whom they had fallen in with—Buffalo Bill and his pard, and young Denton and Silas Deland.

The scouts with their prisoner were coming along that trail, guided by Garland. They were wide awake and wary.

Garland had undertaken as difficult a thing as he had ever attempted, in trying to lead these experienced plainsmen into that trap.

At intervals Buffalo Bill rode his horse to the top of some hill or ridge, and from these higher elevations surveyed the surrounding country with his field glass. While thus engaged, he beheld a horseman, some distance away.

When he leveled the glass on this horseman, he was given a genuine surprise, for the man was Panther Pete, and he resembled the scout in his general appearance and make-up so strongly that Buffalo Bill knew he was looking on his counterpart—on Panther Pete, the rascal who had played his desperate game so successfully that for a long time he had deceived the whole country as to his real identity.

The scout’s anger rose as he looked at that man. Then he came to the quick determination to capture the rascal, if it could be done.

He moved back, and, dismounting, tied his horse; then crept forward.

He noted the course Panther Pete was taking, and saw that he would pass along a thread of trail that led beneath some bluffs not far off.

The scout drew back, and then, descending, he hurried to put himself on top of those bluffs.

By this time Panther Pete was quite near, coming on at an easy jog of his horse. There was nothing in his appearance to tell of the pain he suffered, for his head was throbbing, nor of what he had gone through, nor of what he was now trying to do.

But Buffalo Bill saw his chance, a desperate one, and made ready for it, crouching on the bluff. He could have shot Panther Pete without difficulty, but he did not want to do that; he wanted to take him alive.

When Panther Pete’s horse passed beneath him, Buffalo Bill crouched for the spring.

“I’ll stop your deviltry right now,” said the scout, in a rage, as he leaped at the desperado whose clever masquerading as his double had brought disgrace on the honored name of Buffalo Bill.

He hit the horseman fair, in that leap; and Panther Pete went over sideways, out of the saddle, and fell to the ground, with the dauntless scout falling on top of him.

The horse gave a jump, and then ran, frightened by what had occurred.

Buffalo Bill set his fingers to the throat of Panther Pete, who was too stunned by that sudden onslaught and fall to make much resistance.

“Surrender!” was the sharp command.

Panther Pete tried to struggle, but he was helpless.

“Surrender!”

“I—I surrender!” the rascal gurgled in fright.

Buffalo Bill lifted his revolver and fired it, for the purpose of summoning Wild Bill; and soon after he heard the clatter of Wild Bill’s pony—the pony that had been the property of Garland.

They soon came in sight round the end of the hill—Garland mounted in front and tied, and behind him, on the same pony, Wild Bill, with revolver ready.

There was never a more astonished man than Garland, when the pony had brought him under the bluffs, and he saw there his leader, helpless and choking in the grasp of Buffalo Bill.

Wild Bill slid from the back of the pony and ran to his pard’s aid.

“Just tie him, as quick as you can,” said Buffalo Bill.

He released the villain’s throat, but held his revolver before his eyes.

Wild Bill lost no time in complying. While doing this, he was startled by hearing the clatter of the pony’s feet.

Garland, thoroughly frightened now, had started the pony, in the hope of escaping, even though tied.

“Stop!”

Wild Bill drew down on him.

“I can’t stop,” Garland yelled; “the pony is running away with me!”

“Oh, you can’t, eh?”

Wild Bill yelled to the pony, commanding it to stop, and saw Garland dig his tied heels into the pony’s side to make it go on. His revolver cracked, and the pony pitched over with a bullet in its head.

In its fall it pinned Garland’s leg under it, and held him fast; so that, with the cords on him, he was in a helpless position.

“Stay there a while,” said Wild Bill grimly, as he turned back to aid Buffalo Bill in securing the robber chief.

As they tied Panther Pete they marveled at his cleverness, for they saw that his resemblance to Buffalo Bill was largely due to the clothing he had on, to the manner in which he wore his hair and beard, together with the fact that he was a large and tall man.

Out of his eyes now looked terror; for he knew who these men were, and he feared them with a deathly fear.

CHAPTER XLIV.
THE GIRL’S FLIGHT.

Ellen West, much relieved by the ceasing of that terrible baying of the hounds, stumbled on through the darkness, over the rough stones that cut her feet and tore her clothing, filled with the hopeful assurance that whatever befell her she was for the time out of the power of Panther Pete and his gang of desperadoes.

By and by when she felt that she could go not another step, being utterly spent, she sank down on the ground.

About her was darkness and silence, with the kindly stars looking down on her. Sometimes she wondered if she were not dreaming, and would soon awake in her own home and discover that all this was but a wild nightmare. But the chill of the night air, after her exertions, told her soon that it was all too real.

She crawled beneath an overhanging rock for shelter, and there, after a time, she fell asleep.

She was so worn that she slept heavily, in spite of all that had happened, and did not awake until the sun was beating hot in her face. She aroused, with a start, and looked about uneasily.

She saw that her clothing was torn and draggled, and that her shoes were cut by the rocks, which had also cut her feet. Her hands and arms, and her face, were scratched.

She started up, fearing pursuit; and then, seeing nothing, and hearing nothing, she began to take stock of her situation. It was bad enough, but so much better than it had been that she felt hopeful.

She shuddered at the memory of Panther Pete lying as if dead on the earthen floor of the hut, where she had struck him down. But she could not blame herself for that seemingly bloody deed; self-preservation is the first law of nature, and she had acted according to the law.

When she tried to go on she found that she was so stiff and sore from her tremendous exertions that at first she could hardly walk; but she forced herself to move on, and this feeling began to wear slowly away.

She was conscious, too, that she was very hungry, but there was nothing to eat, except some berries she found growing by the trail. There was water in little pools in the bottom of the shallow bed of the stream, and there she drank. Then she went on again, shaping her course by the sun as well as she could, hoping that by steady walking she could by and by reach the more open country, and so make her way back to Scarlet Gulch.

But as she thus went on, and when everything seemed to be in her favor, she heard again that horrible baying of dogs. The outlaws, growing anxious, or desperate, had decided to use the dogs again; and had taken them to the place where, in the night, they had been called off, and there had set them to work once more.

As that baying broke on the air the startled girl began to run, and again her heart throbbed with fear. All her bright hopes came as suddenly to the ground as a bird with a broken wing.

As she thus ran on, her limbs trembling and weak, she saw in the path before her horsemen.

She thought they were some of the desperadoes of Panther Pete’s band, and she turned aside, hoping they had not seen her, or that she could in some way escape them.

They rode toward her, shouting.

Terror shook her, for one of them seemed to be Panther Pete himself.

She ran then as she had never run before.

The horseman came up to her, shouting to her.

When he was quite close on her, and she saw she could not get away, she turned at bay.

Then she saw that this man was not Panther Pete, though he so resembled him.

The man was Buffalo Bill, the noted scout; and he rode up to her, doffing his hat, and spoke kindly to her.

She was so breathless, and so puzzled and startled, that for a time she could not speak in answer to his queries.

He announced his identity.

“I have a pard back here, and some prisoners,” he said, “one of them being the notorious road agent, Panther Pete.”

“Panther Pete?” she gasped.

“We captured him but a little while ago,” he said. He looked at her earnestly and swung out of his saddle. “I think you need this horse a good deal more than I do,” he declared. “You had better ride now; you are quite worn out.”

She stood before him, trembling.

“You are not Panther Pete—cannot be!”

“I am William F. Cody,” he said, “better known as Buffalo Bill.”

He lifted his head, listening to the baying of the dogs.

“They are pursuing you, I think,” he remarked.

“Yes.”

“Well, I’m here to see that they don’t harm you. Will you please take my horse? I’ve an idea those dogs belong to the outlaws that I know are in this section. But we will see that they do not harm you.”

His assurance tended to dissipate her fears. She stared at him with large eyes, that were still round and terrified.

“I was held by Panther Pete, whom I used to think was Buffalo Bill,” she stated; “and I escaped from the hut he placed me in, over somewhere in that direction. I thought I——”

He saw her reel with weakness.

“My dear young lady,” he said, putting forth his hand to sustain her, “I must insist that you take my horse, if you feel at all able to ride.”

She glanced at Wild Bill, who was approaching with the prisoners, Panther Pete and Garland.

The clamor of the dogs broke louder on the air.

“Yes—yes,” she said, when she heard again that terrifying sound. “I can ride.”

Buffalo Bill helped her mount to the saddle. He was afoot now, and so was Wild Bill, for the latter had mounted his two prisoners on the one horse, and had tied them, and held them cowed with his revolver.

Buffalo Bill glanced about. He knew that the dogs were not alone, and that soon some of Panther Pete’s desperate followers would be in sight, after which there would probably be a lively battle, with the odds probably against him and his pard.

He saw a hollow in the rocks just across the path, not far away.

“We can put the horses behind the hill there,” he said to Wild Bill, “and then we can get into that pocketlike place, and by heaping up a sort of breastworks make a stand so strong that we’ll trouble the rascals, if no more.”

“Correct,” Wild Bill assented; “and I guess we’d better move lively.”

They moved lively, and were soon in the hollow spoken of, with the horses out of sight behind the rise of the hill.

The prisoners were tied anew, and so securely that there was little chance they could break away; and the girl, who had been taken from the horse, was asked by the scouts to watch them.

Then Buffalo Bill and his companion set to work to roll some stones together in front of their hiding place, and behind those stones they meant to take their stand.

Soon the dogs were in sight, baying, and came on, following the tracks of the girl, with noses held close to the ground. They were big brutes, three of them, of ferocious aspect. Behind them appeared several horsemen, riding at a rapid pace, but not too fast for the dogs.

It was clear that the girl would soon have been overtaken, if she had not found friends to aid her.

She looked at the dogs with a shudder, realizing what that pursuit had meant for her.

“Don’t be frightened, my dear young lady!” said Buffalo Bill.

“But those men will attack you!”

“Oh, yes, we expect that; but it’s a game we can play, also. They’ll find it warm when they try to get at us here.”

“Aye, they will!” assented Wild Bill, as he looked to his rifle and revolvers, and poked into them new cartridges. “I’m opining there will be some dead men decorating that trail in a very few minutes, if those fellows come on.”

The men came on, with the dogs leading.

Then the dogs discovered the men and the girl in the hollow of the rocks, and they charged, baying savagely.

“Here’s for dead dog meat!” said Wild Bill, with a reckless laugh, as his revolver spouted its flame and lead, and the foremost dog pitched over, rolling down the hill.

The horsemen farther down the trail drew rein.

“Just come on!” said Wild Bill, speaking to them, but in a low tone.

The other two dogs dashed at the barricade. One rolled down hill, killed by Buffalo Bill’s bullet. The other, frightened by that, retreated, and dashed back up the trail, barking in a startled manner.

The horsemen dismounted, and began to confer.

There were six of them, but soon more appeared; and then it became evident that still others were advancing, along another trail that centered at this point.

The horsemen did not hesitate and confer long. They took their horses back out of sight, and disappeared themselves.

“They are gone!” said the girl.

“And will come back again,” said Wild Bill.

In a little while a rifle spouted from out of the near-by hills, and the leaden missile whistled past the girl’s head and struck the rock behind her.

“Down!” said Buffalo Bill.

Another rifle flamed from another hill, and the lead came into the hollow. The sharpshooters were beginning their work.

They had located their quarry, and from eminences that gave them range of the place they opened up now, determined to slay the men who had taken refuge there.

CHAPTER XLV.
THE FLAG OF TRUCE.

Deland and Denton, with their “stool-pigeon” prisoner, were not far away when this battle opened up.

Hatfield was piloting them to that “trap,” where he expected the sharpshooters would slay them. But when he heard the crack of those rifles, he recognized by the reports that they were the guns of some of the men he had thought were in the “trap.” That they were out there, firing, told him that something had gone wrong.

“Hear that?” he said.

“Yes,” said Denton; “what do you make of it?”

“Some kind of a fight, I reckon,” said Hatfield.

“You stay here, while I look into that, will ye?” said Deland. “From the sound of it, I’m jedgin’ that a battle is goin’ on that maybe we’re int’rested in, er might git int’rested in.”

Denton did not like to remain behind. He had no thought, though, that his sweetheart was over there where that shooting was going on, for he did not know where she was, except that he believed she was held by Panther Pete; and Hatfield had been professing to lead them to Panther Pete’s lair.

Hatfield looked uneasily in the direction of the firing. Deland was disappearing in that direction. Denton took out his revolver.

“Remember, no breaks!” he warned, when he saw the eager light in Hatfield’s eyes. “I’m licensed to shoot you, if you try any.”

Deland rode straight toward the firing, until he came within a comparatively short distance; and then he concealed his horse in a thicket and crept forward on foot, taking with him his precious “grip,” containing the rain-making materials so dear to his heart. He never let that out of his hands for long.

The outlaws had drawn together, finding one point from which they could fire best down into the hollow where Wild Bill and Buffalo Bill had taken concealment.

They could see nothing now but the rocks there, but they were shooting, nevertheless, hoping to hit something.

Deland was able to take advantage of this, the attention of the outlaws being drawn to that barricade of stones; and he crawled close up to them, being higher than they were, on the ridge behind them.

As he looked down he saw ten of the rascals, lying there behind the rocks, with their rifles pointed down at another group of rocks some distance below and on the opposite side of the narrow trail.

As he thus looked over, exposing himself, a rifle flamed in the barricade, and a bullet cut through his hat. He dropped flat, with remarkable celerity.

“Great floods!” he gurgled. “That rifleman came nigh gittin’ me. I’ll have to look out, or I’ll have my precious skull perf’rated. Wonder who’s doin’ that shootin’?”

It took him some time to make out; and he did not thoroughly understand the situation until he saw one of the outlaws walk out toward the barricade, waving a white flag, and saw Buffalo Bill come forth to meet him.

The outlaws had discovered that the scouts held Panther Pete a prisoner, and they wanted to confer, and negotiate for his release.

The bearer of the white flag had a proposition.

“Release Panther Pete, and we’ll stop our shootin’,” he said, “and we’ll git out of the country. You can keep the girl. Just give us up the prisoners you’ve got.”

“How did you know who we’ve got?” the scout demanded, somewhat surprised.

“One of us has got a field glass, and he saw Panther Pete and t’others down here. Surrender ’em to us, and we’ll cut out of this fight and leave the country.”

Buffalo Bill’s answer was a defiance.

“No,” he said; “come and get us!”

“We’ll wipe the whole of ye out, if you don’t surrender ’em,” the outlaw threatened.

“Proceed with the process,” said the scout. “We’ve got Panther Pete, and a fellow whose name is Garland, and we mean to hold them. If you want them badly, come and get them.”

The outlaw retired, and was no sooner behind the rocks than the sharpshooters opened again. But having discovered that their leader was held there, they were more careful, and their shooting did no damage.

More men were coming, for the outlaws had sent runners back to the camp, and these were hurrying up reënforcements.

Deland, from his post of observation, saw the arrival of these reënforcements.

“Great fish hooks!” he gasped. “This is ticklish bizness, and I reckon it’s down in the bills for some one to git hurt. Hope it ain’t goin’ to be me!”

Then he had an inspiration. He glanced at the sky, gray and cloudy, as if threatening rain.

“Guess it’s time!” he said; “I reckon that this here dry country is bad needin’ rain. I might try some more rain-makin’ experiments, only I hate to waste the material here that I intended to experiment with down in the town. But——”

He opened the “grip” he had brought, and, as he did so, heard a step behind him.

He turned, with one of the “bombs” in his hand, intending to hurl it at any foe he saw there, and was astonished to behold Denton.

“I couldn’t stay back there,” Denton whispered. “So I tied that villain, and came in, following you. Something’s doing down there.” He glanced up the trail. “Yes, and more men coming.”

“Buffalo Bill’s down there,” said Deland, “and they’ve been trainin’ their batteries on him. I think I seen the flutter of a woman’s dress down there, too, and——”

“Ellen!” gasped Denton, immensely excited.

“I dunno. Seems as though it may be. And there comes more reënforcements; so they’s goin’ to be a lively time round here mighty quick, and in the end the folks down there will be killed, I reckon.”

“We must go to their aid!” Denton panted, his eyes shining.

“Jes’ what I was thinkin’ o’ doin’! But don’t holler ’bout it and give ’em warning. See this here?” He held up the “rain bomb.” “And ye see them men down there?”

Denton nodded.

“Well, now you’ll see some fun, fer this ain’t ezactly ther same kind as I fired into the crowd in the town. This will wake ’em up.”

He lifted himself and hurled the bomb, with such true aim and force that it struck right in the midst of the hidden riflemen. There was a flash and a deafening roar, and a blinding cloud of white smoke covered everything.

Out of that white smoke men leaped, some of them tumbling and falling, all thoroughly frightened.

When the smoke lifted, three of them were seen dead on the ground, for the bomb this time had been a genuine one.

“Ho, ho!” chuckled Deland. “When I chip into a fight of this kind something’s happenin’ right off.”

The outlaws did not tarry there for their remaining reënforcements; they fled, vanishing into the hills.

Buffalo Bill and his companions were relieved thus quickly of their enemies, and the big battle they had anticipated was not fought.

Down in the town of Scarlet Gulch, less than a week later, Deland had an opportunity to try his rain-making bombs. He claimed the benefit of the “shower” that followed.

Before that time Buffalo Bill had landed his prisoners, and had added to them Bug-eye Slocum and saloon-keeper Rainey.

The fake Buffalo Bill had suddenly reached the end of his tether, and his “Border Ruffians,” who had fled ignominiously, were scattered throughout the hills.

THE END.

No. 83 of the Border Stories, entitled “Buffalo Bill’s Pursuit,” will take the reader on a long run, and through lots of adventures that he will never forget.

WESTERN STORIES ABOUT

BUFFALO BILL

Price, Fifteen Cents

Red-blooded Adventure Stories for Men

There is no more romantic character in American history than William F. Cody, or as he was internationally known, Buffalo Bill. He, with Colonel Prentiss Ingraham, Wild Bill Hickok, General Custer, and a few other adventurous spirits, laid the foundation of our great West.

There is no more brilliant page in American history than the winning of the West. Never did pioneers live more thrilling lives, so rife with adventure and brave deeds as the old scouts and plainsmen. Foremost among these stands the imposing figure of Buffalo Bill.

All of the books in this list are intensely interesting. They were written by the close friend and companion of Buffalo Bill—Colonel Prentiss Ingraham. They depict actual adventures which this pair of hard-hitting comrades experienced, while the story of these adventures is interwoven with fiction; historically the books are correct.

ALL TITLES ALWAYS IN PRINT

1 | — | Buffalo Bill, the Border King | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
2 | — | Buffalo Bill’s Raid | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
3 | — | Buffalo Bill’s Bravery | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
4 | — | Buffalo Bill’s Trump Card | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
5 | — | Buffalo Bill’s Pledge | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
6 | — | Buffalo Bill’s Vengeance | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
7 | — | Buffalo Bill’s Iron Grip | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
8 | — | Buffalo Bill’s Capture | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
9 | — | Buffalo Bill’s Danger Line | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
10 | — | Buffalo Bill’s Comrades | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
11 | — | Buffalo Bill’s Reckoning | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
12 | — | Buffalo Bill’s Warning | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
13 | — | Buffalo Bill at Bay | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
14 | — | Buffalo Bill’s Buckskin Pards | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
15 | — | Buffalo Bill’s Brand | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
16 | — | Buffalo Bill’s Honor | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
17 | — | Buffalo Bill’s Phantom Hunt | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
18 | — | Buffalo Bill’s Fight With Fire | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
19 | — | Buffalo Bill’s Danite Trail | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
20 | — | Buffalo Bill’s Ranch Riders | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
21 | — | Buffalo Bill’s Death Trail | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
22 | — | Buffalo Bill’s Trackers | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
23 | — | Buffalo Bill’s Mid-air Flight | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
24 | — | Buffalo Bill, Ambassador | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
25 | — | Buffalo Bill’s Air Voyage | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
26 | — | Buffalo Bill’s Secret Mission | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
27 | — | Buffalo Bill’s Long Trail | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
28 | — | Buffalo Bill Against Odds | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
29 | — | Buffalo Bill’s Hot Chase | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
30 | — | Buffalo Bill’s Redskin Ally | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
31 | — | Buffalo Bill’s Treasure Trove | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
32 | — | Buffalo Bill’s Hidden Foes | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
33 | — | Buffalo Bill’s Crack Shot | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
34 | — | Buffalo Bill’s Close Call | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
35 | — | Buffalo Bill’s Double Surprise | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
36 | — | Buffalo Bill’s Ambush | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
37 | — | Buffalo Bill’s Outlaw Hunt | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
38 | — | Buffalo Bill’s Border Duel | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
39 | — | Buffalo Bill’s Bid for Fame | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
40 | — | Buffalo Bill’s Triumph | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
41 | — | Buffalo Bill’s Spy Trailer | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
42 | — | Buffalo Bill’s Death Call | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
43 | — | Buffalo Bill’s Body Guard | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
44 | — | Buffalo Bill’s Still Hunt | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
45 | — | Buffalo Bill and the Doomed Dozen | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
46 | — | Buffalo Bill’s Prairie Scout | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
47 | — | Buffalo Bill’s Traitor Guide | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
48 | — | Buffalo Bill’s Bonanza | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
49 | — | Buffalo Bill’s Swoop | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
50 | — | Buffalo Bill and the Gold King | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
51 | — | Buffalo Bill, Deadshot | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
52 | — | Buffalo Bill’s Buckskin Bravos | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
53 | — | Buffalo Bill’s Big Four | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
54 | — | Buffalo Bill’s One-armed Pard | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
55 | — | Buffalo Bill’s Race for Life | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
56 | — | Buffalo Bill’s Return | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
57 | — | Buffalo Bill’s Conquest | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
58 | — | Buffalo Bill to the Rescue | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
59 | — | Buffalo Bill’s Beautiful Foe | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
60 | — | Buffalo Bill’s Perilous Task | By Col. Prentiss Ingraham

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Transcriber’s Notes

The Table of Contents at the beginning of the book was created by the transcriber.

Inconsistencies in hyphenation such as “would-be”/“would be” have been maintained.

Minor punctuation and spelling errors have been silently corrected and, except for those changes noted below, all misspellings in the text, especially in dialogue, and inconsistent or archaic usage, have been retained.

1. Page 2: “A Congress of the Rough-riders” changed to “A Congress of the Rough Riders”.

2. Page 31: “Latimer stared blanky” changed to “Latimer stared blankly”.

3. Page 45: “Latimer!” he called, tapipng” changed to “Latimer!” he called, tapping”.

4. Page 76: “He had not kown” changed to “He had not known”.

5. Page 116: “gold had come to her was the strangest think” changed to “gold had come to her was the strangest thing”.

6. Page 137: “slip over into the Moonlight Mountans” changed to “slip over into the Moonlight Mountains”.

7. Page 138: “gold nuggets of the medcine” changed to “gold nuggets of the medicine”.

8. Page 154: “concealment and up-ended against the fall” changed to “concealment and up-ended against the wall”.

9. Page 220: “in the very busiest secton” changed to “in the very busiest section”.

10. Page 247: “and if Wild Bill interefered” changed to “and if Wild Bill interfered”.

11. Page 271: “and for you it woudl” changed to “and for you it would”.

12. Page 291: “seeemed to have gained” changed to “seemed to have gained”.

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Table of Contents

- BUFFALO BILL’S RUSE OR, Won By Sheer Nerve

- CONTENTS

- IN APPRECIATION OF WILLIAM F. CODY (BUFFALO BILL).

- CHAPTER I. PIZEN KATE.

- CHAPTER II. READY TO GO.

- CHAPTER III. AN UNEXPECTED MEETING.

- CHAPTER IV. PIZEN KATE FINDS HER HUSBAND.

- CHAPTER V. MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCES.

- CHAPTER VI. INDIAN TREACHERY.

- CHAPTER VII. THE ATTACK OF THE MEXICAN.

- CHAPTER VIII. THE MYSTERIOUS YOUNG WOMAN.

- CHAPTER IX. THE REDSKIN ROVERS.

- CHAPTER X. SURROUNDED AND CAPTURED.

- CHAPTER XI. ESCAPE.

- CHAPTER XII. A DESPERATE VENTURE.

- CHAPTER XIII. THE FLIGHT OF THE FUGITIVES.

- CHAPTER XIV. STRANGE HAPPENINGS.

- CHAPTER XV. A DESPERATE BATTLE.

- CHAPTER XVI. AT THE HOUSE ON THE MESA.

- CHAPTER XVII. THE MYSTERY SOLVED.

- CHAPTER XVIII. THE MYSTERIOUS NUGGET.

- CHAPTER XIX. AT THE FORT.

- CHAPTER XX. BRUTALITY.

- CHAPTER XXI. ON THE BORDERS OF DISGRACE.

- CHAPTER XXII. OUTSIDE THE WALLS.

- CHAPTER XXIII. DRIVEN BY DESPERATION.

- CHAPTER XXIV. THE MAN IN THE SHADOWS.

- CHAPTER XXV. A VILLAIN IN FLIGHT.

- CHAPTER XXVI. STARTLING NEWS.

- CHAPTER XXVII. THE SKY MIRROR.

- CHAPTER XXVIII. BARLOW AND THE GIRL.

- CHAPTER XXIX. A DARING RUSE.

- CHAPTER XXX. THE CHEYENNE STAMPEDE.

- CHAPTER XXXI. THE THEFT OF THE NUGGETS.

- CHAPTER XXXII. ALCOHOL AND ELOQUENCE.

- CHAPTER XXXIII. A KINDLY WARNING.

- CHAPTER XXXIV. LURED INTO DANGER.

- CHAPTER XXXV. MOBBED AND THREATENED.

- CHAPTER XXXVI. THE WESTERN DEAD SHOT.

- CHAPTER XXXVII. THE MAN WHO INTERFERED.

- CHAPTER XXXVIII. DENTON AND DELAND.

- CHAPTER XXXIX. IN A WEB OF LIES.

- CHAPTER XL. THE RAIN MAKER.

- CHAPTER XLI. A GIRL’S HEROISM.

- CHAPTER XLII. ANOTHER STOOL PIGEON.

- CHAPTER XLIII. THE CAPTURE OF PANTHER PETE.

- CHAPTER XLIV. THE GIRL’S FLIGHT.

- CHAPTER XLV. THE FLAG OF TRUCE.

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE