Buffalo Bill's Bold Play - The Tiger of the Hills

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Title: Buffalo Bill's Bold Play - The Tiger of the Hills
Author: Ingraham, Prentiss
Language: English
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*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Buffalo Bill's Bold Play - The Tiger of the Hills" ***

Buffalo Bill’s Bold Play

THE TIGER OF THE HILLS

Colonel Prentiss Ingraham

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

[Illustration: (Colophon)]

STREET & SMITH CORPORATION
PUBLISHERS
79-89 Seventh Avenue, New York

+----------------------------------+
| |
| Copyright, 1909 |
| By STREET & SMITH |
| ----- |
| Buffalo Bill’s Bold Play |
| |
+----------------------------------+

(Printed in the United States of America)

CONTENTS

PAGE
IN APPRECIATION OF WILLIAM F. CODY 1
I. JUNIPER JOE’S JUBILEE. 5
II. “JACKSON DANE, DETECTIVE.” 15
III. THE BARON FINDS EXCITEMENT. 29
IV. SUSPICIONS. 40
V. THE SURPRISE AT JUNIPER JOE’S. 49
VI. THE BARON’S ADVENTURES. 57
VII. A STARTLING DISCOVERY. 71
VIII. STRANGE DISAPPEARANCES. 83
IX. THE CHASE. 88
X. STARTLING REVELATIONS. 99
XI. THE FOOL OF FOLLY MOUNTAIN. 106
XII. THE MISSION OF WHITE-EYED MOSES. 117
XIII. BENSON ACTS. 127
XIV. A WORRIED SHERIFF. 133
XV. THE SHERIFF’S WARNING. 145
XVI. THE GOPHER BITES. 151
XVII. THE BARON’S EXPERIENCE. 158
XVIII. AN ASSASSIN AT WORK. 167
XIX. SHIFTING THE PRISONERS. 182
XX. SPRINGING THE TRAP. 196
XXI. TIM BENSON’S ESCAPE. 206
XXII. TIM BENSON’S CLEVERNESS. 211
XXIII. BUFFALO BILL’S HOLD-UP. 221
XXIV. GORILLA JAKE. 237
XXV. THE BETTS BROTHERS. 253
XXVI. IN THE UTE VILLAGES. 259
XXVII. MATT SHEPARD AND THE MASSACRE. 263
XXVIII. HOW IT WORKED. 275
XXIX. THE DARING OF BILL BETTS. 294
XXX. THE CAPTURE OF BENSON. 305

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 BOLD PLAY.

CHAPTER I.

JUNIPER JOE’S JUBILEE.

When that wonderful invitation was read by the masculine element and
the few women of Blossom Range, it created a sensation, announcing,
as it did, that Juniper Joe’s jubilee was to consist of his marriage
to a charming widow of the East, Mrs. Rafferty, followed by a dance
and “refreshments.”

Stuck up in front of the post office, in none too legible
handwriting, it invited the whole town.

The ending was a screamer:

“If you-all what sees this invitation dont come, you shore will
miss the only first-class happenin that, so fur, has hit this
hyer lively hamlet. I aint seen Mrs. Rafferty yit; but I have her
photographt, an shes all to the good, jedgin by it. Anyway, I’m
takin the risks. Every man what is goin to laff at me had better
come armed; and every man what is goin to envy me my good fortune
why he had better come armed, too. The ceremony will be performed
strictly accordin to Hoyle, by our cellerbated feller townsmen an
Jestis of the Peace Jedge Abercrombie Morris. After the weddin
there will be a dance, and after the dance refreshments of the kind
you-all can appreciate. The music aint goin to be no Wagnerian
concert stuff, but somethin that has got a lively jump in it;
furnished by that prince of fiddlers White-eyed Moses. And jokes
about Moses’ eyes or nose will provoke a homicide. Likewise anybody
callin’ his fiddle a violin will be shot on the spot. What the
refreshments aire to consist of will depend on what sort of truck
Gopher Gabe happens to have in stock behind his bar when the happy
day arrives.”

The thing was signed by “Juniper Joe.”

What the fellow’s real name was few, if any, knew; some said it was
Mason, some Morgan, some even slandered him by claiming that he
walked about among men bearing the plebeian cognomen of John Jones,
where he was better known.

Juniper Joe’s cabin--it was a big one--stood right at the edge of
the camp of Blossom Range, on the east. The back of it burrowed into
a hill; and in that hill was Juniper Joe’s mine. No one could get
into the mine, it was claimed, unless he went through the house; and
the house was always locked, when Juniper Joe was at work, or not
receiving company.

The mine had gained great fame lately. Juniper Joe had struck
“pockets” that were wonderfully rich, judging by Blossom Range
standards. They were rather high standards, too; for other men, in
other holes in the ground, were making good strikes, all round the
town.

It was because he had been so phenomenally lucky that had induced
Juniper Joe to seek a helpmate; he wanted a woman to share his
joys and sorrows, and help him to spend his surplus cash. He might
have got one even in Blossom Range, on account of the plutocratic
reputation he had suddenly acquired; but he preferred to pass them
by and seek in fields afar for the future partner of his bosom. So he
said.

Juniper Joe’s invitations were a ten days’ sensation; they would have
been a month’s sensation, if that time had intervened before the
wedding and the dance.

When the stage came in from Calumet Springs, on the morning of the
day fixed, every man who could be there was down at the stables, for
it was known that the stage was bringing the bride.

Juniper Joe was there, of course, at the forefront, ready to welcome
to this “garden spot of the mountains” the future Mrs. Joe. Also, he
was arrayed regardless; in solemn black, with a shirt and collar as
white as Mrs. Maginniss, the laundry lady, could make them; and by
extra pay she had been spurred to do her best. Topping his head was a
silk cady of the previous year’s vintage, which he had bought of the
one Jew pawnbroker of the place. The pawnbroker had worn it the first
day he came into the camp; there was still a dent in one side, where
the brickbat had landed which expressed the town’s disapproval of
that style of headgear. Israel Silverman, being by nature a wise man,
had then laid the cady gently away in moth balls; only to resurrect
it and sell it to Juniper Joe.

On this day no one took a shot with brickbat or stone at the shining
hat. One reason was that Juniper Joe had a “hostyle” temper when he
was aroused by what he considered an insult; the second reason was
a double one, but like it; he had two revolvers belted to his manly
waist, under the tails of his black broadcloth.

There was some disappointment when Mrs. Rafferty descended from the
stage; _she was veiled!_ It was a staggering blow to the curiosity
of Blossom Range. But she recognized Juniper Joe, when he rushed to
meet her; and the envious crowd was permitted to see her walk away,
with her arm hooked through his, to the “hack” he had ordered.

He escorted her, in the hack, to the best hotel in Blossom Range,
where he left her for the time being.

One other circumstance must be mentioned, in connection with that
arrival, which created almost as much curiosity as the coming of the
Widow Rafferty.

Out of the same stage coach stepped a tall man, of handsome carriage
and almost military bearing; a small, oldish man, with a seamed face
and whitening hair; and a round-bodied man, whose legs were thin as
pipe stems. They, too, took their way to the self-same hotel; but
they walked.

When they had been in the town less than an hour, it became known, or
noised about, that the three men were Buffalo Bill and his two pards,
Nick Nomad and Baron Schnitzenhauser.

But what were they there for?

Nobody could answer the question, and few people thought of them
long. Time could not be wasted on people, even so prominent, when
every one in town had to think all the while of the coming “jubilee.”

Yet the three were not wholly forgotten; for along in the afternoon a
copy of that queer invitation found its way to the men mentioned.

To it was appended a little postscript:

“Mrs. Rafferty says that as you-all was so pleasant to her while
she was with ye in the stage from Calumet Springs, that she thinks
highly of ye, and has suggested that it would be ther proper caper
if, though bein strangers, you was invited. Tharfore it’s hopin
that you-all will feel free to look on at the weddin, fling a
heel in the dancin, and sample the refreshments all ye like. In
this I am gladly jinin Mrs. Rafferty; though, at the same time,
acknowledgin that hers is the gentle hand at present on the tiller
of the bark matrimonyul. So here’s again hopin you-all will come.”

This, too, was signed “Juniper Joe.”

It is almost needless to say that the trio went.

The fiddle of White-eyed Moses was scraping, and thudding feet shook
the rafters at the time of the arrival of Buffalo Bill and his pards
at Jubilee Joe’s cabin. But the wedding ceremony had not yet taken
place. The premature dancing was due to certain men so hilariously
inclined that they had “tipped” the fiddler, and set him to going
ahead of time, because they could not wait.

But this ended, when Abercrombie Morris came into the room and asked
for quiet, announcing that the momentous moment had arrived.

“Honored as we aire this evening,” said “Judge” Morris, “we aire
under obligations to conduct ourselves as ladies and gents, and lend
a listenin’ ear to the sollum words which is goin’ to bind this man
and woman together in the holy bonds o’ matrimony.”

He was “sollum” enough himself, in his black clothing, his fat,
florid face clean-shaven, his hair plastered down tight against his
scalp with pomade; he was the only “legal light” in Blossom Range,
and appraised himself accordingly.

The main room, large as it was, was crowded to suffocation, the
guests wedging themselves round the walls in closely packed ranks,
leaving an open space in the centre, where Morris had taken his stand.

Buffalo Bill and his pards were near the outer door, but in a
position where they could witness everything that took place.

A hush fell on the crowd, as a door at the other end of the room
opened, and the bride and groom appeared in it.

Mrs. Rafferty, revealing herself for the first time, was seen to be
a medium-sized woman, light-haired, and much painted and powdered.
She was dressed in white, and carried roses. Rumor said, afterward,
that they had been ordered from Frisco, at a staggering price, by the
happy bridegroom. Mrs. Rafferty was almost as solemn in appearance as
Morris; but Juniper Joe shot happy glances here and there, apparently
willing to think that all the men in the room were dying of envy.

Abercrombie Morris, Justice of the Peace, having never officiated on
such an occasion, bungled the marriage service through nervousness;
yet drew it out to a wonderful length, sure that in Blossom Range
Fate would not soon give him such opportunity.

The crowd was respectful; it would have been quite as much so, even
if it had not noted the bulging of the coat tails of the bridegroom.

When Abercrombie Morris had pronounced the couple “husband and wife,”
Juniper Joe took much apparent delight in introducing his bride to
every one in the house he could reach conveniently.

When it was through, he made a little speech.

“What I has to say, ladies and feller citizens, is: ‘Go and do
likewise.’ Thar, on the wall, set in a picture frame which I made
to-day myself, is the thing which worked the trick fer me; and any of
you can use the same means, and make a copy of it, if you want to do
as I did.”

He pointed to an advertisement cut from a newspaper, which he had
framed and stuck against the wall.

“I don’t need to sling no wise advice to the ladies present; fer they
aire knowin’ well to the fact that they can each and every one of
’em git married any minute that they say the word. So I directs my
remarks to the male sect; which, because it’s out o’ all proportion
with the other in this hyer town, don’t have much of a show. In the
East, thar’s women so numerous that they fair jostles each other,
without half enough men to go round; a condition that is highly
prejudicial to the good of society both hyer and thar. Most any o’
them women would jump at a chanct to marry a likely man, ’specially
if he could show a good bank account. The hills round this hamlet
aire sproutin’ with gold, in pockets, leads, fissure veins, and every
other way; every man hyer has got a cinch on wealth, if only he’ll
hustle. And that wealth will git him a wife, if he wants one; it’s
what brung me mine.”

He looked round, beaming, the woman at his side.

“That’s all,” he said; “except that the room will now be cleared
fer the dancin’. White-eyed Moses has promised to hand out some o’
his choicest toe-ticklin’ selections; and you-all know how he can
do it. No firearms er knives to be allowed on the dancin’ floor; no
altercations permitted, neither. The first gent that starts one will
be bounced.”

He swung on round, still smiling, a gaunt figure, in his black
clothing.

“So,” he finished, “that’s all; git yer pardners.”

In order to do that, as there was so few women, some of the men
knotted handkerchiefs round their left arms, to indicate that they
were “women”; and the dancing began, as White-eyed Moses struck up
one of his lively quadrilles.

The new Mrs. Juniper Joe--no one could remember that even in the
ceremony Abercrombie Morris had called him anything but Juniper
Joe!--tried to dance with nearly every man there, when they besieged
her for that favor; and only gave over the attempt because the
fiddler’s arm took a cramp at last, and he stopped fiddling.

The new Mrs. Juniper Joe thus proved that she was certainly of the
strenuous type, so far as muscular activity was concerned.

As the dancing ended, and there was a rush for the “refreshments,” a
thing occurred which threw every one into a flutter of excitement.

A man who, as it appeared later, had not been invited came in. He was
a small, lithe man, with a smooth face, and keen, light-blue eyes;
Buffalo Bill had observed him almost as soon as he was in the room,
and wondered who he was.

His discovery, close by the door, which was open behind him, brought
quick work on the part of the hitherto smiling bridegroom. Juniper
Joe’s revolvers bounced out of their hiding places beneath his coat
tails, and were fired as soon as he could swing them up; the two
reports, one from each revolver, crashing together.

The lithe little man tumbled backward against the door, which his
fall half closed.

As he did so, he sent a shot which smashed the one light--a huge
kerosene lamp suspended from the ceiling--thus plunging the room into
darkness.

There was wild confusion following this shooting. Men tumbled
headlong out of the place, by the doors and windows; those who
remained flung themselves flat on the floor, to escape possible
bullets.

The loud voice of Juniper Joe was heard, commanding that another lamp
should be brought.

“I guess I got him,” he said.

But when the lamp was brought, from another room, the little man was
not found, dead or wounded, by the door. Juniper Joe’s bullets had
gone through the wood of the door; but neither on the door, nor the
floor by it, was there a stain of blood.

There were naturally vociferous howls for an explanation, by the men
who had dropped for safety; this thing of a man beginning pistol work
like that seemed to call for an apology.

Juniper Joe gave it, in a few crisp and characteristic words.

“That feller, gents,” he said, “was Tim Benson, road agent and
gin’ral outlaw, what I’m shore has been doin’ the hold-up work
recently on these hyer trails. I seen him onct, at Holbrook, when
he made a gitaway, after robbin’ the Holbrook stage. He got five
thousand dollars o’ my good money at that time, and I swore I’d kill
him if ever I got a chanct. I thought I had the chanct, jes’ now; but
dropped it, somehow. I reckon I didn’t hit him, fer he shot out the
light, and seems to have hit the safe places outside somewhar.”

Not many of the guests tarried for the “refreshments” after that.
Some went to look for Tim Benson; others, scared, thought it best to
take themselves off. In ten minutes after the shooting, Juniper Joe’s
cabin was nearly emptied.

CHAPTER II.

“JACKSON DANE, DETECTIVE.”

At the Eagle House, an hour afterward, the man shot at by Juniper Joe
appeared before the door of Buffalo Bill’s room, and rapped.

Nomad, who was in the room with the scout and the baron, being
nearest the door, drew it open.

The little man came in, glancing narrowly around; a quiet man,
apparently mild-mannered. There was nothing remarkable in his looks;
in a crowd he would have been passed without notice. Yet to the keen
eyes of Buffalo Bill the man’s very quietness of manner spoke of
reserve force and repression.

“Cody, is it not?” said the little man, addressing the scout.

“The same,” the scout answered. “Have a chair with us. These are my
good friends, Nick Nomad and Baron von Schnitzenhauser.”

“Glad ter meet up with ye,” said Nomad, as the stranger tucked
himself into the first chair.

“Aber I tond’t knowed you, I gan say der same py mineselluf,”
seconded the German.

The stranger regarded them closely.

“Thanks!” he said. “I think all you fellers was up at Juniper Joe’s
when he took them shots at me.”

“Ouch! We seen idt! One of dose pullets vhistled so close py mine ear
dot I t’ink I can hear him yidt.”

“I fancy they didn’t come as close to you as to me!”

The little man ran his hand through his hair, and revealed a red welt
on his forehead, just under the hair he had lifted.

“One of them came as near to me as that. I wonder it didn’t knock me
out. I still had enough sense to pull for the lamp, as I went down;
then I crawled out through the door, and got away.”

He looked at the three men curiously, as if wondering what they
thought of it.

“It was quick shooting!” was the comment of Buffalo Bill.

The man had not yet introduced himself; and the scout did not forget
that Juniper Joe had charged him with being Benson, the road agent, a
man the scout had never met, but whom he wished right then he could
surely lay his hands on.

In truth, Buffalo Bill and his friends had been discussing this very
man when he appeared at the door and came in.

“What was said about me, after the shooting?” the stranger asked,
drawing one leg over the other and settling into an easy attitude.

“I suppose you want us to be quite frank with you?” said the scout.

“That’s what I’m expecting, gents. I knew something would be said,
and I fancied you heard it. I confess I got away so quick that,
whatever it was, I lost it. The climate there didn’t seem healthy for
me; so I tried as fast as I could to change it.”

He smiled, then--a thin-lipped smile, that had little merriment in it.

“Juniper Joe declared,” the scout told him directly, “that you were
Tim Benson, the outlaw and road agent; that he recognized you, as
soon as you came through the door, as being the man who had held up a
stage at Holbrook and robbed it, getting five thousand dollars of his
money; for which he had sworn to kill you on sight.”

That thin-lipped smile, sneering now, became evident again.

“A clever yarn, to be made up so quickly!”

“Then, it wasn’t true?” the scout queried.

“Not a word of it. On the contrary, instead of being Tim Benson, I am
Jackson Dane, of San Francisco, in the detective business, and came
here looking for Tim Benson myself.”

“Ach! Iss dot so-o?” gasped the baron.

“It’s so.”

“Py yiminy, dhen----”

But the scout cut in, to keep the baron from making some damaging
statement:

“I suppose there must be something in your general appearance which
caused Juniper Joe to make that fool mistake?”

The stranger laughed at that.

“If so, it came near being a fatal blunder for me!”

The scout and his pards were making a careful study of the man,
without appearing to do so.

“It was a clost call,” said Nomad. “But yer war too quick fer him!
Shootin’ out ther lights is a star play, ef a man kin do et; an’ you
rung the bell at the fust crack. Buffler, here, couldn’t done et no
better.”

“Thanks for the compliment! But”--turning to Buffalo Bill--“I
don’t think I much resemble Benson, except that we are both small
men--rather undersized, you know; which is a marked thing in this
country, where nearly all the men are so big.”

“Size an’ heft don’t allus count,” said Nomad naïvely. “F’r instance,
thar’s Buffler, an’ thar’s me.”

“I judge that it’s your opinion,” the scout remarked, “that Juniper
Joe didn’t make any mistake?”

“No; he simply lied.”

“Why?”

“I’ll have to leave that to you; for I don’t know.”

“Unless he really made a mistake, and thought you were Benson, he
wouldn’t have any reason to want to shoot you?”

“If he had any reason, I don’t know it.”

“Then, we may suppose that, seeing you there by the door, and not
having time to correct his first impression, he felt sure you were
Benson, and blazed away.”

“Mighty careless of him to do that!” said the stranger.

His light-blue eyes twinkled, as if the thing amused him.

Then he shifted his legs, and for a moment the conversation seemed
stalled. He probably had noticed by this time that the scout was
closely watching him!

“One of the things bringing me here,” he said, breaking the silence,
“was to find out if you fellows air barking up the same tree; that
is, to see if you came here chasin’ Tim Benson?”

“If so?” the scout queried.

“Well, then, I didn’t know but that somehow we might make shift to
work the thing together--me giving you whatever tips I run acrost,
and you doin’ the same by me. There’s a reward of ten thousand out
for Benson, half of it put up by the Wells Fargo. I’d like to handle
all of it, of course; but if I can’t swing the thing alone, I’d be
willing to divide up with good men like you; in case we could work
the thing by a combination better than singly.”

“You know about me,” said the scout; “that is, that I’m in the
employment of the government, as a scout, and for other special
purposes; so, of course, you will see readily that if I came here
with my friends looking for Benson, it is because Benson has been
troubling the mails.”

“Yes, I know that, or supposed it. As for me, I fly alone; in the
private detective line, you know; just now on the trail of that ten
thousand dollars reward, and hoping I’ll land it.”

“That isn’t what I meant.”

“No? What did you mean?”

“That you have my credentials--that is, you know something about me.
_I don’t know anything about you!_ It’s an important matter; so I
hope you won’t mind my bluntness.”

“But I’ve told you!”

“But shown no papers, nor even a badge. You must have some source of
authority, I suppose?”

For an instant the man who had given the name of Jackson Dane seemed
to hesitate.

“The truth is,” he said, “though likely you won’t believe it, that I
lost everything in that hotel fire at Deming, where I was last week;
just got out by the skin of my teeth; so that my extra clothing and
everything else went up in smoke.”

“Er, waugh!” Nomad gulped.

“You think that is fishy?”

“I didn’t say et!” the trapper apologized. “Et’s jes’ a way I has o’
breathin’ hard, at times.”

“You haven’t any letters which you have received since?” Buffalo Bill
questioned.

“Well, yes: just one!”

Jackson Dane pulled out what seemed at first a letter, but was
discovered to be an envelope from which the letter was gone; it bore
the postmark of Blossom Range, and the date of that very day.

“I got this letter here this morning, soon after I struck the town,”
he explained.

The scout looked at the envelope, noting that it bore the address of
“Mr. Jackson Dane, Blossom Range,” but that it held no letter.

“I see,” he said; but his tone was noncommittal.

“That’s all I’ve got right now, in the way of credentials,” said the
little man.

“You’ll pardon me for saying,” said the scout quietly, “that since
Juniper Joe tried to kill you because he claimed you are Tim Benson,
it would hardly be politic for me to enter into any arrangements with
you, of the kind you mention.”

Jackson Dane flushed slightly.

“Sorry you look at it in that way,” he said. “But for that fire in
Deming, I could prove who I am, even to your satisfaction.”

He sat in hesitation, looking from one to the other. Then he seemed
about to put on his hat.

“Just what do you know about Juniper Joe?” the scout inquired of him.

“No more than what everybody else knows here in the town, I reckon:
he has struck it rich in his mine, has taken a wife, and is
celebrating. I can’t say that I admire his judgment, that’s all.”

“In taking a wife in that way?”

“Just so. What does he know about her? She answers his advertisement,
which says that he is rich, and comes on. Mebby they’ll git along
together; but the chances are that they’ll be fighting like cats and
dogs inside of a month. I know that all of life is a gamble; yet I
wouldn’t take fool risks.”

He put on his hat, and arose to go.

“Sorry, gents, that we can’t make a hitch,” he said. “But I can ask
this of you: Don’t mention it so’s Juniper Joe will know I’ve been
here. As he seems convinced that I’m Tim Benson, I reckon I’ll have
to keep out of his sight; or else get myself ready to shoot quicker
than he can. I don’t care to get into trouble here in this town, as
that would interfere with the work that brought me.”

He turned to the door.

Nomad sat, crouched, as if he thought of hurling himself at the
stranger and stopping him.

But as Buffalo Bill made no movement, the trapper held his impulse in
check; and Jackson Dane, of Frisco, wended his way down the stairs in
peace.

“Er, waugh!” Nomad gurgled, when he was gone. “Waugh!”

“Well, out with it, if it hurts you,” the scout told him.

“Didn’t et strike ye thet mebby Juniper Joe told ther truth, and that
we’re lettin ’ther very critter we’re after git erway?”

“I am yoost t’inking dot mineselluf,” said the baron; though he did
not seem excited.

Buffalo Bill produced a flat pocketbook, and extracted from it a
tintype picture.

It was of a miner, in red shirt and clay-stained trousers, leaning on
the handle of a miner’s pick. He looked at it closely; then passed it
to Nomad.

The round-bodied German climbed out of his chair, and came over to
inspect it with Nomad, looking over the trapper’s shoulder.

“Waal, et’s powerful hard ter decide a matter like thet,” said Nomad.
“This hyar was taken all o’ five y’ars ago, I reckon; and ’tain’t
anything much of a pickcher. Yet put the clo’es this hyar Jackson
Dane war w’arin’ outer ther man in this, an’ et might be ther same
feller.”

“Aber dhey tond’t look der same, idt mighdt pe,” confessed the baron;
“budt dhis veller he iss vearin’ a musdache.”

“’Twouldn’t be hard ter shave et off, I reckon,” Nomad reminded.

The resemblance between the man in the tintype and Jackson Dane
could not be said to be marked. Both were apparently of about the
same size, the stature of the man in the tintype being judged by
the height of the pick. They had been told that the original of the
picture was light-haired and blue-eyed. So was Jackson Dane.

The man in the tintype was the outlaw and road agent, Tim Benson.
They had come to Blossom Range looking for him. Two weeks before he
had been working the Blossom Range stage trails, taking heavy toll.
He had, likewise, not hesitated to lay his hands on valuables carried
in Uncle Sam’s mail bags; for which reason Buffalo Bill had been sent
on his trail. From the vicinity of Blossom Range he had skipped into
other territory; then had been heard of in Deming; when last seen, he
was said to be making back toward Blossom Range.

That was about all that the scout knew, and it was little enough.
Five years before, Tim Benson had been a miner, in a little place
near Virginia City; it was there he had this picture taken, by a
traveling tintype artist, leaning on his miner’s pick.

“Vale,” said the baron, “I am sduck! Vot ar-re ye going to do?”

“I think I shall try for a talk with Juniper Joe,” said the scout.

“Et might jump suthin’ outer ther bresh,” Nomad agreed.

“Eenyhow,” the baron added, “I am hobing dot soon ve vill pe scaring
oop some adwentures dot haf a liddle excidemendts in ’em.”

They were still talking the thing over, the little man not having
been gone ten minutes, when the scout had another visitor, who came
to the door of his room at the Eagle House, and knocked.

Again Nomad drew open the door.

All were surprised to see the object of their talk--Juniper Joe, tall
and thin, dressed in his black broadcloth, the tails of his coat
suspiciously lifted by the big revolvers that rested against his
hips. He looked carefully at the scout’s companions; then came on in,
when invited.

“I don’t keer if I do,” he said, when the scout asked him to take a
chair.

He helped himself to the one which the little man had occupied so
short a while before.

“You-all was at the jubilee to-night,” he said, running his eyes over
them; “and so know what happened ter break up the gin’ral hilarity o’
that festive occasion. Because o’ which I’m hyer, when I ought ter
be thar with my blushin’ bride this minute. I believe that the town
gin’rally thinks that the only mistake I made was in not gittin’ the
coyote I shot at; which you heerd me say was Tim Benson, the road
agent.”

“Er, waugh! We heerd yer!” Nomad told him.

“You know somethin’ about Benson?”

“Not so much but thet our cur’osity is ixcited ter hear more.”

Juniper Joe turned to Buffalo Bill.

“I reckon you’re hyer trailin’ somebody. It’s considered lately that
you aire, when you pike into a town like this.”

“I might be traveling for my health, you know,” Buffalo Bill
observed, with a smile.

“When already yer has got ther health o’ a grizzly? Nobody’d think
it. No; you come hyer fer somebody; and I’ve been figgerin’ that it
must be you’re lookin’ for Benson, because he’s known to have been in
this section recent, doin’ hold-up work, as I said thar at my house.”

“Have you known him well?”

“I never seen him clost but onct; but then I had so good a look at
him that I spotted him to-night as soon’s he poked his nose in at the
door. Too bad that when I pulled on him I didn’t git him! Of course,
he’s still in the town; and I reckon if chanct comes his way, he’ll
make the new Mrs. Joe ag’in a widder. But I’m heeled fer him!”

He dropped a hand to the bulging revolvers.

“He’ll haf to pot me from the dark, if he gits me!” he boasted. “But
that ain’t what I come over hyer to elucidate, after leavin’ my bride
of an hour er so to home all alone, which ain’t a proper thing fer
any man to do; and I wouldn’t do it but for the circumstances.

“You-all aire knowin’ to the fact,” he went on, “that lately I’ve
been hittin’ it big in my mine. Sense the Wells Fargo sent out its
last shipment, I’ve pulled out o’ that mine gold dust and nuggets to
the amount of ten thousand dollars’ worth. To-morrow the Wells Fargo
is goin’ to ship it out fer me, with stuff from a good many other
mines round hyer; I reckon thar’ll be fifty thousand dollars go out
in the express company’s cash boxes to-morrow.”

Buffalo Bill, having been so short a time in the place, did not know
this, and was interested.

“So-o?” said the baron. “Dot iss more gold as I haf effer seen in one
bunches.”

“Et’s er heap,” Nomad admitted.

“I reckoned,” went on Juniper Joe, “that you-all would be takin’ a
hand in gyardin’ that stage load of wealth when she pulls out. So
I’ve come to give ye a pinter. Jest in the cañon tother side o’ Stag
Mountain is whar you’re likely to have trouble; in my opinion, if the
agents hits you, it will be right thar. I say this so’s you can be
ready for ’em.”

“As the Wells Fargo people haven’t told us anything about it,” said
the scout, “I think it is unlikely they will ask our help.”

“But the mail goes through on the same stage, you know,” Juniper Joe
explained. “I jedge it’s the mail that you’re most int’rested in?”

“Aber you tond’t know vhere diss roadt achent iss vot you shodt at,”
said the baron, “I exbose dot you vill pe looking for him yourselluf?”

“Waal, I’ll kinder keep my eyes peeled, as I ambles round the town,”
Juniper Joe admitted. “Ye see, I think he’ll lay low, now that he
knows he has been spotted. But it’s him being hyer which makes me
figger that the bullion stage to-morrow is goin’ to have er heap of
fun gittin’ through?”

“You think,” said the scout, “that he will hold it up, at the place
you mentioned?”

“I figger that he has got friends hyer, and they’ll help him do it.
I’m goin’ to say to the Wells Fargo folks what I’ve said to you. And
I’m goin’ to make ’em a suggestion, which I now make to you. Why
wouldn’t it be a good idea to send the old stage out empty, but with
gyards in it? Make a bluff, ye see, which will cause Tim Benson an’
his gang to think the bullion, nuggets, an’ dust aire goin’ that way.
Then put the stuff over the mountains in some other manner, which the
agents wouldn’t git onto.”

“It might do,” the scout admitted.

“Uff he tond’t gatch onto it.”

“It can be kept quiet,” said Juniper Joe. “I jest wanted to say these
things, and have ye think ’em over to-night. Now I got to git back to
my new wife; er she’ll be thinking that mayby I’ve run up ag’inst the
pistol of Benson. She didn’t want me to come down hyer to-night, on
that account. Women aire gin’rally skeery critters, ye know.”

He pulled himself out of his chair; then went out and downstairs,
walking slowly, as if he were thinking over the situation.

“Er, waugh!” Nomad whooped again, when he was gone. “What does yer
make o’ _thet_?”

“I’ll know better when I’ve had a talk with the Wells Fargo people,”
was the scout’s answer. “That’s what I’m going to do now, if I can
find them at this time of night.”

When the scout and his pards found the Wells Fargo people, which was
not for an hour afterward, as the express office had long been closed
for the day, they discovered that Juniper Joe had deviated far enough
from his homeward track to get there with his advice ahead of them.

“His idea is so good,” said the Wells Fargo agent, “that we’re going
to adopt it. We’ll send out the stage empty, but with a strong guard
in it. If the agents hold it up, we’ll have a chance of shooting them
all to pieces; and they will secure nothing, even if they get into
it.”

“How will you send the stuff?” the scout asked.

Though the agent was in his own home, he got out of his chair and,
going outside, walked all round the house, to see if possible
eavesdroppers could be there.

When he came back he was satisfied.

“Well, I’ll tell you,” he said. “We’ll send the stuff over
the mountains in charge of two prospectors that we _know_ are
reliable--Jack Austin and Bennett Brown. They’ll take burros, and
will pretend to be setting out on a prospecting trip; and so throw
off any suspicion. When they get down out of Eagle Gap, they’ll
swing to the east, and put the stuff on the stage at Colorow Springs,
where the stage will be instructed to wait for them. Beyond that
point there won’t be much danger, as the country is open and level,
and a hold-up wouldn’t be attempted.”

“Der only t’ing,” said the baron, “iss, vill idt vork? I vouldt like
to go mit Austin unt Prown.”

“Why?” said the agent.

“Because, in my obinion, dot iss vhere der excidement iss going to pe
seen; unt I am fondt uff excidemendts.”

CHAPTER III.

THE BARON FINDS EXCITEMENT.

The baron got his wish.

The Blossom Range postmaster, having wired for instructions that
night, handed to Buffalo Bill in the morning an order requiring him
to become one of the escort of the mail stage to leave the town that
day. The post office authorities had got into quick communication
with those of the war department, with that result.

Nomad chose to go with Buffalo Bill. The stage would carry the mails,
even though it did not take the treasure. So that determined the
matter for the scout.

When the Wells Fargo agent asked if he could recommend a good
fighting man to go with the burros that were to be taken out by
Austin and Brown, the scout recommended the baron.

“Ach! I am a brosbector,” said the baron, highly pleased, as he
clattered down from his room in the Eagle House and paused by the
desk of the clerk.

He looked it, every inch, in spite of his girth and his pipe-stem
legs. He was dressed as a miner, except that he stuck to his little
fore-and-aft cap.

“I haf seen enough since I gome py dhis town in,” he explained, “to
seddle idt vor me. Dhere iss goldt in dhese hills; unt I am going to
findt some uff idt.”

“Look out for road agents and Indians, then, if you git hold of
any,” the clerk warned him. “Going out alone?” he asked, as a second
thought.

“Not any. I tond’t peen ackvainted mit dhese hills, unt meppy I might
losdt mineselluf. No; I am going oudt mit Ausdin unt Prown.”

“Oh, they’re going out this morning, are they? Good men! But though
they’ve prospected a lot round here in the last month or so, I never
knew them to strike anything worth while.”

“Idt iss _me_ vot vill shange dheir lucks!” the baron boasted, as he
went on out of the office.

Austin and Brown had their burros in the street, and were waiting for
the baron. They were quiet-looking men, of the miner type, who, in a
town like that, would not attract a second glance. Nor was anybody
paying heed to their burros and their packed outfit, with the picks
and shovels displayed prominently on top; prospectors went from the
town every day, and these two men had already been out a number of
times.

All attention was being directed to the stage, ready soon to leave
the stables with the United States mail, and, as was supposed, the
treasure to be shipped that day by the Wells Fargo company.

The stage was filled with armed men, who prominently displayed their
hardware. On top, sitting beside the driver, were old Nomad and
Buffalo Bill. The public knew now that Buffalo Bill was being sent
along by the postal authorities.

It was the general belief that when the treasure went through the
cañon beyond Stag Mountain, where so many hold-ups had occurred,
there would be a lively fight, if the bandits, who were known to be
infesting the hills, could get enough men together to make the deadly
tackle.

But the stage went through the cañon that day without a ripple of
excitement. Not a road agent was there.

To be sure of this, when the stage had passed beyond what was
considered the danger spot it was halted, and some of the armed men
went back, to poke through the bushes.

“Scared ’em off with the big show of fighting men we made,” said the
men, when they returned.

It was fully two hours later when the baron, with Austin and Brown,
butted into the excitement which the baron had anticipated.

At Eagle Gap, where no trouble of any kind had ever before occurred,
two men rose up beside the winding path, and began to shoot as soon
as they rose. The men were masked, and they were well armed, each
with a repeating rifle and a brace of revolvers.

Austin went down at the first fire, shot through the head, being
killed instantly. Brown toppled, falling wounded. The baron threw
himself flat on the ground, escaping that first shooting as if by a
miracle; though the real reason was that Austin and Brown stopped the
first bullets the bandits sent from their repeaters; and before they
could fire again the baron was down, and behind a rock.

“Ouch!” he squawked. “I am to pe kilt, huh!”

Then he fired back.

He apparently wounded one of the men, which stopped their rush toward
him, and enabled him to take a tumble backward down the steep slope.
The baron plowed a reckless furrow, which barked his skin and tore
his clothing, but landed him in a rocky hollow some distance down,
before the outlaws could get to the top of the slope and shoot at him.

Poking his head out enough to enable him to see, he blazed away
again, when he saw one of the men appear; and drove the bandits back
once more.

Following this, the baron crept on his hands and knees down the
gulley, determining what the men were doing by the sounds they made.

“Ach!” he said. “Dhis iss der vorsdt effer.”

The baron did not show himself for a while; but sat nursing his
rifle, occupying a hollow into which he wedged his body, and where he
was resolved to fight to the death if the outlaws followed him.

He knew they had the advantage, being familiar with the country, and
being two to one.

When he concluded that they were not coming after him, he got out of
his hole, and tried to discover what they were doing.

Then he found that they were gone.

They had taken the burros and treasure, and had vanished.

The place was a cut, with debouching gashes making from it in various
directions, all rocky and hard as flint; so that, being unfamiliar
with the location, the baron could do nothing.

Abundant proof that they had been there was given by the grewsome
sight of the dead Austin, and by the wounded man they had considered
dying when they left him.

Brown had been shot through the right side, but he was still
conscious. To keep them from finishing him, he had feigned death.

When the baron gave him some stimulant from his pocket flask, the
prospector regained enough animation to be able to talk.

“Tough luck, pard!” he said. “They got Austin!

“Unt der dreasure!”

“Yes. I didn’t see but two of ’em. If they hadn’t surprised us, we
might ’a’ done something. But thar wasn’t much show, when they riz up
shootin’ as they riz. If you think they’re gone, see if that bullet
is still in my side, will ye?”

The baron made the examination, his rifle on the ground where he
could pick it up instantly.

“Der pullet vendt t’rough,” he said, when he had looked the man over.
“You needt der hosbidal pooty kvick, I dell you.”

“I reckon I’ll never git thar, with the burros gone.”

The baron gave the man more stimulant; then plugged the wound and
bandaged it as well as he could, tearing the man’s shirt into strips
for the purpose.

Having done that, he stood back and looked the man over.

“I dhinks maype I gan carry you,” he said. “You aind’t so heavy as
me.”

“I don’t reckon you could do it, pard,” Brown answered.

“Vale, ve dry idt, eenyhow. Uff der voundt tond’t pleed too much ve
gan make idt. How many miles iss idt?”

“All of three, I reckon; and rough goin’.”

In spite of his unpromising physical appearance, the baron was
strong; and he had the stuff of which heroes are made.

He accomplished the three miles over the rough trails with Brown on
his shoulders, and got him into the local hospital in time to save
his life.

The knowledge that the prospectors had been in charge of the
treasure; that Austin was dead, Brown wounded, and the treasure gone,
furnished news of a sufficiently exciting kind to fill all the public
places of Blossom Range with crowds.

“A Dutchman’s luck!” was the universal verdict, when reference to the
baron’s escape was made. “You can’t kill a Dutchman.”

Buffalo Bill talked the matter over with his pards, in the seclusion
of his room at the Eagle House, while a delegation of the townspeople
had gone out to Eagle Gap to bring in the body of the dead
prospector, and poke round out there for whatever they could find of
interest concerning the daring desperadoes who had made the attack.

“Thar is one shore thing,” said old Nomad, humped up in his chair and
smoking his pipe; “ther chaps what made ther tackle had information
o’ the hull bizness.”

“Unt der kvestion iss,” the baron added, “how didt dey knowed idt?”

“Somebody leaked the information,” said Buffalo Bill.

“Which means,” said Nomad, “thet either ther express agent, ther
fellers in ther post office, er at the stage stables, aire inter ther
thing deep. Et was ter be kept so clost, ye know, thet nobudy c’d
ketch on.”

“Vot uff Yuniper Yoe?” asked the baron; “I am t’inking uff him!”

“Er, waugh! Yer mean he might er been ther one ter give ther snap
away?”

“Dot iss yoost vot I am saying.”

“But--he had ten thousand dollars’ wuth o’ stuff in them burro packs!
Would he tip off ther road agents, ter git his own wealth? Et don’t
hardly look like it, pard.”

“I aind’t saying dot he did idt,” the baron admitted. “I am yoost
asking some kvestions.”

“Right now, we are pretty much in the dark,” the scout admitted.

“Ve ar-re all oop der sdump!”

“They are giving you a lot of praise round the town, baron,” Buffalo
Bill told him. “They say that you put up a nervy fight.”

“Vale,” said the baron, unmoved, sucking at his long-stemmed pipe,
“dey tond’t know only yoost vot I toldt ’em.”

“Brown says that you put up a good fight, and that you wounded one of
the outlaws.”

“I seen der willain reel pack unt shake, ven I shodt at him; budt he
ditn’t vall town.”

“And you brought Brown in on your shoulders.”

“Uff course! Vot else couldt I do? Dot aind’t no pravery, idt vos
yoost muscle; unt idt took a heab uff idt, I dell you. He veigh
apoudt two dons, pefore I gidt him here py der hospidal in. Yaw!”

“What makes you think et may be Juniper Joe leaked information?”
Nomad asked, coming back to the subject that interested hint.

“I haf no reason; idt iss yoost vot Puffalo Pill somedime calls
insdinedtiveness. I seem to schmell idt in der admosphere.”

“That ain’t no reason!” the trapper sniffed.

“You ar-re righdt; idt aind’t.”

“Speaking of Juniper Joe,” remarked Buffalo Bill, “this morning early
I saw his wife downtown; I heard her say she was out making calls on
the ladies, as she wanted to get acquainted with them as soon as she
could.”

“It wouldn’t take her long,” Nomad sniffed, “fer thar ain’t many in
this hamlet.”

“I noticed that she paid a visit to the show girls who are stopping
at the Casino; the bills outside announce that they’ve got a playlet
on the boards there, called ‘Grandpa’s Holiday’.”

Nomad snickered.

“Whatever would she want to call on them song birds fer?” he asked.

“I don’t know, except through curiosity, and because there are so few
women in the town. I was still outside when she came down, and she
was talking with one of them at the foot of the stairs just before
she came away. I took a look at the girl--a thing with a head of hair
like a Circassian Beauty; on asking one of the assistants who she
was, I was informed that her name is Vera Bright.”

“Waugh!” Nomad gulped, smothering a snicker. “Thar’s a name fer ye!”

“I don’t suppose it meant anything at all,” remarked the scout, as if
musing over it.

“Prob’ly not. Them show gals is frum ther East, I reckon, and likely
thet accounted fer Mrs. Joe payin’ ’em a visit.”

They came back to the subject uppermost in their minds--the question
of who could have leaked information to the road agents.

When they had threshed through it again, and made nothing of it,
Buffalo Bill prepared to go down to the Wells Fargo office.

“Do yer reckon,” said Nomad, as he and the baron arose to accompany
the scout, “that this hyar Jackson Dane, what calls hisself a Frisco
detective, could be mixed inter ther thing? Recklect thet Juniper Joe
says he is shore Tim Benson.”

“I’m not forgetting what Juniper Joe said about him.”

“But what does yer think?” the trapper persisted.

“There I am stalled again. It seems that we are called on to suspect
everybody: the express agent, the post office people, the stage
hands, and driver, Juniper Joe, and this alleged detective. Perhaps
we’ll even add to the list as we go along.”

“Mebby we’ll ring in the Casino ladies,” suggested the trapper with a
grin.

“It wouldn’t surprise me if we did.”

“Waugh!”

“Vale, dot vouldt furnish some excidemendt!” protested the German.

“I should think, Schnitz, thet ye’d had ernough fer one day!” Nomad
growled.

“I am a hawg for excidemendt,” the baron admitted.

Down at the Wells Fargo office they found Juniper Joe, with a number
of other men, most of them shippers of the treasure taken by the road
agents. They had been filing claims for repayment by the company.

“I cain’t afford to lose that ten thousand dollars, y’ know,” the
scout heard Juniper Joe remarking, as he entered the door. “It’s a
lot o’ money; I paid the company fer safe transportation, and I
expects it to make good.”

Some of the other claimants said much the same thing.

The office was crowded, for, in addition to these men, a lot of
loafers were hanging round, their ears open for news and gossip.

Having entered, Buffalo Bill and his pards stood by the door, almost
at first unnoticed, listening to the talk, trying to get a “line” on
something.

The agent seemed flustered and nervous; apparently, he did not know
what the powers who were over him would think of his action in
sending the treasure across the mountain with the prospectors. He
even admitted that he expected a “call down,” as he had exceeded his
authority in doing it.

“I suppose I ought to have let her gone by the stage,” he said.
“Likely if I had the stage would have been held up, and the stuff
taken, and instead of one dead man and another in the hospital, the
cañon down there beyond Stag Mountain would have been full of them.”

“So, it’s your opinion that somebody who knew the secret, leaked?”
said Buffalo Bill, speaking up now, to note the effect.

“Oh! you’re here?” said the agent.

To the scout, perhaps unduly suspicious just then, it seemed an
unfortunate remark, as he was sure that the agent had seen him when
he entered with his pards.

“What is _your_ opinion?” he asked.

“Somebody blabbed, of course! But I hope you don’t think _I_ did it.”

“It’s an uncalled-for statement,” said the scout. “I’m not accusing
anybody--simply asking questions.”

“Well, I don’t know anything about it! About all I know right now is
that it puts me in a hole, and I’ll likely lose my job. Why, there
was more than fifty thousand dollars’ worth of stuff in those bags
the burros carried!”

“So I knew.”

“And, of course, the Wells Fargo company air going to make a hot time
about it.”

“I think they ought to.”

The people in the room, loafers and all, were staring at the tall
scout.

“It don’t make any difference to me about that,” spoke up Juniper
Joe. “I surrendered my stuff into your hands; and, of course, I’m
goin’ to see that the company makes good the loss; that’s all. You’d
do the same, if me.”

“But you forget that it was _you_ who suggested the plan of sendin’
it out with them prospectors!” the agent shot at him.

“I thought it was a good scheme; ’twould have been, if somebody
hadn’t been too free with his mouth. I ain’t sayin’ who it was. But
somebody on the inside hustled the news to the road agents. That
ain’t my fault; and my scheme cain’t be blamed fer it.”

“Oh, well! you’ve put in your claim, and that settles it!” the agent
snapped back.

“It don’t settle it until I see the company’s money!” Juniper Joe
told him; then went out of the office.

When Buffalo Bill and his pards left, after a talk with the agent,
they were no wiser then when they went.

CHAPTER IV.

SUSPICIONS.

Buffalo Bill and his pards tried to “jump a trail” that afternoon and
evening, without success.

The scout talked with Brown, the wounded man in the hospital; but got
no additional information.

“The two fellers was so masked,” said Brown, “that I couldn’t tell
if they was black, white, or red. The surprise was so complete,
anyway, that maybe I wouldn’t have noticed. We wasn’t expectin’
trouble--leastways, I wasn’t; for I allowed the agents would be
fooled complete, and would tackle the stage, if they done anything.
Then, fu’st thing I knew, there was them masked devils whanging
away at us with repeating rifles. Austin was killed; and I got this
hole in my side. Your Dutch pard was gamy, and clipped one of the
agents. I could swear to that; because, as I drapped, I heard the
feller rip out a cuss word, and saw him reel back. But he didn’t
fall; so, p’raps the wound didn’t amount to much. One of ’em tried
to down the Dutchman; but he got away. That’s about all; except that
we lost everything. They even took my hardware and Austin’s, with
our cartridge belts. Then they drove the burros away. I had my nose
ag’inst the yearth, playin’ dead fer all I was wu’th at that time, so
I didn’t see ’em go, but I heard ’em. About the next thing I knew,
your friend was bendin’ over me. I got purty weak, and I reckon I had
fainted. And that’s all.”

“Did you see what sort of men they were, as to size?” the scout
asked. “You might have done that when they were getting your weapons.”

“I was too busy playin’ dead jest then to notice clost,” Brown
admitted. “But I did see that one was tall and t’other seemed medium
size. It was the small one that was wounded.”

“Did you notice their voices?”

“Not in p’tickler.”

“You were at Juniper Joe’s wedding?”

“Well, I reckon.”

“Then you probably saw the man Juniper Joe shot at?”

“I did.”

“Joe claimed the man was Tim Benson, the road agent.”

“I ain’t fergittin’ that, neither.”

“Try to recall if one of the road agents resembled that man in any
way.”

Brown pondered over this.

“Well, the littlest one might have been him,” he said; “I should say
he was about that size.”

“Some one on the inside must have informed the agents that you and
Austin were going over the mountains with the treasure bags,” said
the scout. “You couldn’t give a guess as to who that could be?”

“I’ve been thinkin’ about that,” Brown confessed. “No, I can’t say
who it could have been. My best guess is, that if that little man was
Benson he hung round somewhere and overheard the talk when the thing
was planned.”

“It’s a good guess.”

In Brown’s wounded and feverish condition the scout had talked long
enough; and he took his departure.

“A water haul,” he told himself. “But Brown’s guess that the man
called Benson may have got onto the thing by eavesdropping may be the
right one. I think I should like, right now, to meet Jackson Dane,
detective.”

He met him, on his return to his hotel; Dane was by the door of his
room, awaiting his appearance.

“Hello!” said the little man, cheerily. “I’ve been waiting to have a
talk with you confidential.”

“I’m agreeable to that,” said the scout.

He unlocked the door, and they went into the room together. Closing
and locking the door, Buffalo Bill hoisted one of the windows.

“What’s that for?” said Dane.

“The window is to let in a breath of air; the door is locked to keep
out possible intruders.”

“Oh!”

“It startled you?”

“Well, as you were unkind enough to suggest that I was a fraud of
the first water, when I was here before, I didn’t know but you was
getting ready to jump at me, and put up a holler for help to hold me.”

Buffalo Bill laughed grimly.

“You are nervous.”

“Who wouldn’t be, knowing that Juniper Joe is walking the streets
with two revolvers, ready to down me the minute he sees me? That’s
enough to make any man nervous. Are your pards here?”

“They’re close about.”

“I have been hammering away at this case ever since I saw you last;
and have a theory.”

“Out with it; if you want to share it with me.”

“It’s just this. _Juniper Joe’s wife is one of the road agents._”

“What makes you think so?” Buffalo Bill asked mildly, yet showing
interest.

“The thing has come to me by degrees. A while ago I was down in
Gopher Gabe’s saloon, just inside the door; I had my hat pulled over
my eyes, for I didn’t want to be recognized; and I heard men talking
in there, by the bar. I don’t know who they were; but what they said
gave me all the information I have about that remarkable hold-up and
shooting in Eagle Gap to-day; though I admit that before that I knew
something had happened, for I saw your Dutch pard come in with that
wounded man on his back.

“What I heard them saying at Gopher Gabe’s,” he went on, “was that
the Dutchman reported that one of the agents was a tall man, and the
other a small man. Juniper Joe is a tall man; and Mrs. Joe is a small
woman.”

“You don’t think that the new Mrs. Joe is a _man_?”

“I don’t know about that; but probably a woman. Now, inasmuch as
Juniper Joe knew all about the plans for sending the stuff over the
mountains on burros, what would have been easier than for him and his
wife to disguise and go out there and do the hold-up act?”

“It could have been done by them, in all probability.”

“Say that Joe had ten thousand dollars of stuff in the express bags,
what of it? There was as much as forty thousand more, as I understand
it. That forty thousand would be a big haul.”

“It would.”

“So, there you are, according to my way of thinking.”

“Why don’t you arrest Joe, then? You say that you are a detective.”

The little man flushed slightly.

“I suppose I oughtn’t to admit it,” he said; “but, since Joe took
that shot at me, I’m afraid of him; if I should go up to his cabin,
he would down me, and ask what I had come for afterward. That’s the
way I look at it.”

“If I should arrest this woman, and find that you are right, what
would you expect?” the scout demanded.

“The half of that ten thousand reward _for the arrest of Tim
Benson_,” was the unexpected statement.

“What is that?” cried the scout.

“I heard, before I came here, that Tim Benson is a woman!”

The scout sat pondering this.

“Would that be any reason why Juniper Joe should want to shoot you?”

“He knows that I am here after Tim Benson!”

“I see.”

“And you’ll see that I’m right, if you arrest Mrs. Joe,” Dane
declared, confidently. “That’s what I want you to do; and the sooner
the better.”

“Why your hurry?”

“It will keep other fellows from being held up and killed by that
couple,” he explained suavely.

The scout sat looking at him.

“This gives me a new idea,” he said.

“I thought it would.”

“For one thing”--he still looked at Dane--“I think I ought to arrest
_you_; but--hold on, the door is locked, remember!--I am not going to
do it--right now.”

Jackson Dane, who had leaped up with a startled look, dropped
nervously back into his chair.

“You’re humorous--at times.”

“Think so?”

“It would turn out to be a boomerang, if you did arrest me and it was
found then that I am just what I claim to be; the town would sure
have the laugh on you. But you do what I say, and you won’t regret
it. Go up to that cabin and arrest Mrs. Joe; and don’t delay about
it.”

“Why the haste?” Buffalo Bill asked again.

“Because I have a feeling that she isn’t going to stay long in
Blossom Range, and now is your chance to get Tim Benson by doing it.”

He stood up and put on his hat.

“I am ready to go, now,” he said. “You will do as you please, of
course.”

“I’m pretty sure to.”

“Well, think it over, anyway. Perhaps you’ll come round to my
opinion.”

The scout put the key in the lock, and opened the door.

“So, you don’t intend to arrest me?” said Dane, as he passed out into
the hall.

“Not right now,” the scout told him.

“That’s kind of you, anyhow.”

He laughed lightly, and ran for the head of the stairs.

Well behind him, yet keeping the little man in sight, Buffalo Bill
trailed him through the streets of Blossom Range, observing that Dane
had pulled his hat down over his eyes, and turned up the collar of
his coat, as if he did not wish to be recognized. But Blossom Range
was a bustling place, and men were too busy to pay much attention to
pedestrians; so that, apparently, Jackson Dane was not given a second
look by any one, as he passed along.

The scout’s interest was quickened when Dane turned to the Casino,
as the little local theatre was called, and went in by the entrance
marked “Private.”

Reaching that door, the scout stood listening; then went in, also;
but quietly.

In a room above, as he stood on the stairs, he distinctly heard
Jackson Dane talking with the blonde beauty whose name had been given
as Vera Bright.

“Well, that’s singular!” was his thought. “He is talking with the
same girl that Mrs. Juniper Joe had a confab with! I wonder if there
is a connection here?”

But he could not understand what Dane and the girl were saying.

He did not want to be seen spying on the stairs of the Casino, and
when it seemed he could not get nearer that room without discovery,
as people were passing through the upper halls, he retreated to the
street.

But he did not at once go away.

Taking a position on the opposite side of the street, where he
fancied he could not be seen, he watched the door marked “Private.”

But though he tarried there two hours, Jackson Dane did not reappear.

Buffalo Bill was a good deal puzzled, when he made his way back to
the Eagle House.

“But there’s one thing,” he resolved; “to-night I’ll watch Juniper
Joe’s cabin for a while.”

He did not wait until night, however, before visiting the place. He
made a bold call on Juniper Joe, soon after leaving the Casino.

The door of the cabin was locked, as usual; but when the scout had
rapped briskly two or three times, heavy steps were heard, and
Juniper Joe cautiously opened the door.

“Oh, it’s you!” he said, when he beheld the scout, his manner uneasy.

“Yes; can I come in?” Buffalo Bill answered.

Juniper Joe flung the door open, and invited him in.

The big room which had witnessed the “jubilee” was unoccupied, save
by Juniper Joe and the scout.

“Your wife is not in?” the scout asked.

“She’s downtown somewhar, gittin’ acquainted with the Blossom Range
ladies; she allowed, seein’ that she was mightily int’rested in
society back East, that it was goin’ to be plum lonely fer her hyer
if she didn’t stir up some women to talk to; so she sailed out, and
has been workin’ hard at it the better part of the day.”

Juniper Joe had discarded his black broadcloth and shiny cady for a
miner’s working suit and a soft, clay-stained hat.

“Been pokin’ about in my mine,” he explained. “Struck another rich
pocket, too!” He beamed. “Allow me to show you some o’ the nuggets I
got out of it.”

He went into the other room, and brought out some nuggets--a handful
of them.

“Beauties, ain’t they?” he said, as the scout inspected them. “Struck
the pocket this mornin’, soon after I come back frum the express
office, an’ have been gopherin’ round it ever sense. If things keeps
up this way, I’ll have another shipment to make in a week er so;
but, by jings, I don’t let the Wells Fargo handle it!”

“They fell down pretty badly on that last job.”

“’Jever see anything like it! Every bush round Blossom Range seems
to be hidin’ an agent, and the town is full o’ thieves. That’s why
I allus keep that door locked when I’m out of the house, or at work
back in the mine. I was glad to git that stuff into the hands of the
express company, fer I expected every night to be knocked on the head
before mornin’, so long as I had it in hyer. Thar’s plenty men in
this town would kill ye fer a bag o’ gold dust.”

“I’m afraid that’s right.”

“I’m shore of it. And sense Tim Benson is round hyer, I ain’t takin’
no chances.”

He indicated the two big revolvers under his coat.

“I keep ’em strapped to me constant,” he confessed. “It will be him
er me, if we meet; and I know it.”

He put the nuggets away. On coming back, he asked how Brown was
getting along.

Knowing that the man he called Benson had gone to the Casino, Buffalo
Bill was tempted to tell him of it; which would perhaps send him down
there, looking for him. If a duel came of it, there might be some
surprising developments.

But the scout put the temptation aside.

He did not know how much he could believe of what Juniper Joe and
Jackson Dane had said. And, if all were true, he did not care to take
the responsibility of setting two men to shooting at each other.

“I’m still stalled!” he admitted to himself, when he left Juniper
Joe’s cabin.

CHAPTER V.

THE SURPRISE AT JUNIPER JOE’S.

Buffalo Bill filled in the day by riding with Nick Nomad out to Eagle
Gap, for the purpose of looking over the scene of the hold-up.

Baron von Schnitzenhauser, his curiosity fired by what the scout told
him of the visit of Jackson Dane to the show girl called Vera Bright,
had determined that he would shadow the Casino, instead.

So the baron donned again his prospector’s suit of clothing,
discarded his little fore-and-aft cap for a miner’s slouch hat, and
sallied forth. It was one of the baron’s peculiar delusions that he
could disguise himself easily; it was a harmless impression, and
sometimes it yielded no end of excitement. But any one familiar with
the appearance of that round body and those pipe-stem legs did not
need to wait for the baron to open his mouth to know who he was.

The body of Austin had been brought in by some of the citizens of
Blossom Range; so there was nothing grewsome at Eagle Gap, when the
scout and trapper reached it.

They found the spot readily enough, from the descriptions which had
been furnished by the baron.

As said, it was a ragged crevice of rock, through which the winding
mountain trail ran. Beside it was the ridge over which the baron had
jumped, and the shaly slope down which his round body had plunged in
search of safety.

Buffalo Bill and Nomad looked the place over pretty thoroughly.
They found blood stains at the point where Austin had been killed
and Brown had been wounded. Near by they picked up empty cartridge
shells, apparently from the rifles of the outlaws. But they found
nothing else of much interest. The rocky surface held no tracks,
either of the men or the burros; so that trailing was out of the
question. Any of the several gullies leading off from the main one
might have taken the road agents away; yet which one, or whether they
had gone straight along the winding path when they disappeared from
the sight of Brown, could not be settled. The baron had not seen them
depart.

After spending a fruitless hour in their search, Buffalo Bill and
Nomad returned to town, as night was at hand.

On the way to the pass and back, they talked much of what had
happened, each presenting many theories for discussion. One of the
things they particularly discussed was the statement of Jackson Dane,
that the two road agents who had done the work had been Juniper Joe
and his new wife.

“Ef Dane didn’t act so quare hisself, some deependence might be put
in what he said,” averred Nomad.

“Very true,” the scout assented; “the difficulty lies just there.”

“Ef he wanted to be frank and aboveboard wi’ ye, why didn’t he make
some mention of thet gal, Vera Bright?”

“She may have no connection with the thing at all; in fact, I don’t
see how she could have.”

“So, thar ye air; jest whar ye was before,” said Nomad.

The lights of the town were glimmering across the rocky slopes as
they approached; and night had come.

“What ye goin’ to do to-night?” Nomad asked.

“I think I shall stick to my plan of watching Juniper Joe’s cabin
to-night.”

“Y’ ain’t had any sleep ter-day!” the trapper objected.

“That doesn’t matter. I can roll in some time before morning, and get
all I need. We’ll first see if the baron has jumped anything, in his
watching at the Casino.”

But the baron did not appear at the evening meal at the Eagle House;
nor had he showed up when the scout set out with the trapper for
Juniper Joe’s.

By a roundabout way, they reached the cabin, without being observed,
as they believed.

It was dark.

Juniper Joe, who had been downtown, came home about ten o’clock.
He locked the door after he went in. Then the light that had been
burning was put out, and darkness reigned in the cabin.

About four o’clock in the morning, Buffalo Bill and Nomad gave it up,
and went back to the Eagle House. They needed sleep and rest.

The baron had not returned; and the night clerk had not seen him.

“When ther baron gits onter a job, he’s like a dawg hangin’ ter a
root,” Nomad observed. “I opine thet he’s still hanging round ther
Casino.”

“If he doesn’t appear by morning we will investigate,” said the
scout, as he turned in.

In the morning, when he went down to the Casino and Gopher Gabe’s
saloon to inquire about the German, Buffalo Bill was told that he had
been seen in the vicinity of Juniper Joe’s cabin.

The scout’s informant was a disreputable, rum-soaked specimen, who
had heard him ask Gopher Gabe if the German had been there during the
previous evening.

“I know the Dutchman,” said the fellow. “He was wearin’ miner’s
clo’es, like he did when he piked out with them prospectors. I dunno
what he was doin’ up there.”

“What hour was this?” the scout asked.

“Now, I’ll tell ye how ’twas,” said the fellow, laying a hand on
the scout’s arm with confidential and offensive familiarity. “I was
boozin’ las’ night, and I had wandered up there for a snooze, to git
over it; there air trees growin’ along the slope by Juniper Joe’s,
an’ they make a dandy sleepin’ place. I camped down there early in
the evening; mebby ’twas nine o’clock; and I went to sleep at onct.
About four, er mebby five, in the mornin’. I awoke with a tur’ble
thirst; you know how ’tis! I was so thirsty it woke me.

“It was too early to git a drink. I knowed that; and I hadn’t tuck
any whisky up there with me. While I was wonderin’ how I was goin’ to
live out the time until Gopher Gabe’d open his shutters down here, I
seen the Dutchman; he come stealin’ along through the trees, right by
me. That’s all I know.”

“You are sure of that?”

“Hope I may die, if I didn’t!”

“Thanks!” said the scout, turning away.

The greasy loafer caught him by the coat.

“It’s wuth somethin’, ain’t it?” he whined. “Enough ter git a feller
a drink, anyhow.”

Buffalo Bill, disgusted, threw him a silver dollar, and hastened off.

He knew that the man’s statement had been overheard by Gopher Gabe,
if not others; which fact he disliked. And he wanted to get away from
him. Besides, if his story were true, it was worth investigating.

“What was the baron doing at Juniper Joe’s, when he set out to shadow
the people in the Casino?” was his thought. “I wonder if that rascal
is a liar?”

When Buffalo Bill reached Juniper Joe’s cabin, it was tightly locked.
As the hour was yet early, it seemed probable that the occupants were
not yet up. But at a venture the scout knocked.

A deep groan was the answer, within the cabin.

The scout knocked again, startled by that; and heard another groan.

After that, he did not stop to get help; but threw his weight against
the door, ramming it half off its hinges, splintering the wood round
the lock. Having struck it like a stone out of a catapult, he was
precipitated into the big front room when the door yielded.

The light of early morning streamed in, revealing an unexpected
sight. Juniper Joe lay on the floor in a corner, bound and gagged;
while not far from him lay Mrs. Joe, either dead or apparently
unconscious.

With a cry, the scout sprang to the woman first.

When he turned her, he saw that blood was clotted in her hair over
her forehead. She seemed unconscious, and it looked like a case of
murder.

Turning to the man, Buffalo Bill cut the cord that held the gag, then
severed those on his arms and ankles. The gag was made of a piece of
stick, smooth and round, held by strong cotton string; the wrist and
ankle cords were of the same sort of string.

Juniper Joe gasped and choked as the gag came out of his mouth.

“Mum--my wife!” he sputtered.

The scout went again to the woman, and lifted her head; then he got
out his flask and gave her some of the contents. It revived her; so
that she gasped and moved.

“She isn’t dead,” he told Juniper Joe.

The latter got heavily to his feet, and came over, kneeling beside
the scout, who was working over the woman.

“If you can walk,” said the scout, “you had better hustle out for
help and a doctor. How did this happen?”

“Bub--Benson!” Juniper Joe stuttered.

“He did it?”

“Sh--shore thing. How he got into the cabin, I dunno; but the first
thing I knowed I heard my wife screech out. It was before light; but
I was back in the mine. It brought me running. When I butted through
the door thar, not knowin’ what to expect, Benson tripped me, and
give me a side-winder behind the ear that done me up fer a while.
When I got my thinker to goin’ again, I was hawg-tied like you found
me.”

“Benson!”

“That gold you saw me have--he got it, every bit of it.”

“You saw him get it?”

“I was comin’ back to myself, and seen him take it; he done it up in
a bag that was over thar; then he let himself out by the door, which
he locked behind him.”

“If I hadn’t been gagged,” he added, “I might have hollered then,
when he opened the door; but I reckon even then ’twouldn’t done no
good, as nobody lives clost by.”

“Better get help for your wife,” Buffalo Bill advised.

Juniper Joe seemed either too anxious to leave her, or he did not
want to get a doctor; instead of following the scout’s advice, he
turned his attention to assisting in restoring her to consciousness.

Their combined efforts were soon rewarded.

When she came back to consciousness the woman lay on the bed, in the
rear room, where the scout had placed her; she looked round wildly.

“You are all right, now,” Buffalo Bill told her.

“B-b-but Benson!” she cried, as if frightened.

“He is not here now.”

“He struck me and knocked me down,” she stated.

She put out her hands, clinging to Juniper Joe.

“Thar--thar!” he said. “That’s all right; he ain’t hyer now.”

She stared round.

“He cut out,” he said; “but he tuck the nuggets I got out o’ that
pocket in the mine yisterday.”

“He didn’t shoot you?” Buffalo Bill asked her, as he again looked at
the wound and the caked blood round it. “It resembles a pistol wound.”

“He hit me with a pistol, I think,” she averred. “I reckon it was the
pistol hammer done it.”

“Very likely.”

As Juniper Joe still showed an unwillingness to get help, Buffalo
Bill soon left the cabin, and sent a physician, whose office he
passed on his hurried way back to the town.

“Of course, the hammer of a pistol could have made that wound,” he
thought; “but to me it looked mightily like a bullet wound, made some
hours before, though it had bled rather recently.”

He could not get away from the thoughts suggested by Jackson Dane’s
declaration that Juniper Joe and his wife were the two who had played
road agents and corraled the treasure guarded by the baron and the
prospectors.

CHAPTER VI.

THE BARON’S ADVENTURES.

Old Nomad was right in saying that when the baron tackled a job that
interested him he would hang to it like a dog to a root.

The baron loved excitement, though he was not an excitable man. All
hunters love excitement--that is why they hunt. Now, of all manner of
hunting, there is nothing so tremendously exciting as a man hunt. It
holds that tingling spice of personal danger which makes all other
forms of hunting tame in comparison.

The German was in some ways a very shrewd man, though in others he
was the personification of folly. But, taken all around, he had
a good deal more hard horse sense that he was ever likely to get
credit for. And some of his intuitions--call them guesses, if you
will!--were really remarkable.

When he heard from Buffalo Bill that the fellow calling himself
Jackson Dane had gone down to the Casino, and had been heard in
conversation with Vera Bright, the baron’s intuitions told him that
here was something worth investigating. He did not know what it was,
but that did not matter. He determined to investigate, and he did,
with the wonderful patience of a German. It is a patience which makes
the Germans seem slow at times, but which enables them to “get there.”

In his miner’s clothing, the baron went down first to Gopher Gabe’s
booze mill; but finding nothing there that interested him at the
time, or offered anything, he went on to the Casino, which was not
far distant. In fact, the Casino and Gopher Gabe’s disreputable
establishment had secret inner connections, and Gopher Gabe was
financially interested in the Casino. It was a sort of attachment to
his bar, for there were “wine rooms” in the rear of the Casino, to
which, at certain times, waiters passed continually with beverages.

The baron knew all this, without having to ask about it.

As no great time had elapsed since Buffalo Bill had been watching,
the baron reasoned that Jackson Dane was still somewhere behind the
doors of the Casino.

To get the hang of the entrances and exits, he went round to the back
of the building, which abutted on an alley, where he found a rear
door. But as the alley, after a semi-circular swing, came back to
the main street, the baron found a spot where he could conveniently
observe it, while at the same time watching the front entrances, and
particularly that door marked “Private,” through which Jackson Dane
had passed.

But it was a long and tiresome wait.

The baron, not caring to produce the long-stemmed pipe dear to his
German heart, though he had it with him, bought a cheap clay article
at a tobacco store on the corner; which he enjoyed, as he squatted
silently in a convenient doorway.

Now and then he walked about, mingling with the people who came and
went. But ever his eyes were on the doors, even when he seemed to be
looking in other directions; not a man came out that the baron did
not see and size up. Thus he remained until night came; when for his
supper he bought a sandwich on the corner.

Throughout the evening performance in the Casino, the baron stuck
to his post outside, though giving attention now and then to the
singing, which could be heard from the street.

When the crowd came away at last, the baron was on his feet, moving
about, watching everything.

He did not see Jackson Dane come out.

“I tond’t t’ink he has passed me,” thought the baron, when the last
of the concert goers had departed. “So-o, uff he vos in dhere vhen I
fairst sit me down, he iss in dhere yidt. I vill vaidt a vhiles.”

He waited, with German patience, until two o’clock in the morning,
before he was rewarded.

At that time he seemed to be a drunken miner asleep in the doorway he
had chosen, his body slouched against the door, his big hat over his
eyes, in such a way that he could see under its broad brim.

At two o’clock Jackson Dane and Vera Bright came down the private
stairs leading to the street, and they were quarreling.

“Ach!” muttered the German. “Yoost hear dot!”

It was a jealous quarrel; he could make that out, though he could get
only a word now and then.

“Vhen lofers blay oudt, dhen der dickens iss to bay!” muttered the
baron. “Mr. Shackson Dane iss two-vaced, somehow; yidt I tond’t seen
yoost how. Dot misinformation may gome py me lader. Yaw!”

He could not see the man and the girl at first, but soon they came
out through the door, still quarreling, and he had a fair view of
them; so knew he was not mistaken as to their identity.

Dane strode up the street, and the girl went back into the building.

The baron pretended to awake with a snort; then rose heavily, and
stretched himself.

“Ouch!” he muttered. “I am going to gatch so mooch coldt sidding here
dot I petter gidt me avay.”

And he did.

He slouched into the street, which was pretty well deserted by that
time; then, getting the bearings of Jackson Dane, he began to follow
him, with care.

Dane went to the upper part of the town, and disappeared there, the
spot where he vanished being not remote from the cabin of Juniper Joe.

“I haf been t’inking all alongk dot dhere is some gonnection between
dhem two vellers,” the baron muttered; “unt now maype I gan findt
oudt vot idt iss.”

But he failed in that.

He searched about for Jackson Dane, but did not find him, though
several times he passed through the trees close up to the cabin.

Shortly before daylight he thought he saw Dane amid the trees; but he
failed to see where he went.

Right there the baron camped down, to wait for daylight.

“Dhis groundt idt iss pooty soft,” he mused; “unt dher vay he vas
valking he vouldt haf to make some dracks; I vill vaidt yoost a
vhiles unt dake a loogk.”

When he could see the tracks the baron began to follow them, finding
that they led out into the hills on the north of the town.

“I am vishing dot I haf Puffalo Pill’s Inchun drailers py me ridght
now,” he thought, every time the trailing became difficult. “Liddle
Cayuse couldt do dhis petter as me.”

But the German patience that characterized him caused him to stick to
the work, even though at times he went so slowly that it seemed he
was not progressing at all.

When he was a mile from the town, Schnitzenhauser suddenly doubled
up, and fell on his stomach, in such haste that it jarred the breath
out of him.

“Ouch!” he breathed, as soon as he could breathe at all. “Dot iss too
kvick vork for oldt Schnitzenhauser. I am vondering dit he see me?”

He had sighted Jackson Dane, whom he had been so long following, and
he could not be sure that Dane had not reciprocated.

For a time the baron lay flat on the ground; the only movement he
made was to put back his hand to his hip holster, and get out his
reliable forty-five.

“Der hartvare is der pitzness, uff he dries too choomp me,” he
thought. “Aber I tond’t apsoludely knowed idt, I am gonwinced now dot
dhis Shackson Dane is one willain.”

When he began to feel safe, the baron lifted his head and took a look.

Jackson Dane had scooped out a hole beneath a stone on a hillside,
and was burying buckskin bags. Even as he looked, the baron saw him
open one of the bags, put in his hand, and let a shower of gold
nuggets slide through his fingers.

The baron was tremendously excited by that.

“Yiminy!” he gasped, lifting himself higher.

Jackson Dane did not turn round, nor indicate in any way that he
caught that unwise exclamation; though after events indicated that he
must have heard it.

He went on quietly with his work of cacheing the bags of nuggets.

When he had finished, having been watched throughout by the baron
with deep interest, Dane covered the cache, taking apparent care to
obliterate all traces of what he had done; then he walked straight
away, into the bushes growing beyond.

“Py yiminy, dhis iss a luckiness vor me!” gasped the baron. “I haf
fint vhere he iss hide some goldt unt I vandt to know vot iss der
meanness uff idt. Meppy I vill resurrecdion idt unt took idt in to
Puffalo Pill. Yaw! Dot vouldt make his eyes standt oudt so beeg
pesite his noses dot he couldn’t see.”

He was quivering with the excitement of his discovery.

He crawled from behind the bush which had covered him; then in a
stooping position hurried up to the cache.

As he bent over it there was a flash and a report and the baron
pitched forward on his face.

Jackson Dane had not only discovered him but had laid a trap for him
and had shot him, discharging his revolver from a nest of bushes
twenty yards away.

The baron came to himself by and by, feeling very dizzy at first and
without knowledge of what had happened.

But when he beheld the hole where the bags had been cached it brought
him to full recollection.

“Yoompin’ yack rappits!” he gasped. “I am shodt--huh? Vale tond’t
idt beat der Dutch? Yoost vhen I am t’inking I am so smartness dot
nopody couldn’t pe eeny smardter I am shodt into sixdeen bieces.”

His head ached terrifically. When he put up his hand to it there came
away a trickle of blood on his fingers.

“So-o I am shodt py der headt in!”

He stared at the hole in the ground marking the empty cache.

“Unt he haf daken off der goldt? Vale, vor bermitting dot I oughdt to
pe shodt more as I am now.”

But the baron had not been robbed.

He looked about, but saw no one; then he examined his wound again.
It was but a scratch on the top of the head; but it had knocked off
his hat and dropped him senseless. The wound had bled freely and the
baron discovered that his face was dyed crimson.

“Dot iss vodt haf made him t’ink I am deadt,” he thought; “vhen
he seen dher bloodt vlowing like dot he iss shure I am a goneness
undt he tond’t do noddings more; only he yoost dake der goldt unt
gidt oudt. Yidt I t’ink me dot a doctor petter loogk at dot pullet
sgratches pooty kvick.”

He knew that it was useless to think of following Jackson Dane; in
his present condition the baron was not equal to it.

“Uff I kan gidt indo town I vill haf Puffalo Pill unt Nomat dackle
der yob vot I had made a messes uff,” he said. “Yaw! I am no goodt.”

The baron climbed to his feet, staggered a few times in trying to go
forward; then got a new grip of his strength and started off at a
pretty good gait.

Now and then he experienced a sensation as if he were falling over on
his face; at other times he felt as if he must sit down and rest.
But Dutch grit carried him through and got him into the town.

Buffalo Bill and Nomad were at the Eagle House and astonished they
were, too, when they saw him in that condition.

“Whoop!” Nomad roared. “What in the----”

“Kvit idt!” commanded the baron, waving his hand. “I am shodt, but I
tond’t vandt nopoty to knowed idt.”

“Wow!”

Buffalo Bill and the trapper caught the baron by the arms and drew
him hastily into the scout’s room.

“Bad hurt?” asked the trapper.

“Dake a loogk, unt seen vor yourselluf.”

Buffalo Bill made a hasty examination, asking questions, with Nomad,
while he was doing it.

“Idt vos der Denfer dedecdive,” said the baron.

“Waugh!” Nomad rumbled. “How’d et happen?”

“Vale, he hadt a bistol, unt he bulled der triggers. How does idt
effer habben, vhen a vellers is shodt--huh?”

“I mean----”

“I am in der vay vhen der pullet gomes--dot iss vot _I_ mean.”

“Stop yer guffin’! Is his skull bu’sted, Buffler? Blame ef he don’t
seem like it; acts like he’d lost what little sense he ever had.”

“You vix oop dot voundt fairst, Cody, unt dhen I vill do some
dalkings. Der ploodt is ruining dhis nice brosbector’s suidt uff
cloding, v’ich gost me dwendy tollars.”

“Yer aind’t keerin’ fer yer bu’sted headpiece?” said Nomad, with a
grin. “I don’t wonder! ’Tain’t wu’th much.”

When the scout had bathed and washed out the wound, he finished his
examination, and told the baron that it was but a scalp wound, which
he did not consider at all serious.

“I think I can fix you up, without any need of sending you to a
doctor.”

From his saddle pouches he got out material, and in a little while
had the wound dressed as well as any surgeon could have done it.

In the meantime, the baron had begun to unfold his tale of woe.

“I vendt py der Casino down,” he explained; “unt vhen I haf sday
dhere so longk dot I gand’t goundt how longk idt iss, Shackson Dane
he gomes oudt, dalking mit dhis vomans. Vhen he goes oop der streedt,
I am doing der shatow acdt yoost so neadtly as neffer vos. Budt oop
py Yuniper Yoe’s I lose sighdt uff him.”

“Juniper Joe’s!” gasped Nomad.

“We have just come from there,” the scout announced.

“So-o! I haf come vrom some odder blaces. Oop py Yuniper Yoe’s I lose
sighdt uff him. I hoondt roundt a vhiles, unt sday py der drees in,
till idt iss pooty near morning. Dhen I seen him.”

“By Juniper Joe’s?” said Nomad.

“No; py der drees in.”

“Oh! But maybe he come frum thar.”

“Maype he dit. I am nodt knowing. As soon as I see him I losdt him
ag’in.”

“Wow!”

“I am nodt an Inchun drailer, but I sday me righdt dhere undil I gan
see his dracks py der daylighdts. So, I voller him. Afdher a vhiles I
see him making a gache.”

“A gash!”

“No; a hole in der groundt vot he iss putting goldt nuggedts in. He
haf der goldt nuggedts in puckskin pags; unt in der hole he puries
dhem. Yaw!”

“Waal, go on, Schnitz! Et’s plum more irritatin’ than moskeeter bites
ter lissen to you--you’re so slow.”

“Vhen he iss gone avay, I grawl oop py der gache, to dake a loogks.
Unt dhen----”

“Yes, go on! An’ then!”

“‘Bangs!’ goes his bistol; unt I am deadt.”

“Wow! But you’re livin’ yit.”

“Maype so-o; aber vor a liddle vhiles I tond’t know noddings. Vhen I
haf gome pack py mineselluf der goldt nuggedts iss gone, unt he iss
gone, unt I am laying on der groundt yoost like a deadt mans. Now,
vot do you t’ink uff dot?”

“Thet he seen ye, Schnitz, an’ laid fer ye.”

“Idt iss yoost vot I t’inks.”

“You are sure this man who shot you was Jackson Dane?” the scout
queried.

“Yaw! I seen him.”

“Ye didn’t try ter foller him, after thet?” asked the trapper.

“Afdher dot? Himmel! Vhen I am shoodedt py der headt in, unt am
pleeding like a stuck pigs? Pesites, I am inkinscious vhen he gidts
avay, unt tond’t know vhere he haf gone.”

“No, o’ course, ye couldn’t well follered him, under ther
sarcumstances.”

“Ledt me exblanadion idt to you petter,” said the baron, in his
interest and excitement ignoring his throbbing head. “Vhere der gache
iss made py him, der groundt iss werry hardt, so dot I tond’t t’ink
dhere vos eeny dracks. Eenyhow, yoost pefore I got to dot sbot, I
am vollering him by insdinctifeness; py vhich I mean dot I am going
alongk yoost like a hoondting tog, aber I gandt smell eenyt’ings.
Unt, dhen, I seen him!”

“I think we’ll want to take a look at that place as soon as we can,”
Buffalo Bill remarked, deeply interested.

“I gan showed you idt righdt avay.”

“But your head!”

“Ach! Now dot you haf fixed him, idt iss noddings at all. Yoost a
pullet sgratch.”

“You’re likely to feel bad effects from it, baron. I think, when it
knocked you down and out, there must have been some concussion of
the brain. It’s advisable for you to go to bed and get a rest, after
that. Besides, you need sleep anyhow.”

“Sleeb!” the baron sputtered. “Couldt I sleeb afdher dot? Nein!”

“Ef you can give us good enough p’inters, I reckon Buffler an’ me can
find the place,” said Nomad, anxious to set out immediately.

“Yoost ledt me dake a resting vor a liddle vhiles, unt I vill show
you myselluf,” the baron declared.

He settled himself more comfortably in his chair; then fished out and
filled his pipe.

“A goot schmoke iss vot I am needting. Aber a glass uff lager peer
vouldt be efen petter. I am going to schmoke, vhile you tell me
apoudt Yuniper Yoe, vhen you vos oop to his blace dhis morning.”

“Waal, you’ll find it as movin’ a tail, baron, as was ever stuck on
a dawg,” said Nomad. “Buffler went up thar, jest after daylight. He
found ther cabin locked tight as a money chist; and when he hammered
on ther door he heard a groan. So he broke ther door down an’ went
in, ter find Juniper Joe hog-tied an’ gagged in the corner, and Mrs.
Joe layin’ slung out on the floor as ef dead. An’ ther place had been
robbed.”

The German dropped his pipe and stared.

“Himmel!” he cried. “Iss dot der troot?”

“Nothing truer, baron.”

“It’s a correct account of it,” said Buffalo Bill. “The woman was
unconscious from a wound on the head; it looked like a bullet
wound to me, but she thought it had been made with the hammer of a
revolver; at least, that is what she claimed. I got Joe on his feet,
and then we worked over the woman for a while, finally bringing her
round. They declared that the man who had attacked them and robbed
them was Tim Benson.”

“Who iss also-o Shackson Dane!” said the baron.

“So far, that is merely a supposition.”

“Eenyhow, I am pelieving it.”

“Thet would er been excitement fer ye, baron, ef so be you hed been
thar!”

“I vos hafing enough excidemendts, being shoodted py him.”

“Ther question is,” Nomad went on, “kin we hang these things
together? F’r instunce, ef you trailed Jackson Dane frum ther Casino,
could he also been ther man thet turned ther trick at Juniper Joe’s
cabin?”

“He couldt,” the baron declared.

“Wow!” gurgled Nomad.

“Ledt me exblanadion idt to you,” said the baron. “Vhen I haf drailed
Shackson Dane close py der cabin uff Yuniper Yoe, I lose him; dot
iss, I tond’t gan seen him eeny more. Unt I t’ink vunce, maype he
iss go py dher capin in; budt I tond’t know. I sday roundt unt vaidt.
Py unt py, like vot I toldt you, I seen him makin’ a sneek drough
der drees. Budt idt iss dark, unt I gan’t voller him. So I cambs me
town dhere, unt vaidts vor idt to gidt some lighdter. Dhen I dake
ub der drail, vot I see vhen der daylighdt gomes. Py unt py, I seen
him ag’in, making der gache, unt hidting der goldt. Unt--dhen I am
shoodted py him. Yaw!”

Nomad turned with beaming, wrinkled face to the scout, his blue eyes
bright with excitement.

“Seems cl’ar ernough, Buffler,” he commented. “I reckon Dane went to
Juniper’s; got inter ther cabin, knocked down the woman, and tied up
Juniper, then hiked with the gold.

“Budt,” said the German, “I tought dot Yuniper Yoe haf shipped all
uff his goldt avay py der Vells Vargo Gompany.”

“He told me,” said the scout, “that he had made another strike; and
he showed me some of the nuggets he had got. They were handsome.”

“So-o?”

“I reckon et’s a shore thing that Dane went to Juniper’s an’ got his
goldt,” averred Nomad. “Thet don’t prove that Juniper Joe was right
in claimin’ thet Dane is this pizen tarantler, Tim Benson; but et
goes a long ways toward it.”

“Dot iss so,” the baron admitted.

Buffalo Bill could but agree to the same thing.

“Now,” said the baron, putting away the pipe he had dropped, and
had not smoked, “I am readty to leadt you to der sbot vhere I am
shoodted, unt vhere vos der gache. Uff ve sdrike a drail dhere, ve
gan voller idt, unt maype findt oudt somet’ing’s vort’ vhiles. I
t’ink, py yiminy, dot ve ar-re on der righdt dracks, unt dot Shackson
Dane iss Dim Penson.”

“Do you think you’re equal to it?” Buffalo Bill asked.

“Ach! Dot pullet voundt iss only a sgratch! Uff I sday me pehint now,
I am going to vorry me indo some sicknesses. Ve ar-re going to haf
some excidemendt now, I pet you.”

“Allus huntin’ excitement, baron!” said Nomad, with a smile. “Et’s
goin’ ter be ther death o’ ye yit.”

“Uff so-o, I vill die habby.”

CHAPTER VII.

A STARTLING DISCOVERY.

The three pards passed Juniper Joe’s cabin on foot. Though they
attracted some attention as they went along, they were not followed.
It had been heralded over Blossom Range that Juniper Joe’s cabin
had been robbed in the night, and he and his wife injured. As a
consequence, sensation lovers and the overcurious were prowling
around in numbers in the vicinity of the cabin. But it was closed.

The scout and his pard avoided these people; and on the hills beyond
the cabin proceeded to lose themselves to view, in the brush and
trees.

They had deviated several points from a direct line to the spot
named by the baron, until they were out of sight; then the baron
straightened away for their destination, leading rapidly.

When they reached the place where he had been shot, they found proofs
of the truth of his story. The hole where the gold had been placed,
then removed, had been but partly filled in. The spot where the baron
had fallen when the bullet struck him could also be seen. He pointed
it out with trembling pride.

“Himmel! Vhen I am shot it seemed dot der dop uff my headt vly off;
unt dhen I ditn’t knowed noddings votsoefer.”

“I reckon he took his crack at ye, Schnitz, frum behind thet bush
over thar,” commented the trapper, looking round narrowly. “Et’s
a good thing fer ye thet et’s all o’ twenty yards to thet bush;
ef’t had been nearer he’d a hogged ye. Pistols allus shoot high at
a leetle distance; which is why ye got his lead on ther top o’ yer
head, instid o’ right through et. Funny he didn’t think o’ thet, an’
make a clost enough examination ter find out.”

“I am guessing dot he vos in a hurry,” said the baron. “He vandted to
make a gitavay kvick, as somepoty mighdt haf heard him.”

“Schnitzenhauser is probably right about that,” Buffalo Bill agreed.
“The rascal couldn’t tell but that the shot would be heard, and bring
some one; and it’s a safe gamble that he wouldn’t want to be seen
here.”

“Oh, he toughdt I vos deadt, all righdt, unt so dit I; aber I ditn’t
knowed eenyt’ings apoudt idt. Vhen I gome to mineselluf pack, I haf
a headaches vot you readt apoudt, I pet you. Ach! Idt shoombs yidt,
yoost like a grasshobber kicking py der insite uff my heat.”

Buffalo Bill gave the German a sharp look, observing that his florid
face was a bit less highly colored than usual.

“I don’t know but you ought to be at the hotel in bed, baron,” he
suggested.

“Neffer!” cried the undaunted German. “I aind’t gifing oop undil ve
findt dhis veller. Cody, you unt Nomad ar-re as goodt as Inchuns vor
drailing; see uff you gan findt der willain’s dracks.”

They began the search; but the ground was like flint, and they
accomplished nothing near the cache.

When they picked up footprints, they were at some distance, but in
the direction of the flight of the man who had shot the baron.

“Ah!” said the scout. “Here he goes!”

“Waugh! K’rect ye air, Buffler. Now we’ll hang to ’em. Seems thet he
was p’inted out into the hills.”

“I pedt you,” whispered the baron, staring round as if he expected
to see Jackson Dane start up out of the brush, “he vos going furdher
on, to pury dose puckskin pags ag’in. You see, he iss disdurped py
me, unt gan’t hidt dhem here no more; so he iss loogking vor anodder
blace.”

It was a very reasonable supposition.

In this opinion, they began to follow the tracks; though even there
the trailing was far from easy. The baron acknowledged that he was
not enough of a “hoondting tog” to do anything with a trail so dim;
but the scout and trapper were as keen-eyed and experienced as
Indians, and they went along fast enough.

When they had gone half a mile, covering the ground slowly, they came
to what seemed to be another cache.

It was in a sandy place. All round it the sand had been smoothed
down--a bush having been drawn over it; so that whatever footprints
had been made were wiped out. Even the “cache” had been covered in
that manner; but as a good deal of sand had been taken out in digging
the hole, all of which could not be put back when the hole was filled
in, a slight mound was the result.

The scout and his pards inspected this mound, and the apparent work
of track-hiding round it, before they ventured up to it; for they
could not be certain that the man who had done the work was not
somewhere near, in hiding.

To make sure on this point, they cautiously skirted round the place.

But no human presence was discovered.

Then they came up to the “cache.”

The baron was now much excited; he believed the gold-nugget bags he
had seen were buried anew at that spot. Buffalo Bill and Nomad drew
their sheath knives and attacked the sand, which, when loosened, they
were able to draw out with their hands.

They went down rapidly; but the hole was much deeper than they
anticipated.

“Gone down ter Chiny, he did,” grumbled the trapper, “ter make shore
thet ther stuff would be safe.”

When they got down near the bottom of the hole, which, after all, was
not so very deep, instead of striking against buckskin bags, their
knives struck clothing.

“Waugh!” Nomad gurgled in his surprise. “He’s wrapped ther thing up
in his coat, I reckon.”

Buffalo Bill began to heave out the sand in great handfuls; when it
was discovered that _the coat hid a body_.

The old trapper flung himself out of the grave--for that is what it
was--with a snort.

“I’m jiggered ef thet don’t give me ther creeps!” he cried. “Waugh!
Cody, there’s a dead man in thar.”

The baron was also tremendously excited.

Buffalo Bill continued to excavate quietly, but hurriedly; and soon
revealed a man’s arm.

“I’ll have your help here, Nomad,” he said.

“Br-r-r! I’m er Piegan, Buffler, ef thet don’t give me ther creeps.”

“I am in der same fixings,” said the baron, jumping about. “Ach! A
deadt mans! Vot iss der meanness?”

But Nomad sprang down to the aid of the scout; when together they
pulled the body out of the sand. It had been doubled and crumpled up
in the hole, was fully dressed, and the sand had been simply pushed
in on it and trampled down.

Even Buffalo Bill gasped in surprise when the face of the dead man
was seen.

For it was the face of Jackson Dane!

“Waugh! Er, waugh!” Nomad was whooping. “I’m er Piegan, ef----”

“Well, it knocks all our theories on the head,” said the scout,
breaking in on Nomad’s war-dance accompaniment.

“Idt iss make me veel like I am grazy!” cried the baron, staring
goggle-eyed.

The dead man, having been lifted out of the hole, was laid gently on
the ground.

Then it was seen that Dane had been shot through the body.

“Probably killed instantly,” was the scout’s conclusion, when he saw
the character of the wound. “Nomad, you’d better pike back to town
and send officers out to take charge of this. It will be impossible
to keep the thing still, I suppose; and I don’t know that there is
really any need of it.”

“Who kilt him?” cried the baron. “He couldn’t haf shoodted himselluf
unt also puriet himselluf!”

“That’s a fool idea, Schnitz!” the trapper snorted.

“I knowed it iss. But uff he gone here py himselluf---- Vale,
somepoty exblanadion idt to me.”

“Apparently, unless we are all off in our guesses, he came out here
to bury the stuff the baron saw him have,” suggested the scout; “then
some one, seeing him with it, shot him, got away with the gold, and
hid the body here.”

Instead of starting off to town, Nomad began to circle round, to see
what he could discover.

In a few seconds he let out a cry.

“Hyer’s er trail, Buffler!”

When the scout examined it, he found tracks somewhat larger than
those they had been following. They plunged into some bushes off on
the right, went on a few yards, then swung round in the direction of
Blossom Range.

“Hikin’ back fer home, _he_ was!” said the trapper. “What does yer
make o’ thet, Buffler?”

“The tracks of the murderer, without a doubt. After he covered up the
grave, he was in too big a hurry to thoroughly hide his tracks here;
though you can see that he was trying to step softly. If he doesn’t
take to rocky land, we can probably follow this until the streets
of the town are at least reached. He is back there by this time, of
course, if he went right along; and there can be no trailing of him
in the streets.”

“Somebody might ’a’ seen him, though, when he went inter the town,”
Nomad suggested. “You stay right hyar with ther baron, by ther body.
I’ll foller these tracks, on my way ter town, and see ef I kin make
anything of ’em. You’ll find me back hyar ’fore ye know et.”

The wiry old trapper set off at a sharp jog trot, following the trail
of the supposed murderer; and was soon out of sight.

The German, still weak from his wound, though excitement now flushed
his face, dropped down on the sand a few yards from the body.
Buffalo Bill placed his handkerchief over the face of the dead man;
then took a seat beside the baron.

“Vale, vot do you make uff idt?” the baron asked.

“What do _you_ make of it?”

“Noddings. I am as mixed oop as a cotton pall vot der pussy cats haf
peen blaying mit.”

He breathed heavily.

“You see how idt iss. Ve manufacdure der t’eory dot Shackson Dane
he has gone to der capin uff Yuniper Yoe unt ropped him, unt dot he
vos oudt here drying to hide der goldt he got py doing so-o. Dot may
sdill pe der troot’. Yidt der t’ought vot game py me, vhen I seen der
poty, iss dot Yuniper Yoe haf follered him unt kilt him; budt idt
tond’t holdt vater. Vor you see, Yuniper Yoe he gand’t pe here unt at
der same dime at der capin daking care uff his voundedt vifes. So-o.”

He puffed out his cheeks, and his eyes stared, as he struggled with
this knotty problem.

“Unt uff Shackson Dane he iss Dim Penson, unt--Ach! I gif idt oop!
You say somedings.”

“Jackson Dane, or Tim Benson; the fellow is dead.”

“Dot iss too blain to sbeak apoudt.”

“And he said that Juniper Joe would kill him on sight.”

“Yaw.”

“Is there any one else he would have been afraid of?”

The German jumped as if a bee had stung him.

“What is it?”

“An itea haf hidt me.”

“Out with it, then.”

“You rememper dot vomans py der Casino in?”

“Vera Bright?”

“Der same. Dhey vas kvarreling vhen on der sdairs at der Casino,
yoost pefore he gome avay.”

“But you didn’t see her follow him.”

“I tidn’t. Budt iss idt a sign dot she ton’t? She mighdt haf; and she
mighdt haf done dhis shooding here.”

“What about those big tracks Nomad is following? They were not made
by a woman.”

The baron jumped up and began to circle round the sandy spot, going
farther and farther out, like a dog trying to pick up a lost scent.

At last he whooped a discovery.

“Idt vos der vomans, shure!” he howled, as Buffalo Bill hurried to
him. “See der dracks uff dhem liddle shoon.”

The tracks which the baron had discovered were small, as if they
had been made by a woman. In their haste, the scout and Nomad had
overlooked them, or rather had not searched long enough to find them,
after discovering the larger tracks.

“Idt iss a skinch dot idt iss der vomans!” said the baron, his face
shining. “Vot you t’ink?”

The scout was following the tracks.

They led off in a direction opposite to those taken by the larger
tracks; but circled after a while, and also turned toward the town.

“Vale, vot do you t’ink uff idt?” cried the baron.

They continued to follow the tracks, which led them on toward the
town.

But they had gone but a few hundred yards when a rifle cracked, and
a bullet sped with a whining sound past the scout’s head.

He ducked and fell flat.

“Down!” he urged.

“You are hidt?” the baron squawked, as he also dropped to the ground.

“No; but that came within an inch of me.”

“Py yiminy, dhis iss some excidemendts vot you readt apoudt!”

“You are getting your full share to-day, baron.”

“I pet you!”

They stopped talking, to listen; but they heard nothing.

“Iss he caming?” the baron whispered.

“I think not; I don’t hear anything.”

“Who vos idt?”

“Ask me something easy.”

“He shodt at you?”

“Well, it seemed like it, didn’t it?”

The baron began to crawl off.

“Whereaway?”

“I’m going to loogk vor dot willain.”

“He may be waiting for us to show ourselves; it seems likely.”

In spite of this, the reckless German crept off to a slight knoll,
where, in the midst of bushes, he lifted his head, with his hat off,
and took a look.

“Better keep your hat on,” the scout warned; “that bandage on your
head makes you conspicuous.”

The baron ducked down with a “yeep.”

“Did you see him?” Buffalo Bill asked.

“No; but I ditn’t vanted him to seen me!”

After listening some time longer, the scout joined the baron; but
though they looked about as well as they could, they saw no one.

“He thought he killed me, and let it go at that; or he feared that he
didn’t, and that I would get him if he came on. One guess is as good
as another.”

“I gan make a guesses dot peadts all uff dhem: I guess dot ve tond’t
knowed noddings apoudt idt.”

While they were talking in low tones, they heard a crashing among the
brush, but in the direction of the town.

“Vot?” the German gasped.

But the next moment they knew that the sound was made by the men whom
the trapper had secured from Blossom Range.

When they came in sight they were seen to be excited citizens, half
a dozen in number, accompanying an officer and the coroner, bearing
with them a stretcher for the body.

The baron leaped to his feet and swung his hat to direct them; but
did not call.

“Petter loogk oudt!” he cautioned, as they came near.

“Who was that shootin’?” Nomad demanded. “We heard a rifle off hyar.
Been shootin’ at somebody?”

“Somepoty has peen shoodting at us!” the baron informed him.

“Great gallinipers! Who was et?”

“I vish dot you vouldt toldt me. Der pullet idt seems vos vor Cody;
but it ditn’t git him.”

“Couldn’t er been ther feller thet killed Dane?” said Nomad.

“Ve tond’t know who idt vos.”

The scout arose and greeted the officers and citizens.

“We have found other tracks here,” he said, pointing off to the
right, where the tracks were to be seen.

Nomad and some of the men ran over there.

“Tracks of a woman!” cried the trapper.

“So we thought.”

“Whar’d they come frum?”

“Near the point where the body was buried,” the scout told him.

“And goin’ toward town?”

“Yes.”

“Then thet woman must er been with ther man what downed Dane.”

“It would seem so. Gentlemen, we can show you where the body lies
now,” said the scout, “if you will follow us.”

“Petter loogk oudt vor der man mit der gun!” the baron warned.

But apparently the man with the gun had vanished; for when they set
out for the spot where the body had been left, they did not see or
hear him.

But still another surprise awaited them, as stunning almost as the
first. On reaching the spot where it had been left, the body itself
had disappeared.

“Whar’d yer put et?” Nomad asked, puzzled.

The baron and the scout were staring dumfounded at the place where
the body had last been seen.

“Idt iss gone!” the baron howled. “Yumpin’ yack rappits, idt iss
gone!”

“It’s true, gentlemen,” the scout supplemented; “the body that we
left right here has disappeared.”

The thing was astounding.

“More excitement baron!” Nomad yelped.

“Don’t I knowed idt? I am grazy mit excidemendts.”

“Yer air shore gittin’ good measure, Schnitz!” the trapper whooped.

He began to look for the trail of the man who must have borne the
body away.

Tracks were found almost immediately--those of a man, whose shoes cut
rather deeply into the ground, and made some impression even where
the soil was hard; showing that he had borne a burden. There could be
not a doubt that the burden was the body of Jackson Dane.

“Vale, I see some daylighdts,” the baron declared; “der mans vot haf
done dhis iss der same vun vot haf shoodted at Cody; I am petting on
idt.”

“I guess ye’re right, Schnitz,” the trapper agreed. “Now, we’ll see
ef we can foller him.”

Buffalo Bill put himself at the head of the excited little party, and
the chase began.

CHAPTER VIII.

STRANGE DISAPPEARANCES.

As if he knew he would be followed, the man who had borne off the
body had struck rocky ground soon, so completely breaking his trail
that to pursue it promised to be a work of great difficulty.

Buffalo Bill stopped.

“I don’t think I care to go farther just now,” he said. “Though,
later, I want to come here and cipher this thing out. I’m going back
to Blossom Range.”

“Waugh!” the trapper objected. “What fer? This hyar is ther place fer
work ter be done right now.”

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” said Buffalo Bill, thoughtfully; “I’ll
leave you and the baron to claw the tangles out of this thing; and
I’ll try to join you before long. As you go along break a bush now
and then, so that when I return I’ll have no trouble in finding you.”

“But what ye goin’ back fer?” Nomad asked, impatiently.

It seemed to him that to pick up the lost trail was the most
important thing at the moment; at any rate, he could think of nothing
more promising.

Because of the listening ears turned toward him, Buffalo Bill did not
care to acquaint the trapper with the thoughts in his mind.

So he made a lame excuse, about having forgotten something; and
turned about, leaving the trapper and the baron to go on alone; as
all of the town men turned back when Cody did.

“You can dig out that trail, Nomad, if any one on earth can,” he told
the trapper. “So just hang to it, you and the baron--unless he wants
to go back with me! When I return, I shall come with the expectation
of finding that you have dug out something worth while.”

But the baron had no wish to return to Blossom Range at that time; it
was his idea that the blind trail which Nomad was to try to spell out
offered worlds of excitement, of the most surprising kind.

When Buffalo Bill reached Blossom Range, he took the officer and the
coroner aside, after dismissing the other men.

“Perhaps you know all about those men who have been with you, and
that they’re to be trusted,” he explained; “but I don’t know any of
them, and the faces of one or two didn’t strike me favorably. What
I want to do now is to have you go with me to the Casino and arrest
there a woman called Vera Bright; she is with the show company that
has been giving performances in the Casino the past week. After that,
I shall ask you to go with me to Juniper Joe’s and place Juniper Joe
and his wife under arrest.”

The officer and coroner stared at him.

“Not Juniper Joe!” gasped the officer.

“None other. If I am making a mistake, I will stand responsible for
it. The man who was slain out there was the same that Juniper Joe
tried to kill the night of his wedding; and this woman, Vera Bright,
was with the murdered man shortly before daylight this morning, as
I know through the testimony of the German, who was watching the
Casino at that time. He heard them quarreling. In addition, Mrs.
Juniper Joe made that woman a visit yesterday.”

“If you back the thing, I’ll make the arrests,” said the officer, but
reluctantly.

“I will back you!” the scout told him. “Or, if you don’t want to do
it, I will make the arrests myself; yet I should prefer to have you
to do that part of the work.”

He did not think it wise, being still rather hazy about some points
himself, to tell these men all his conclusions; he preferred to let
events speak for themselves.

When they got down to the Casino and called for Miss Vera Bright,
they were informed that she was not there; that, in fact, she had
left Blossom Range that morning, on the stage for Calumet Springs.

“Let me see the manager of the show,” Buffalo Bill requested.

The manager came down--a pale, blond, young fellow--and began to
answer Buffalo Bill’s questions.

“I didn’t know she was going,” he declared; “and none of the company
did. The first we knew, she had her things packed, and asked me for
her salary. I wouldn’t pay it, of course, under the circumstances,
as we expect to play here another week, and she was in the cast. She
went away in a huff.”

“How long was she with your company?” was the scout’s next question.

The manager admitted that he had “picked her up” at Calumet Springs,
when the company was there on its way to Blossom Range.

“She wanted to join us, and I let her do so, as I thought we could
use her,” he explained.

“So you really know nothing about her?”

“Not a thing!”

When Buffalo Bill left the Casino, he sent a telegram to the marshal
of Calumet Wells, requesting him to hold the woman until certain
charges against her could be investigated.

“Now for Juniper Joe’s!” he said to the officer.

When they reached the cabin of Juniper Joe, they had somewhat the
same experience; Juniper Joe was not there, neither was his wife. The
cabin was locked.

The door which the scout had so recently splintered had been somewhat
repaired, and was braced on the inside, as well as locked.

“This is queer!” was the officer’s comment.

“Just a little bit,” the scout agreed.

“Shall I break the door in?”

“That is my advice.”

When it was battered in and they entered, they found no one inside.

A warrant had been secured, authorizing the house and the mine to be
searched. Therefore, the officer forced the door which led to the
mine. The mine looked dark as a cave; so lights were secured, before
they tried to enter it.

They examined the mine back of the cabin, the scout flashing the
light curiously on the walls.

He made no remarks about his discoveries, and his examination was
not a close one; but he commented freely enough on the fact that the
couple must have departed by the front door.

“Yet it seemed to have been barred on the inside!” was the officer’s
objection.

This was overcome, when a closer examination of the door was made.
The bar of wood had been so arranged that it would drop down on the
inside and so hold the door when it was closed from the outside.
Hence the theory that it had been barred from the inside fell to the
ground.

“This may be nothing but a mare’s nest, though,” the officer
suggested; “Juniper Joe and his wife may be both downtown right now.”

“His wife was supposed to have been too badly hurt to leave the
cabin,” the scout reminded.

“But she may have gone to some doctor’s office!”

Though this was true enough, the scout did not believe it.

After they had made sure that the mine and cabin were unoccupied,
Buffalo Bill asked the men to return to the town and make a search
for Juniper Joe and his wife, and to arrest them if they were found.

As for himself, as soon as the men set out, he turned about and
started off, with the intention of rejoining Nomad and the baron.

“A water haul!” he said to himself, as he walked on swiftly. “But I
think that at last we are making some progress.”

It was the scout’s opinion that the couple and Vera Bright had
hastily left the town.

“Why?” was the question.

It seemed to him there could be but one answer.

CHAPTER IX.

THE CHASE.

Old Nomad was exclaiming softly in his characteristic way, standing
on the edge of a precipitous cliff wall. The baron, by his side, had
hold of a bush, and was peering over into the depths below.

“I’m er Piegan,” said Nomad, “ef suthin’ ain’t been throwed down
thar!”

“Aber I gand’t seen noddings, I am pelieving idt iss der pody,” the
baron averred.

Sounds of footsteps attracted their attention.

Then they saw Buffalo Bill hurrying toward them.

He had come rapidly from the town, having followed them without
trouble, because of the broken bushes they had left in their wake to
guide him.

“Waugh!” Nomad called to him, and swung his hand. “Come over hyar!”

“I’m coming.”

“Ve haf followed der drail to dot boint ofer dhere,” the baron
explained, as the scout came up. “Idt vendt straight on; but Nomat he
seen vot he took to pe dracks goming dhis vay; unt idt loogks as uff
somed’ings had peen pitched town here.”

“We’re believin’ thet ther critter we follered sidetracked carefully
to this point,” added Nomad, “an’ hyar he got rid o’ ther body he war
kerryin’. Et looks et.”

The scout seized a bush, and began to go down the cliff side.

“We can soon discover if it is so,” he said.

“Vot dit you findt in der town?” the baron shot at him.

“Vera Bright, Juniper Joe, and his wife are all missing.”

“Waugh!” Nomad whooped. “We’ve been figgerin’ thet we’ve been
follerin’ ther trail o’ Juniper Joe and p’raps his wife. Anyhow,
thar’s big tracks and leetle ones. But we couldn’t make et come out
right thet Juniper Joe an’ his wife had been hyar, when we reckoned
they war back in ther own cabin.”

The scout soon reached the bottom of the cavity, which was bush-grown
along its sides. He called up his discovery.

“Your guess was right,” he said. “Here is the body.”

It had been pitched far enough out, so that in its fall it did not
break bushes; and it lay in a crumpled heap.

The scout only tarried long enough to be sure that it was the body of
the man known to him as Jackson Dane; then he came climbing up out of
the black depths.

“Yes,” he added, “whoever had the body threw it over here, to get
rid of it; and took it from that other place so that it might not be
found by the searchers.”

“Why sh’d he wanted ter do thet?” Nomad queried.

“I can only guess, of course; though he ought to have known that it
had already been seen. In law, you know, the body must be produced,
or identified, in order to convict any one of murder; otherwise,
there could be no showing absolutely that the man supposed to be
murdered was dead. He might be living, somewhere in secret. But it
was a foolish move, in this case, to try to hide it here, it seems to
me; as the body had already been seen.”

“Aber the man vot dook it mighdtn’t haf knowed dot,” suggested the
German.

“Very true.”

“But about thet woman and Juniper Joe cuttin’ out?” said Nomad. “You
air shore of thet?”

“I went with the officer to the Casino, to arrest the woman, but she
had left by the morning stage for Calumet Springs. I sent a telegram
to the marshal there; and if he does his duty, it will stop her at
that point. When we went to Juniper’s cabin, we found it empty and
dark. On forcing the door, we found no one, even though we searched
the cabin and the mine. Of course, if you have been following their
trail, it shows plainly enough where they are now.”

“What’s yer idee?” the trapper questioned.

“Simply that they came out and killed Dane. Perhaps they started back
to the town; then saw us, and that changed their plans. Some one shot
at me, you know; and probably that was Juniper Joe.”

“Then you’ve reached ther conclusion thet he is plum crooked?”

“I have.”

“And his wife, too?”

“Doesn’t it look it?”

“Waugh! Et does.”

“We’ll pick up their trail over there, and see if we can’t crowd ’em.
Did it seem fresh?”

“Not so very old, anyway,” Nomad told him.

“You didn’t see any indication that buckskin bags had been cached, or
pitched into some hole?”

“No; but they could er been pitched inter some hole easy ’nuff,
without our knowin’ it. Thar’s a lot o’ crevices along the trail;
an’ without leavin’ his tracks a feller could easy ernough heave
buckskin bags inter any of ’em.”

“We haven’t time to look that up, now. Show me the trail, and we’ll
see what we can do.”

When the trail was regained, the scout took the lead, and pushed the
work hard.

Though the country was rocky and covered with much scrub, they went
along rapidly. There were few trailers who could equal Buffalo Bill.
It was hard work, so that often he preferred to let his Indians do
it; but he was always equal to the task, as in this instance.

There were tracks of two people--one the track of a man surely; the
other smaller, which might have been made by a woman; though, if so,
she had worn a coarse and heavy shoe, just fitted for that kind of
work.

At length the trails split; the larger tracks going off to the right,
the others to the left.

“I’ll follow the man,” said the scout; “you take the other. I fancy
the man is Juniper Joe; the other may be his wife.”

It had become evident that the couple were getting tired; they had
traveled rapidly, as if at first frightened, and so had begun to use
up their strength. It was perhaps for that reason they separated; as
they might have thought the pursuers, if they knew of them, would
follow the larger tracks.

By this time Buffalo Bill and his pards were a good five miles north
of the mining town of Blossom Range, and in the vicinity of a village
of the Ute tribe of Indians.

The Utes were supposed to be peaceably inclined. At any rate, they
had shown no hostile intentions since Iron Bow had led them on the
warpath, five years before, and had been badly worsted. But they were
still blanket Indians, much given to powwowing and strange dances, to
feathered headdresses and variegated paints.

For some time Buffalo Bill had been half convinced that the tracks he
and his pards had followed would lead, by and by, to this Ute village.

Yet, when the tracks separated, this did not seem so likely.

Buffalo Bill, pressing ahead on the trail he had chosen, soon lost
sight of Nomad and the baron.

He had gone nearly a mile, through a very rough country, when he
became aware of the fact that the Indians were near him; he saw a
few, and heard others. They had apparently been deer hunting. Their
tracks, here and there, covered over those he was pursuing; so that
twice he had to stop and spend valuable time in puzzling out the
trail.

“If this fellow is a friend of the Utes, it’s likely he will join the
deer hunters,” thought the scout.

A little later a shot rang out.

Thereupon, a man sprang out of bushes a hundred yards away, leaping
up as if he thought the bullet had been sent at him, and ran with big
jumps across the rocks, through the rough ground.

At a glance, Buffalo Bill saw that the man was Juniper Joe.

“Our guess is right, so far,” he muttered.

The man disappeared quickly; but Buffalo Bill was in hot chase,
determined not to lose sight of him.

He was wondering, at the same time, if the Indians had shot at this
man. Apparently, the fellow had thought so; for it seemed that he had
leaped up and ran from the Indians, rather than from the scout, whom,
apparently, he had not yet seen.

Off at one side Indian yells broke out; but they were not war-trail
yells; they were hunting yells, announcing victory.

“The Utes fired at game, and brought it down,” was the scout’s
conclusion. “I am sure now they did not shoot at Juniper Joe.”

Then he came again in sight of the man, who had gained a slippery
slope, which he was trying to climb, though, at some points, to do it
he would have needed the ability of a fly.

Buffalo Bill could see that Juniper Joe was a badly frightened
individual. It seemed to the scout he was frightened by the Indian
yelling, following the shot; that, in short, Juniper Joe was sure the
Indians had fired at him and were now pursuing him.

Climbing over slippery rocks, Juniper Joe gained the treacherous edge
of a cañon, along which he ran at reckless speed.

The scout called to him.

The effect was bad. Juniper Joe tried to stop and look about; as he
did so, stumbling, so that he was thrown heavily. The next instant he
was bounding off the edge of the precipice, and went shooting down.

The scout stopped with a gasp of surprise.

He saw Juniper Joe crash into the top of a pine, out of which he
tumbled, to land in a cleft of rock in the face of the cañon.

Apparently, in his wild haste and fright, Juniper Joe had been
seriously, perhaps fatally, wounded; he lay prostrate where he had
fallen, without motion at first. But a moment later Buffalo Bill saw
him put up his hand.

“Not dead yet, at any rate!” said the scout, looking about, with the
desire of hurrying to the man’s assistance.

Fortunately, in leaving Blossom Range the scout had not only fully
armed himself, but had brought along his lariat, which he had often
found more useful than any weapon.

Juniper Joe’s red shirt showed plainly in the niche, looking like a
gout of blood, thus making it very suggestive. Buffalo Bill had been
somewhat surprised to see Juniper Joe in full miner’s outfit, very
different from the clothing he usually wore in the town.

For some time nothing had been heard from the Indians; but now the
scout saw some of them on the top of the cañon wall, looking down at
the injured man. Others appeared in sight at various points.

Buffalo Bill paid no attention to the Utes, though they did not seem
friendly. They showed no disposition to help the injured man. In
truth, even to consider such a thing seriously was an evidence of
much courage; for Juniper Joe lay in a spot not to be approached at
all without much danger.

The scout was not thinking of the possible danger, as he hastened
along, looking for a point at which he could launch his lariat; his
intention being, if he could find such a place, to hurl the rope at
it, then swing out and over the cañon.

The cañon was of such depth that even to look down into it made one’s
head swim.

In spite of this, when he had found a favorable finger of rock
outthrust the scout swung the noose of his rope, and with a wonderful
cast fastened it round the tip of the rocky projection on the other
side.

“Here goes!” he said.

Clutching the rope, he ran forward, then flung himself boldly out
over the black gulf. The momentum carried him across, so that his
feet struck the opposite wall. As soon as he could steady the
oscillation of the rope, he began to climb it, hand over hand.

Though they had shown some evidences of an unfriendly attitude,
Buffalo Bill’s daring in going to the aid of Juniper Joe stilled the
Indians into peace.

Slowly the scout climbed up the rope, over the dizzy chasm, mounting
steadily until he gained the spot where Juniper Joe lay.

Then he saw that Juniper Joe was not only not dead, but treacherously
inclined; the fellow’s eyes were blazing, and as Buffalo Bill swung
into the notch at his side, Juniper Joe lifted himself and drove at
the scout with a knife.

Though the surprise was stupendous, the scout was equal to the
occasion; he dropped down on the treacherous scoundrel, and gripped
him.

A struggle followed; but Juniper Joe had not recovered from the
jarring effects of his fall, and the scout was quickly the victor.

Juniper Joe dropped back, panting and glaring.

“Curse you!” he fumed.

The scout had caught the fellow’s knife away, and now snatched away
his revolvers.

“A pretty greeting for a man who risked his life to come up here!” he
said bitterly.

“That’s all right!” growled Juniper Joe. “But what did ye come up
for? Me, I reckon! You didn’t come jest to help me, I know.”

Then he realized that he had said too much.

“I’m kind o’ flighty,” he apologized; “so don’t think o’ what I’ve
done. I didn’t really know it was you, Cody; ’pon honor, I didn’t.
That jolt I got sort o’ put me out o’ my head. Hope you’ll overlook
it.”

He rolled his eyes round, as if looking for the Indians.

“Those Utes won’t trouble you!”

“Mebby they won’t,” Juniper Joe grumbled; “but I ain’t wantin’ to
chance it. Ye see, I onct had trouble with old Iron Bow.”

“You thought they shot at you and chased you?”

“I did.”

“Rest easy, then. They shot at a deer, or some game animal.”

“How do you know it?”

“I could tell by the way they yelled.”

“You’re thunderin’ smart, you think!”

Unnoting this insult, the scout tried to make an examination, to
discover if Juniper Joe was much hurt.

“It’s jest my leg and right hip,” said the rascal; “feels like my leg
is broke.”

“You couldn’t move it, if that was so.”

The fellow had been bruised by his heavy fall, and the breath had
been jarred out of him, yet he was not hurt, otherwise.

“Oh, I think you’re all right!” the scout told him.

“What you goin’ to do?”

“Try to get you down from here.”

“I’m surprised to see you hyar,” said Juniper Joe, more mildly. “I
don’t reckon you come out to see if Iron Bow is thinkin’ of war
trailin’?”

“We’ll talk about that when we get you down from here,” the scout
evaded.

Just then a whoop sounded; and, looking up, Buffalo Bill saw that the
baron and Nomad had come in sight.

He stood up and waved his hand to them, that they might locate him;
but at the same time he was careful not to give Juniper Joe a chance
to push him out of the notch into the cañon. He was convinced that
Juniper Joe might want to do that very thing.

“Who’s them?” asked Juniper Joe.

“My friends--the baron and old Nomad.”

Juniper Joe growled something in his throat.

“What was that?” the scout asked.

“Oh, nothin’! Lower me down, if you kin.”

“It’s going to be a hard job; you’re a heavy man.”

“Waal, then let me stay hyar!” the fellow growled.

The scout put the noose of the rope round Juniper Joe’s body, under
the arms.

“I’ll try it,” he said, “if you’ve got the grit!”

Juniper Joe looked over the edge, and shivered.

“If anything should happen, I reckon I’d fetch up dead on them rocks
down there.”

“I can get a pretty good grip, by locking a leg round this point of
rock, and I think I can hold you; but the rope is strong enough to
hold you, even if I should slip.”

“It’d cut me in two, if you should let go.”

“I suppose you’re willing for me to try it?”

The fellow looked over again.

“Go ahead!” he said, setting his jaws together. “I’ve got to git down
out of this in some way.”

Helping himself, Juniper Joe slid over the edge of the notch, aided
by the scout, the latter supporting him as he released his grip on
the rock and dangled in midair.

It was a fine exhibition of muscular strength, when Buffalo Bill
lowered the heavy body of Juniper Joe slowly down from the notch,
letting it slide against the cañon wall.

There was a shelf below; and when Juniper Joe had gained that the
scout directed him to cast off the noose.

“I’m coming down,” he announced. “But,” he warned, “no tricks! My
pards are over there, you see; and they wouldn’t stand for treachery
on your part.”

“Oh, I ain’t intendin’ any,” Juniper Joe growled back.

The scout swung out and lowered himself to the shelf.

The rope was left hanging, of course, with the noose hooked over
the finger of rock. But the scout was a rope wizard. By some clever
jerks, which made wavy ripples run up the rope, he flipped it off the
rocky point, and it dropped down.

He found another projection, to which he fastened the noose; and the
performance was gone through again, this time bringing the scout and
his prisoner to the bottom of the cañon.

When they got down there they found the baron and Nomad.

CHAPTER X.

STARTLING REVELATIONS.

If the Utes remained in the vicinity, they kept out of sight and were
not seen again.

Old Nomad and the baron had heard the shot of the Indians; but,
thinking it had come from the rifle of Buffalo Bill, they had
abandoned the trail they were following, and came over to see if the
scout was in trouble.

“We allowed you was,” explained old Nomad, “er you wouldn’t opened up
in thet way. Glad ter know it was a false alarm.”

Juniper Joe, standing up, with the noose of the lariat removed, was
walking about, apparently testing his strength; suddenly he started
off at a clipping gait, showing how little he had been hurt by his
fall.

The baron and Nomad yelled when they saw him start.

Buffalo Bill, instead of yelling, plucked out a revolver, swung it
round his head, and hurled it at the fleeing man.

It struck him in the back of the neck and knocked him sprawling.

Though he fell heavily, and was somewhat stunned, Juniper Joe still
had full use of his tongue, as his raving showed when they ran up to
him. He demanded the reason for such treatment.

“Well, we’re going to hold you, you know!” Buffalo Bill told him.

Juniper Joe tried to pretend surprise.

“What fer?” he howled.

“For the murder of Jackson Dane--if that was his name.”

Juniper Joe declared that he did not know what they were talking
about.

“You tried to kill him once, at the time of your wedding, when you
claimed he was Tim Benson, the road agent.”

“Waal, that feller was Tim Benson; but I ain’t seen him since.”

“As we think you know all about it, and for other reasons, we’re now
going to take you back to Blossom Range,” Buffalo Bill told him.

Juniper Joe protested against this loudly.

“Perhaps you will tell us who, then, was with you?”

Juniper Joe denied that any one had been with him.

“Waugh! We won’t fool wi’ no sech liar,” Nomad whooped. “You’ve
showed thet ye kin walk--you done some runnin’ a while ago; so we’re
goin’ to tie ye and march ye ahead of us, wi’ the understandin’ ef
yer don’t go peaceable you’ll go some other way.”

When he saw that neither lying nor anything else would do him any
good, Juniper Joe submitted, but with bad grace; after which he
became sullen, refusing to answer questions.

On the return to the town, as they were able to pick an easier
trail than they had followed in getting there, the scout’s party
made better progress. They did not stop to follow the trail of the
supposed woman; but Nomad was detached to see what he could do with
it, under instructions not to waste too much time, but to report in
the town by nightfall. The baron’s head still troubling him, he went
along with Buffalo Bill.

When Buffalo Bill entered Blossom Range with his prisoner, the
afternoon stage was coming in from Calumet Springs. So he took
his prisoner right down to the stage stables, though Juniper Joe
protested against this outrage.

One of the passengers by the stage was the marshal of Calumet
Springs, who had with him a woman, Miss Vera Bright, whom he had
brought back to Blossom Range.

She stared at Buffalo Bill’s prisoner.

“I think it will be well if we take them into a room here together,
and see if they won’t do some talking,” was the scout’s statement to
the Calumet Springs marshal.

“If you can get anything out of her, you’re ahead of me,” the marshal
admitted; “she fit like a wildcat, when I told her she would have
to come back here, and only stopped it when I threatened I’d put
irons on her. She weakened at that, and come along; but she’s a plum
furious beauty, I tell you, git her started.”

The blonde woman and Juniper Joe were taken into a back room of the
stage office, where they were brought face to face. In the room at
the time was the marshal of Calumet Springs, with Nomad and the
baron, and, of course, the scout, together with the local manager of
the stage line.

Buffalo Bill, a shrewd reader of human nature, opened the ball by
telling the woman that Juniper Joe was under arrest for the murder of
the man called Jackson Dane, but whom Joe had said was Tim Benson.

Her face paled at that, and her eyes flashed, and she turned on the
prisoner like a tigress.

“Is that so?” she cried.

“It’s a lie!” Juniper Joe declared to her.

She turned to Buffalo Bill.

“Is it true,” she said, “that he has killed him?”

“Dane has been killed, and we believe this man did it; we have
evidence which it seems to us proves it.”

“I’m sure he did--if he is dead.”

She bent her burning eyes on Juniper Joe; and he seemed to wither
under them.

“Where is Tim?” she demanded.

“I--I don’t know what you’re sayin’!” he said.

“Oh, yes, you do!” she flashed at him. “Where is the man who was
pretending to be your wife--the man you made everybody believe was a
woman, when you had that fake wedding at your cabin? That was a fine
game; and I nearly died laughing when I knew about it. What’s become
of him?”

It was an astonishing revelation; and Buffalo Bill questioned her
about it.

“Well, that’s the straight truth I’m giving you,” she said defiantly;
“I don’t care anything about this scoundrel here; you can hang him,
if you want to, and I think he needs it; but I do want to know what
has become of the man who played that game with him. I want to know
if he is dead, too, or what has become of him.”

“He isn’t dead!” the scout told her.

“No! Then, if you know where he is, you had better arrest him at
once; for that man is Tim Benson, the road agent.”

“You’re sure of that?” the scout demanded.

“Well, I reckon I am. Didn’t he come down to the Casino to see me
yesterday, and just because he was jealous of Dane?”

“Is Dane the name of the man who was killed by Juniper Joe?”

A dash of tears came into her eyes.

“Well, no, it isn’t, if I have to tell; and as he is dead, it doesn’t
matter now. His name was Ward--John Ward.”

It was another surprise; for John Ward was almost as notorious an
outlaw as Tim Benson.

“It was a case of jealousy between Ward and Benson,” she explained.
“Benson came down to the Casino, and threatened to kill me there,
because Ward had been to see me. Then Ward got mad, when I told him
about it, and swore he would kill Benson, or tell the authorities who
Benson really was. He didn’t like Benson, and he didn’t like Juniper
Joe; and he thought Juniper was the biggest scoundrel of the two.
There had been bad blood between them a long time.”

“Aw! Go ahead with yer lies!” Juniper Joe snarled at her, giving her
baleful glances. “Make up some good ones while you’re at it.”

“I’m going to tell the truth,” she said; “they can’t do anything with
me, for I’m not mixed up in the thing, except that Ward came to see
me, and he and Benson quarreled about it. I’ll tell the whole thing,
you murderer; you killed Ward, and I’ll get even with you by blabbing
everything!”

She “blabbed.”

According to her statement, Tim Benson had discovered that Buffalo
Bill was hot on his trail, and was coming to Blossom Range, where
Benson had been doing a lot of hold-up work recently. To throw him
off the track, he and Juniper Joe, who was secretly his partner in
crime, concocted the dazzling scheme of the “jubilee” wedding, when
Juniper Joe pretended to marry Tim Benson, who was posing as Mrs.
Rafferty, the widow from the East. No one could deny that the thing
had been cleverly carried out; the whole of Blossom Range had been
neatly hoodwinked.

It was Juniper Joe’s plan, after that, to have the gold shipments
sent out by the way of Eagle Gap, in charge of the prospectors. He
and Benson held them up there, killing one and wounding the other.
They got safely back to the cabin with the plunder, after bringing
the burros near to the town, and then turning them loose in the hills.

Ward had knowledge of all this, and had told the woman about it when
he called on her. He had said that he meant to kill Benson; and there
could not be any doubt, from evidence gathered later, that in the
night, or just before morning, he had gone to the cabin, where he
had attacked Juniper Joe and Benson. Probably, as he had left Benson
unconscious, he believed he had killed him.

Benson had already been wounded in the head by a bullet from the
baron’s revolver. In the fight with Ward, the latter had rapped
Benson on the head, opening the unhealed wound made by the baron’s
bullet; thus producing a condition which had puzzled Buffalo Bill;
who, it will be recalled, had found Juniper Joe and his “wife” in
the cabin that morning; Juniper Joe tied and gagged, and his “wife”
unconscious on the floor.

Ward had got out with some of the nuggets in buckskin bags, a part of
the loot from the burro shipments; and had tried to cache them at
the time he was followed and seen by the baron.

Juniper Joe and his “wife” had also followed Ward; and they had
killed him. After that, becoming frightened, they had tried to hide
the body in a cañon, had thrown away the bags of nuggets, and had
shaped their course to get out of the country, sure that at last
Buffalo Bill had discovered the truth and was after them hotfooted.

Juniper Joe bitterly denied the statements of Vera Bright, raving
thunderously in making his denials; he was a much-abused and
injured man, he declared, of good intentions and wholly innocent of
wrongdoing.

Some proof against him was found when the mine was again gone over
by Buffalo Bill and the local officers, and a thorough search
brought out of various hiding places the whole of the gold shipments
which the Wells Fargo had tried to send across the hills by the
prospectors. This was good evidence that Juniper Joe had been
concerned in that hold-up, and that when John Ward attacked the
occupants of the cabin he found but a small part of the treasure.

As for Juniper Joe’s mine, it was a “fake.” The indications showed
that no rich pockets had ever been struck in it; so that it was
apparent that the nuggets which Juniper Joe pretended he had dug out
had been obtained in hold-ups.

CHAPTER XI.

THE FOOL OF FOLLY MOUNTAIN.

Finding the trailing difficult, old Nomad returned to Blossom Range
that evening, having accomplished nothing.

He was tremendously excited, when he learned the story told by Vera
Bright.

“Waugh! Thet was a ringer!” he cried, commenting on the clever manner
in which Tim Benson and Juniper Joe had deceived everybody with their
“jubilee.”

Buffalo Bill got out and reread Juniper Joe’s unique invitation to
attend the “wedding.”

“I vonder vot Vhite-eyed Moses iss t’inking now?” said the baron.

“Oh, waal, he got paid fer his fiddlin’,” said Nomad; “so what does
he keer? I should say thet Jedge Abercrombie Morris, who performed
the weddin’ ceremony, was about the wu’st fooled man in town.”

Buffalo Bill laughed.

“Do you think he was fooled any worse,” he said, “than Buffalo Bill,
Nick Nomad, and Baron von Schnitzenhauser? It seems to me not.”

“Say, thet was shore the plum limit, wan’t it?” the trapper whooped.

“I t’ink dhose two men shouldt be called Vera Bright, insteadt uff
dot voman,” the baron punned. “I am admitting dot idt vos too mooch
vor Schnitzenhauser.”

“Waugh! Ther same hyar. We was all fooled complete.”

It was likely that the town would have “the laugh on itself” for a
long time, whenever Juniper Joe’s jubilee was mentioned.

The next day, Buffalo Bill and his pards tried to pick up the trail
of Tim Benson. But the clever little rascal had a good start; and in
the hills north of the town he had so blinded his trail that they
could do nothing with it.

Once Buffalo Bill believed he had trailed the fellow right to the
edge of Iron Bow’s Ute village, and entered the village to make
inquiries. But if Benson had sought concealment there, the Utes would
not give up the secret.

At last the chase was given over, and the scout and his party
returned to camp.

“Waal, we’ve bagged one o’ the scoundrels, anyhow,” Nomad comforted
himself by saying.

It was true enough--Juniper Joe was in jail in Blossom Range.

The woman was being held, too, for she would be needed as a witness
against him.

They called on Juniper Joe on their return to the town; but he was in
a sullen mood, and would not talk.

“If I’ve done all the things you say I have, I must be mighty
clever,” he said to them; then a twinkle came into the corners of his
eyes.

It made Nomad laugh.

He laughed again, when they came out of the jail.

“Waugh!” he gurgled. “Whenever I want ter tickle myself half ter
death, I’m jest goin’ ter whisper, ‘Juniper Joe’s jubilee.’ But what
yer goin’ ter do, Buffler? Let Benson go by the board?”

“No,” replied the scout with determination. “I am going to get
Benson, and make a clean round up.”

That night a tall man with a blonde mustache and long hair was
closeted for a long time with Buffalo Bill in the latter’s room at
the Eagle House.

He came to the Eagle House late at night, and he went away before
morning. With the exception of the scout himself, no one saw him come
and no one saw him go. Not a servant, not even the night clerk, knew
that he had been there.

Sunrise saw him occupying the cabin on top of a hill called Folly
Mountain, just north of the town. A tenderfoot had built the cabin,
worked furiously for a month in the prospect hole behind it, without
taking out enough gold to pay even the blacksmith for sharpening his
picks, and was ready to sell out. The tall man made him an offer for
the cabin and the mine; then the tenderfoot moved out, and the man
with the blond hair took possession.

The first thing apprising Blossom Range of this change of ownership
was the small United States flag flying from the pole in front of the
house. The stranger had changed the slender aspen growing there from
a tree into a flagstaff, and hoisted Old Glory.

Blossom Range knew then that the tenderfoot had either moved out
or gone crazy. His habits had been too penurious to admit of the
suggestion that he could have bought the flag, and it was not in
keeping with his character that he would have flung it to the breeze
if he had owned one.

The smoke floating from the rusted stovepipe in the lean-to which,
backed against the hill, served as kitchen, suggested that whoever
had hoisted the flag was now getting breakfast.

The hour was early, yet curiosity was sufficient warrant for sending
a number of men to the cabin to investigate.

When they gained it and looked through the open door, they saw the
tall, blond-haired man. He was dressed in miner’s clothing, even to
the flaming red shirt, while round his neck was knotted a blue tie
with broad white stripes in it. It was not, however, until attention
was called to it that any one was likely to see that this blue and
white, with the red of the shirt, formed the same colors as those in
the flag.

When the stranger turned to the visitors he gave them a broad,
pleasant smile, and they saw that he was a handsome, well-set-up
fellow, with an attractive face, lighted by dark eyes.

“Howdy!” he cried, seeing them.

They clustered round the door.

“Just bought this shack and moved in, and now I’m getting me
something to eat,” he explained. “Step in, if you can find room in
here.”

Some of them came in, seating themselves on boxes he pushed out for
them. He continued the work of getting his breakfast.

“The tenderfoot I bought this of was kind enough to tell me, after he
had my cash, that the mine wouldn’t yield anything; said he’d worked
at it until he was tired out, and didn’t get enough out of it to buy
his smoking tobacco.”

“I allow he was slingin’ ye the straight truth,” avowed Persimmon
Pete, who rested his claim to fame on the fact that he hadn’t shaved
since he came into the camp, a year before.

“I reckon you know what this hill is called?” he added, after he had
studied the face and figure of his host a minute.

“Well, no; I hadn’t even heard that it had a name.”

“Folly Mountain,” said Persimmon Pete.

The blond-headed stranger turned round, the frying pan in his hand.

“Wherefore and why?” he asked.

“Because every man that’s ever tried to git gold out of it has been
compelled to admit, in the end, that he was a fool.”

The stranger laughed lightly, and put the frying pan back on the
stove. It was sending up a cheerful odor of bacon fat.

“That sets out a pleasant prospect for me,” he said, smiling.

“So I reckon you’re in to spend yer good money and hard work fer
nothin’.”

The stranger stabbed at a slice of the bacon with his fork, turned it
over neatly, then looked at Persimmon Pete and the men with him.

“But there’s more ways of killin’ a dog,” he said, “than by chokin’
him to death on bones.”

“Which is what?”

“I’m satisfied that _I_ can get gold where others have failed.”

“Ye can’t git blood out of a turnip,” declared Persimmon Pete.

The man laughed again; he had an easy, gurgling laugh, and his manner
was calculated to make him friends.

“Which is saying that there ain’t any blood in this turnip. Mebby so.
Time will tell the tale. But I’ll say to ye now that I’ve got a new
process which will git all the gold there is, anyway; by that I mean
_all_ the gold.”

He leaned back against the wall, with a glance now and then at his
frying pan.

“I’ve been lookin’ at that hole in the ground back there since I
bought it, and with my new processes I can skin gold out of it in a
way to make your eyes bulge out. You’ll see.”

He sat down to his breakfast at last. It was a simple meal,
suggesting that the stranger did not expect to live in luxury; but he
invited them to share it with him.

“No, we’ll be goin’,” they told him.

“Come up and see me often,” he said to them, and smiled at their
backs as he watched them walk away.

Not until they were halfway to the foot of the hill did any of them
remember that they had not learned the stranger’s name.

Persimmon Pete came back for this desired information, poking his
bushy beard again through the narrow door.

“Beggin’ yer pardin!” he said. “But the boys has delegated me to
inquire how you spell it.”

The stranger’s gurgling laugh rang out again.

“Spell what?”

“Why, your name, o’ course.”

The stranger came to the door of the cabin, and swung his sinewy
hand up at the flag floating from the top of the trimmed aspen.

“See that?” he said.

“I see the flag, if that’s what you mean.”

“There are a number of things that I’m short on, but I’m long on two
things--patriotism and pluck. Ever hear of a hiatus?”

Persimmon Pete shook his puzzled head.

“Never did,” he declared.

“Well, a hiatus is a sort of vacancy between one something and
another something. Do you get that? There came a hiatus in my
memory--a sort of chink--and my name dropped out through that chink.
Find it for me, and I’ll give you good money. So long as I couldn’t
remember my own, I’ve taken one that everybody knows and everybody
can remember. Call me Uncle Samuel.”

He looked at the flag again.

“N-n-not Uncle Sus-Sam?”

“The same. I see that you recognize the name; so, of course, you
can’t forget it. I’m Uncle Sam, and the flag up there is my emblem.
What can’t be done under the folds of that flag there ain’t no use
trying to do. For which reason I know that I’ll get blood out of this
turnip.”

Persimmon Pete turned away.

“Crazy as a bedbug,” he reported to the men who were awaiting him.
“He calls himself Uncle Sam, and says that the flag is his emblem.”

Before the day ended the stranger in the tenderfoot’s cabin had been
given another name by the amused people of Blossom Range; they called
him the Fool of Folly Mountain.

As a usual thing, little attention was paid to the men who delved
here and there about the town in search of the elusive metal on which
the town based its prosperity. Miners and prospectors came and they
went, and no one noted either their coming or going, save the men who
sold them grub and outfits.

But it was different with Uncle Sam; because he had given a queer
name and achieved another, and because he professed to be able to get
gold where none was believed to exist.

He put up a little furnace in the back room, where he heated ores,
“roasting” them, to test their value. He brought in a small assayer’s
outfit and a blowpipe. Often he was seen toiling far into the night,
the light of his window looking like a red eye or a blazing star,
shining on the top of Folly Mountain.

The curiosity concerning him was increased by this. If he had sought
deliberately to excite the citizens of Blossom Range, the stranger
could not have taken means more effective.

The hope that some method might be found to render low-grade ores
worth working was in the heart of every man; and the stranger’s
oft-repeated assertions that he had such a process, and was
perfecting it more and more every day, stirred their imaginations.

Sometimes men crept up in the night to the cabin, and lay close
against the walls, watching and listening, hoping, to surprise his
secret, if he had one.

But the stranger seemed to possess marvelous intuition. As often as
this happened he either ceased his work and remained silent within or
came out casually and greeted them. He did not seem surprised when
he found them, nor put out; but always spoke to them cheerfully and
sometimes invited them in.

Twice he was known to show men of that kind what he was doing, so
far as they could understand it; which was just far enough to befog
them completely. He talked in learned words which none of them could
comprehend; and his explanations, though at the moment seeming
marvelously clear, were seen afterward not to explain anything.

When he had been there a week he lugged down to the Wells Fargo
Express office a gunny bag that seemed heavily laden.

Some of the loafers before the office doors followed him inside, and
saw him plump the heavy bag down before the Wells Fargo agent.

When the stranger opened it, they saw that it held gold; not in
nuggets or gold dust, but in solid pieces, which apparently he had
fused with his blowpipe.

“Test it and weigh it,” he said; “and then ship it for me.”

“Who’ll I ship it to?” the agent asked, staring at the yellow lumps.

“Ship it to Uncle Sam’s Sister, ’Frisco,” was the answer.

The agent tested and weighed the “stuff,” and found there was five
hundred dollars’ worth; it was genuine gold.

“Got it out of that hole up there that I bought of the tenderfoot,”
beamed the stranger. “Everybody said there wasn’t anything in it; but
they hadn’t seen me work my new and secret process. By and by they
will begin to believe.”

“I suppose your sister will get this without any other name than
that?”

The stranger had given a street and a number, but no other name for
the consignee.

“Just that--Uncle Sam’s Sister. She’ll git it. If not, the company
can ship it back to me at my expense.”

Some of the loafers, when outside, expressed their amazement; and if
Uncle Sam had been selling stock in his new process the stock would
have taken a boom.

Yet as the news spread there were comments of another kind.

“Yes, that’s all right, for him!” remarked a certain Wise One of the
camp. “But I don’t go no yarn of that kind. Why, see here, how long’s
it been sence Juniper Joe was digging in that hole back of _his_
cabin, and shipping stuff he claimed he got there? Not ten days, has
it? Then it was found out that Juniper Joe was doin’ the road-agent
act big, and the stuff he shipped he had stole. He’s in the jail
right here in this camp now, for that, ain’t he?”

“Then you think this new feller is playin’ the same game?” was asked.

“I’m not saying,” said the Wise One. “But see here: night before last
a bullion stage was held up and the cash box emptied by agents. The
Wells Fargo wouldn’t take the risk of that shipment, but it was sent
by other parties, and the road agents got it. Does any one know who
them road agents are?”

No one knew; or, at least, no one was willing to admit that he knew.

“Put two and two together and they make four, don’t they--or do
they make five?” said the Wise One. “But remember, I ain’t making no
charges against anybody.”

“So you think----”

“No, I don’t think anything; I’m jest trying to make you think.”

The words of the Wise One went flying round town. So that more people
visited the tenderfoot’s cabin, to take a look at the tall man
with the blond mustache and the long hair; all of whom he greeted
genially, and some of whom he showed his “process,” so much, at
least, as he wished to show; and he told them about it in words that
were more wonderful than any they had ever seen in print.

But the universal judgment was that this party could not be Tim
Benson, who was a small man--so small that he had successfully played
the rôle of a woman. Neither could he be Juniper Joe, as Juniper Joe
was at that blessed moment immured tightly within the walls of the
jail at Blossom Range.

Who was the stranger?

“Uncle Sam,” _he_ said, smiling, if any one ventured to ask him.

So the fame of the Fool of Folly Mountain went broadcast throughout
the land surrounding the stirring mining camp.

CHAPTER XII.

THE MISSION OF WHITE-EYED MOSES.

Uncle Sam’s flag had been flying and his blowpipe going for a week
or more, when one day White-eyed Moses came out of Gopher Gabe’s,
his fiddle in a green bag under his arm, and a bundle of clothing in
another bag he hoisted over his shoulder on a stick.

Apparently, White-eyed Moses was about to depart from Blossom Range.

But when some one asked him about it, he set his pack on the ground,
and explained:

“You see, it is this way: The Utes are going to haf a dance, and
they want some music which is not all tom-tom. So I am going out to
aggommodate the Utes.”

“Taking your clothing?” was the smiling question.

“Ah, yes! I ditn’t mention that. I am gommissioned to bring them some
clodings and blankets. I sell them to them and git a gommission. That
is why I say I am gommissioned.”

He waved his hands and smirked, then hoisted his bundle to his
shoulder and went on.

At least ten times in getting out of Blossom Range White-eyed Moses
was asked those questions and made those answers.

“It is foony,” he said to himself, when he hit the trail north of the
town and plodded on toward the distant Ute village. “It is nopody’s
pusiness vere I am going, yet eferpody makes it his pusiness.”

It took him three hours to reach the Ute village.

Just before coming to it he mounted to the top of a hill which gave
him a good view of the backward way; there he remained for nearly an
hour, watching, to make sure that he had not been followed.

Satisfied at last, White-eyed Moses took his way into the village,
apparently without fear, though lately the Utes had been in no good
temper toward the white men, chiefly because of the encroachments of
miners and prospectors.

As the Utes gathered round him, the fiddler stood looking about.

He did not understand their language, so it was of no use to try to
speak with them; but he had a universal language in his fiddle.

He took it out of the green bag, twanged the strings with his
fingers, tuned it, and began to play.

No sooner had the strains of “Money Musk” floated among the tepees
than a man appeared, jumping hurriedly out of one. He was a white
man, small of frame. A blanket was round him, covering his ordinary
clothing, and his face had been smeared with grease and dirt. As he
was clean shaven, with that blanket on him he looked, at a little
distance, like one of the Utes.

“I t’ought it would fetch him!” muttered the fiddler, with a smile.
“He was hiding.”

The blanketed white man was quickly at the fiddler’s side.

“How did you get here?” he demanded.

White-eyed Moses stopped fiddling, extended his hand, and smiled.

“My feet brought me. How you are?”

“Good. What’s the news downtown?”

“Juniper Joe is still in chail.”

“So I supposed.”

“And he aind’t going to git oudt easy.”

“I s’pose not.”

The Indians standing round were staring; others were hurrying up, and
the lodges continued to yield still more.

“Vere can we go for a little talk?” asked White-eyed Moses.

“In that lodge I come out of. Of course you’re here to see me?”

“Of gourse. But before I go avay dere must be some dancing and
chumping, in Indian fashion; to make me be able to keep my wordt, you
know.”

“There comes Iron Bow now. What shall I say to him?”

“Tell him I heardt that the Utes was going to have a dance, and
wanted some white man’s music. I vill blay for them by and by, afdher
we have hadt that talk. You understand? Gopher Gabe he sendt me.”

“Oh!”

“You have been doing some roadt-achent work ladely?”

“Some has been done, hey?”

The blanketed white man grinned under his grease and dirt.

“Some holdt-ups. Gabe says idt was you done ’em. I told him I ditn’t
think you vouldt be so reckless.”

Iron Bow came up with a number of his warriors. By this time a
considerable crowd of curious redskins surrounded the two white men.
But they showed no hostile feelings. The fiddle had caught their
fancy; they kept telling the fiddler to work it again, though he did
not understand them.

“How?” said Iron Bow gravely.

White-eyed Moses put out his hand.

“I am gladt to see you,” he said. “Afdher a liddle we will have some
music and a dance. My friend here can explain it to you petter than
I. Idt is a peautiful location you have here for a willage; cooler
and higher than in the town. I think myself I should enchoy it.”

He shook hands with some of the warriors.

None of them had said a word except the chief, but they shook his
hand limply when he held it out. Now and then they looked at the
blanketed white man, as if for an explanation.

He gave it to Iron Bow in Ute, telling the chief that the man with
the music-maker had come out to amuse them, so that they could have a
dance if they wished; but that first he wanted to talk.

Iron Bow grunted what seemed an assent, and the white men went into
the lodge.

“Iron Bow knows me,” explained the blanketed figure, who was none
other than the road agent, Tim Benson. “So I hit this place when Cody
and his gang crowded me too hard; and I’ve been here ever since.”

“Excebt when you was road achenting!”

Benson nodded.

“I’ve been out just twice.”

“Dare have been more holdt-ups than shust two.”

“Others are jumpin’ in, eh?”

“It is hinted that this Fool of Folly Mountain is in it.”

“Likely he is. What I got I cached, and it’s where I can lay my
hands on it when I need it. How is Juniper Joe?”

“He couldn’t pe worse.”

“It’s rough to be in a hole like that.”

“Wery rough. Gopher Gabe triedt to get him out on bail, and couldn’t.
He is held for murder, you understandt--for shooting that man, John
Ward.”

“Well, he could expect that. It’d be the same for me if they could
lay hands on me. Cody there yet?”

“Righdt there.”

The outlaw ground out some ugly words between his teeth.

“As we couldn’t git Juniper Joe out in no way, Gopher Gabe has sent
me to see you,” explained the fiddler.

“That so? Does he think I can do anything?”

“He knows idt. I have here clodings and everything, so that you can
make shanges in your looks. I can cut your hairs while I am here,
too, and give you another shave.”

Benson stared.

“I was wondering what you had in that bag,” he said.

“The oudtfit--everything you will needt. It is a desperate
situvation. Gopher Gabe says that you are the only man what can work
it, so as to get Juniper Joe out of the chail. And so I am here.”

They talked for half an hour, then were forced to stop, because the
curious Indians, peering in on them, gave them no peace.

“You’ll have to give that dance, now that you’ve promised it,” said
Benson.

“It is vhat I wandt; so that I can surely say, vhen I go back, that
I have been blaying the fiddle for an Indian dance.”

“It’s known that you came?”

“Oh, yes! Vhat was the use to try to hide idt? It couldn’t been didt.”

“You could have made a sneak in the night.”

“Idt was only this morning that Gopher Gabe came to the notion he
wouldt sendt me; and he insisted I shall gome at once.”

“How in thunder did you fellers know that I was here?”

“Vell, _he_ guessed it; that last holdt-up was like your work, he
said; and he felt sure if you was round here you must be hiding with
the Utes.”

“Yes; he knew I was friendly with them and old Iron Bow.”

“So it was, and he sent me.”

He took his fiddle and went outside.

Tim Benson came out, also; and, standing by him, announced to the
Indians that the white man would furnish music if they desired to
dance.

The Indians were willing enough, yet the thing was a failure; the
Utes had no knowledge of any dancing steps suited to the music
of White-eyed Moses, nor could the latter adapt his fiddling to
the jerky hops of the Utes. Aside from this, dancing is not, with
Indians, the light-hearted and light-heeled affair it is with white
men, but something solemn, or fierce, or fanatical.

The Utes gave it up after a while. Yet White-eyed Moses continued
to please them with his music; for they enjoyed the strains of his
fiddle, even though they could not dance to them.

After the fiddling and the dance failure, White-eyed Moses went back
into the tepee which was being used by the road agent, where they
took up the thread of their talk. He also shaved Benson and gave him
a haircut.

“This is going to be a risky thing,” Benson commented. “If I’m
caught, it means the jail, and maybe hangin’, for me; but I’ll tackle
it, anyhow. Juniper would do as much for me, likely.”

“Gopher Gabe says that you are the only one who can vork idt,” urged
the fiddler.

“The thing I don’t like is that Cody and his gang are still in the
town. That’s a feller I’m afraid of.”

“Idt’s a vonder,” said White-eyed Moses, “that he ain’t been oudt
here looking for you.”

“Did you think he hadn’t?”

The fiddler stared.

“Vell, if he has ve ditn’t know idt.”

“He has been here twice, and old Iron Bow tells me that once,
besides, it’s known he was out on the hills, off there, watching the
village.”

“That interesds me. And it will be news to Gopher Gabe.”

“The first time he come,” explained Benson, “was in broad daylight;
right after I’d made my escape. I think it was the second day I was
here. I was expecting it, and stayed close in the tepee; and he
didn’t see me. Iron Bow fed him lies, and he went away. Though that
had seemed to satisfy him, he was back that same night. He sneaked
in that time, thinking he’d catch me if I was hiding here; but he
didn’t. He had an Indian blanket round him, and how long he had
been in the village before the Indians caught on, nobody knows.
He revealed himself accidentally, by catching his blanket against
a snaggy limb and stripping it from his head and shoulders. After
which, when he saw that the jig was up, he laughed and told them some
fishy yarn about trying to fool them.

“When Iron Bow--he wasn’t here at the time--heard about it, the thing
made him mad as fire. He doesn’t particularly like Cody, anyway; so I
took pains to make him madder, showing him that it was an insult. So
if Cody does it again, and is caught, there’s going to be trouble.”

White-eyed Moses listened to this uneasily.

“Maype he is oudt on the hills now?” he suggested.

“I don’t think it. You see, since he was seen here I have had two
Utes hired to stay out on the hills and watch for him.”

“If he saw that fiddling and dancing it will be a gifaway!”

“I don’t see why, since you say you told in the town that you was
coming out here to play for a dance.”

This considerably relieved the apprehension of the fiddler.

“But if he saw me with you?” he questioned.

“He would think I’m an Indian, wouldn’t he? I’m looking out for that.”

White-eyed Moses looked at the road agent with a glance of admiration.

“You are a smardt man,” he said, “and that is why Gopher Gabe haf
picked you oudt for this chob.”

“Jest the same, I’d been glad to have him pick another.”

“What shall I tell him vhen I go back?”

Benson got up and closed the flap of the skin tepee, to keep the Utes
from peering in. But as he came back he laughed; for shadows dropping
down showed that they had sought the ground, and he saw then the
lower edges of the skins lifted and black eyes looking in.

“Yet there are some people who say that an Indian is a stolid thing,
without curiosity!” he commented. “Take a look at that line of eyes,
will ye?”

“I am seeing them,” said White-eyed Moses. “What was you going to do?”

“I was going to look at the clothing and stuff you brought me,
but I won’t do it now. You can tell me about it; not many of them
understand English.”

“There is a suidt of cloding,” said the fiddler. “Also vhiskers and
mustache, and a vig; nothing cheap, you understand, but expensive
goodts, the best that could be had in ’Frisco. He sent Swansea Bill
to ’Frisco to get them for this very occasion. Dhen there are paints
and dyes, and all dhat. You will find idt gomplete.”

“What’s my lay?”

“Gopher Gabe left it to you. But he said if you could appear dare as
some officer with authoridy to act, you could get through the chail
easy enough. Chust what that authoridy would be he dit not know; he
left it to you. But he said, too, that vonce you was in the newspaper
line, and you might use that.”

“Is he prepared to back me?”

White-eyed Moses shrugged his shoulders.

“Vell,” he said, “you know how it is! Gopher Gabe will spendt his
money like vater; but vhen it gomes to daking personal risks, he
ain’t dare. You can’t exbect much from him. But he couldt furnish
fighting men, if it was needet.”

“Nobody is allowed to see Juniper, I reckon?”

“I t’ink not.”

“You haven’t seen him?”

“No.”

“No chance, I suppose, to bribe the jailer?”

“It’s Matt Shepard; you know him.”

“No chance there, and Shepard will be a hard man to fool. He’ll
shoot, too. He wouldn’t like anything better than to turn his gun
loose on me.”

“So you will haf to be careful.”

“Well, I guess. I wish it was any man but Shepard.”

They talked the matter over at length, suggesting and discussing
various plans, with the chances for and against each. The afternoon
was well gone when they were through.

“I’ll try it,” said Benson resolutely; “I’ll make a break to do
something for pore old Joe; I know he would for me. You see, pals in
this line have got to stick together, or make a try to, even at the
risk of going under. If I don’t do something for him, I reckon he
will have to hang. That would be a pity, for the feller he killed had
it in for him, and deserved to be put under the sod.”

“That is righdt, too,” assented White-eyed Moses.

He was ready at last to go.

“I vill tell Gopher Gabe that you vill undertake it.”

“That’s right. Say to Gabe that he’ll hear of me doing something
inside of twenty-four hours.”

CHAPTER XIII.

BENSON ACTS.

The quiet little man who came along the prison wall and turned toward
the high barred gate, peered before him curiously, then stopped
before the gate and looked at it.

He was dressed neatly in a suit of light English tweed, wore
eyeglasses, a tall hat, and had a vacant air. Any one seeing him
would have said he was a high-browed college professor or scientist
who had strayed out of his proper range. All but Gopher Gabe. Having
sighted him from his saloon over the way, Gopher Gabe came to the
door with some of his patrons, and opined wisely that the stranger
scanning the prison gate was “one of these yere newspaper writers,
lookin’ for somethin’ to write up.”

In that, Gopher Gabe was a prophet; though his ability at accurate
forecasting had been gained by a recognition of the clothing as the
same which White-eyed Moses had taken out to the Ute village the day
before, and the fiddler’s statements on his return.

Finding the way open as far as the prison office, the stranger
entered it and fished out his card, which he threw on the desk of
Matt Shepard.

Shepard, a bushy-browed man with keen eyes, whose heels were at the
moment lifted to the top of the desk, looked at the card, then at the
little man. Though he had seen Tim Benson, there was no recognition
in his eyes.

“Well, what is it?” he asked.

“You can see by that I am a representative of the San Francisco
_Oracle_,” said the little man quietly. “I am studying the prison
systems of the West, and want to look this one over. When I publish
my article I shall have a good word to say of you personally, I hope.”

“Never heard of this hyer San Francisco _Oracle_,” said Shepard
severely, though his tone was milder than before.

“Well, it’s the leading paper of its kind in the city of San
Francisco,” the little man assured him. “Sorry I neglected to bring
a copy with me, but I have some down at the Eagle House, and will
see that you have one. In last week’s issue I had a write-up of the
Comstock Mine, at Virginia City.”

“When will this hyer write-up come out?” said the jailer, flattered
and interested.

“In two weeks, if I can get the copy in on time, and I think I can.
I’ve got to look at the prisons at Deming and Nueces first; but that
can be done yet this week.”

“Well, what do you want me to do?”

“Simply conduct me through the prison, or such parts of it as you
wish to show me; and I’d like a look at some of the most notorious of
the prisoners you’ve got in here. A little spicy talk about them will
help to give my write-up the necessary tang.”

Shepard didn’t know what “tang” was, but it sounded well. So he
tumbled.

He got out of his comfortable chair, grumbling a little, but more
than ever pleased, for he had the usual vanity of men of his class;
and a few minutes later he was piloting Mr. Osgood Fleming--that was
the name on the card--through the prison of Blossom Range.

It was a new prison, with strong walls; as good as could be found
within five hundred miles; Shepard knew that, and was proud of it.
Proud he was, likewise, of the fact that he was the sheriff of the
county, and by virtue of it keeper of this magnificent jail.

“We’ve got a mighty fine assortment of jailbirds in hyer right now,”
he said, warming up under the influence of the ingratiating manner
of the polite little man. “Road agents, murderers, horse thieves--y’
can’t name any of that class o’ criminals we ain’t got. Last one put
in was Juniper Joe. He was the real ringer out of all of ’em; took
the hull blamed town in in the neatest way y’ could ever think of.”

He had to tell the whole story, it seemed so good to him, even if it
was at the expense of Blossom Range.

The narrative so interested the little man that he insisted he must
see this “graceless scamp,” and, if possible, have a talk with him.

“You can talk with him through the bars of his cell, standin’
outside,” said the jailer, who was of the honest kind. “Against the
rules, ye see, to do otherwise, when a man is in hyer on a charge of
murder.”

The little man was sure that was all he would care to do. He even
asked if there would not possibly be danger, even though he stood
outside in the jail corridor.

Shepard laughed hoarsely at that; it was not a joke, it seemed, for
the little man actually trembled.

“Well, he’s shore some quick on the shoot,” avowed Shepard; “but y’
needn’t be afraid of him; he ain’t got a gun on him. Been searched
thoroughly; I seen to it m’self.”

When they came to the cell occupied by Juniper Joe the little man
stood back against the opposite wall of the corridor, apparently
fearing that Juniper Joe might reach out his long arms and seize him,
like some caged gorilla.

Shepard stepped up to the cell door, thus putting himself in front of
the little man.

The jailer was hazy as to what took place after that; but something
whacked him on the back of the head, and he fell against the cell
door, then tumbled heavily to the floor.

When he came to himself, half an hour afterward, he was still hazy;
but he could see that the cell door was open and that Juniper Joe was
gone.

Feeling in his pockets, he found that his keys and his pistols were
gone, too.

That aroused him.

He delivered himself of a howl that sounded like a war whoop, and
flinging himself out of the corridor, raced down to his office and
the outer gate, passing on his way a guard who had been stationed
in the corridor. It is to be stated that the guard was lying on the
floor, and was as unconscious as Shepard had been a few minutes
before.

When Shepard reached the outer gate he found it locked.

He had no keys--and was locked in his own jail.

He now set up a terrible howling, which brought the other guards and
caused citizens to gather round outside.

The upshot of it was that when the outer gate was opened, and
Shepard got into the street, he found that Juniper Joe and Osgood
Fleming were nowhere to be found.

Two men had been seen, by people in Gopher Gabe’s saloon, to issue
from the jail; one being Osgood Fleming, the other a tall man wearing
a linen duster and a soft crush hat.

“It was Juniper Joe!” howled Shepard. “Though where he got the duster
and hat beats me.”

“Why, if that feller that went in was a fake,” said Gopher Gabe, “he
must ’a’ furnished Joe with the things.”

“But he couldn’t--he didn’t have ’em; didn’t have any place to carry
’em, er hide ’em.”

“He might have had ’em in his high hat,” said Gopher Gabe, smiling.
“A linen duster and soft hat might be rolled up into a very little
ball.”

Shepard smote himself on the forehead, sank weakly on a bench, and
called loudly for a drink, to steady his shaking nerves.

“I’m a fool!” he howled. “I’m a blithering idiot!”

A crowd was gathering round him.

Gopher Gabe brought the drink himself.

“I’ve got to send out an alarm,” said Shepard, when he had swallowed
the whisky. “It ain’t too late to round them fellers up, maybe.
Where’s Buffalo Bill? Somebody jump down to the Eagle House and let
him know. And git word to the mayor, somebody; thar’s got to be a
reward offered. The Wells Fargo will want to give a reward, anyhow.
Gee whittaker! Juniper Joe out of jail ag’in, and I done it! Gabe,
give me another drink; this knocks me all out.”

When Buffalo Bill came down to see the perspiring jailer, he asked a
number of questions.

“You were fooled neatly,” was his comment, when he had heard the
story.

“But--but,” stammered the jailer, “who was the brass-plated high brow
that carried the job through?”

“Tim Benson,” said the great scout quietly.

Shepard fell back against the wall.

“Benson!” he gasped. “Wow! The feller that played woman and fooled
the whole town!”

CHAPTER XIV.

A WORRIED SHERIFF.

The express office and Gopher Gabe’s saloon were robbed that night.

Matt Shepard, sheriff and jailer, brought the news to Buffalo Bill,
at the Eagle House.

“I didn’t think they’d strike so soon,” he said. “That is, if it was
them done it. But Benson has got nerve enough fer anything.”

Shepard was “sore” over the way Benson had overreached him.

“There has been other robberies, though--while Juniper Joe was in the
jail; and of course them couldn’t be charged against _him_.”

He had taken a seat in the scout’s room in his best chair, and now
helped himself from the box of cigars on the table. Nomad was in the
room, and so was the baron.

“What do you think of this chap they call the Fool of Folly
Mountain?” he asked abruptly.

“What do _you_ think of him?” Buffalo Bill returned.

“Well, it’s suspicious, the way he is doin’. There’s a whole lot of
fellers in town ready to swear that he is up to road-agent tricks,
and that what he’s doin’, er pretendin’ to do up there, is jest a
blind. I dunno about it myself, but I’m watchin’ him. I was up there
yesterday, after Juniper Joe got past me, lookin’ round.”

Buffalo Bill seemed amused.

“You didn’t find Juniper Joe there, of course?”

“No. Hardly expected that I would; but I wanted a peek at the things
that feller’s doin’. He’s rigged up a little place where he assays
stuff frum his mine, so he says. I think it’s a bluff. I seen some
of the gold he took down to the express office which he claimed he
got out of his mine by some new and secret process; it was just gold
fused together. He could hold up stages and travelers, git their gold
ore, and turn it into solid pieces that way, couldn’t he?”

“Easy enough, I should think,” the scout admitted.

“So I’ve about arrive at the conclusion that’s what he’s doin’,” the
sheriff averred, biting off a piece of his cigar. “I think I’ll have
some men set to watch his cabin.”

“Er, waugh!” Nomad snorted.

The sheriff gave him a sharp look.

“Jest got a frog in my throat,” the trapper explained. “I’m tuck thet
way et times.”

The baron sucked silently at his long-stemmed pipe, and the
expression of his face was as cast iron as he could make it.

“It come to me,” the sheriff went on, “after I’d started fer this
place, that maybe this fool on the mountain was into that game last
night, instead of Juniper and Benson. Though at first I was sure it
was them; and that they had done it more as a exhibition of clear
sand than to git the money.”

He studied the face of Buffalo Bill.

“What’s your idea?”

“That it was the work of Juniper Joe and Benson.”

“Then you don’t credit the idea that the Fool o’ Folly Mountain may
have turned the trick?”

“I don’t.”

“Do you think he’s giving the public a square deal? Don’t you think
he is lyin’?”

Buffalo Bill seemed to ponder this.

“I’m interested in watching that fellow,” he said. “So, if you’ll
just leave his case with me, it will be a favor.”

The sheriff was glad enough to get it off his hands, he said; he had
now so many irons in the fire that he was burning some of them. But
he declared that in the end Buffalo Bill would discover that the Fool
of Folly Mountain was playing a huge double game and profiting by it.

“That’s the opinion of the town, is it?” the scout asked.

“Nearly every one is comin’ round to that belief. So it wouldn’t
surprise me if a mob marched up there some night and took him out and
hung him. We’ve had too much hold-up work round hyer. And the town is
sore over the way it was fooled by Benson and Juniper Joe. The people
ain’t goin’ to be easy with the next feller that runs a bluff like
that.”

Buffalo Bill laughed.

“I guess there never was a community more cleverly sold,” he remarked.

“And they ain’t any notion o’ bein’ sold ag’in.”

“Y’ cain’t blame ’em,” Nomad commented, as if he felt he ought to do
some of the talking. “Even Buffler was tuck in complete.”

“Budt only at fairst,” corrected the German, coming to the scout’s
defense.

“What I’m up hyer fer mainly,” said the sheriff, “is to git your idea
of what move I’d better make. Juniper Joe and Benson are partners
once more. What deviltry them two can’t hatch up when they’re
together there’s no tellin’. They’ll shore go back to the road if
they haven’t already. I’d like to lay ’em by the heels.”

“The only thing that can be done for a time,” the scout answered,
“aside from keeping up a continual watch, is to stop shipments of
gold out of Blossom Range until they have been apprehended.”

“Which would tie up the business of the camp,” Shepard objected.

“But it’s better policy to keep the gold here than to lose it. Yet
there is one other thing that can be done: that is to send such a
strong guard with every stage that goes through that the road agents
won’t dare hold it up.”

“You see, speakin’ gin’rally, we figger that we’re workin’ ag’inst
jest two men,” said the sheriff; “when, as a matter of fact, we
don’t know how many we’re up ag’inst. Benson and Juniper Joe, in my
opinion, has got scores of men who will help ’em, right hyer in this
camp. I remember two months ago, when Benson was workin’ the road, we
tried sendin’ through strong guards with the stages. There was _ten_
men on one stage that was held up in the cañon jest t’other side o’
Stag Mountain. But there was _twenty_ of the road agents that held it
up. Five of the guards was shot dead in the fight, two more wounded,
and the whole shipment was lost. They even took the stage horses.
That’s the kind of men we’ve got to deal with.”

He knocked the ashes from his cigar, swung one leg over the other,
and went on:

“Then there’s the Utes. They ain’t road agents, but they’re
treacherous devils, and they hide the road agents. They do it because
the agents supplies ’em with whisky and amm’nition. Old Iron Bow, the
Ute chief, is as big a rascal as ever walked on two legs, and the
most of his waryers air jest like him.

“Three weeks ago, when I was after Jimmy Blood, I had a tip that he
had hiked to Iron Bow and that the chief was hidin’ him. So I goes up
there with a gang of my men at my back, and demands him. The chief he
gives me the laugh; says ’t no white man ain’t been in that village
for a month. I wanted to search the tepees, but he wouldn’t let me.
I didn’t dare try it without his consent; I didn’t have men enough,
in the first place, and, in the second, if I’d got the Utes started,
there’d been a merry old party; it might ’a’ put ’em on the warpath,
and I didn’t care to take that risk. Jimmy was there, I reckon; but
he made a sneak afterwards, and got out of the country. He was heard
of, anyway, over in Albuquerque.”

He paused for breath.

“So,” he added, “that’s the situation. If any one reckons that bein’
sheriff of this county is a snap, let him take another think. It’s
plantin’ gray hairs in my head fast enough, I tell you; which is
maybe because I try to play square and do my whole duty.”

He was on the point of recurring to the subject of the possibility of
apprehending Benson and Juniper Joe, when there was a tap on the door
that stayed him.

When Buffalo Bill opened the door in answer to the knock he saw a
veiled woman.

“May I come in?” she said, looking past him.

But when she was inside and beheld the sheriff she seemed on the
point of making a retreat.

“I’ll go, madam,” said Shepard, rising, “if you think you can talk
better without me bein’ here.”

“No; stay!” she said, after hesitating. “Perhaps it is just as well
that you should hear what I’ve come to say to Mr. Cody.”

Buffalo Bill had put out a chair for her. When she took it she lifted
her veil and revealed herself as Vera Bright.

The woman looked about the room, then fixed her eyes on Buffalo Bill,
though she gave a glance now and then in the direction of the sheriff.

“I think I can guess what Mr. Shepard is here for,” she said, making
her beginning. “It concerns the escape of Juniper Joe from prison.”

“You’ve hit the nail straight on the head, madam,” Shepard admitted.
“That’s a thing that’s worryin’ me a whole lot right now.”

He was trying to study the face of the woman, as he had an idea that
she bore him no good will, for the reason that he had held her in
Blossom Range at a time when she was very anxious to get away.

But the study of her face could not reveal much. The paint and powder
were laid on too thick for that. Her abundant hair was blondined, or
false--perhaps both. But artificial as she was in appearance, she
seemed at the moment at least to be in earnest.

“I think I can perhaps give information of value,” she declared, “if
I am assured that I shall be shielded.”

“I think we can promise that, so far as the men in this room are
concerned,” the scout assured her.

“I don’t know that Mr. Shepard will be likely to think that anything
I say can be believed,” she said. “He remembers that I lied to him
when I was brought back from Calumet Wells; but I wanted to get away,
then, and so thought I had cause for lying. But in this case it’s
different. I’ve got a good reason for telling the truth.”

She turned to Buffalo Bill.

“I don’t need to tell you why Tim Benson killed John Ward, as you
know all about it. But you may not know that when he killed him he
made me his deadly enemy.”

“I had guessed as much,” the scout told her.

“So, now that Benson is still hanging round here, and he and Juniper
Joe are again together, I want to tell you to watch the saloon of
Gopher Gabe.”

“We have been doing something in that line already,” the scout told
her.

“Then you have suspected Gopher Gabe?”

“Perhaps I shouldn’t say as much as that; but resorts like his are
always to be held in suspicion. Even if the proprietor is straight,
such a place draws shady characters of all kinds.

“Perhaps you do not know,” he added, “that Gopher Gabe’s place was
robbed last night.”

Her surprise showed, even under her paint and powder.

“I was not aware of it.”

“The post office shared the same fate,” he told her.

“It puzzles me,” she said; “for that would indicate that the robbers
were not friends of Gopher Gabe.”

“And you had thought they were?”

“Yes, I thought so.”

“The robbery at Gopher Gabe’s may have been a mere blind, madam,”
said Shepard. “I’ve known o’ the like.”

“That would explain it.”

She turned back to the scout.

“There is one other thing I wanted to mention,” she said. “This new
man up on the hill that they speak of as the Fool has been visiting
Gopher Gabe’s place. I saw him go in there only yesterday.”

“That so?” said Shepard. “You know, Cody, I said I had been
suspectin’ that feller. He’s crooked.”

“He is gambling at Gopher Gabe’s,” said the woman. “One of the girls
with the company here has told me that. I am sure he is in with
Gopher Gabe’s gang.”

“It seems to be an important bit of evidence,” the scout admitted.

“Yaw, I pedt you!” gulped the German.

“I’m allowin’ et seems ter be,” Nomad added.

“You’ll all come round to my opinion of that feller after a while,”
the sheriff declared confidently. “I’m goin’ to---- But I forgot,
Cody, that you asked me to keep my hands off him; that you wanted to
handle that part of the thing yourself.”

“That is my wish,” the scout admitted.

“You knew that Gopher Gabe is interested in the Casino?” said the
woman.

“Yes,” the scout told her.

“The two are connected. The waiters go from the saloon to the wine
rooms back of the Casino through an alley leading from the rear of
the saloon. The distance is but a few steps.”

The scout nodded.

“And of course if the waiters can go through there other people can,
from the wine rooms to the saloon. My suggestion is, if you could
get a man in there as one of the waiters, and have him watch, some
revelations would come that would surprise you.”

“It might be done,” said Shepard, straightening up in his chair as
the idea struck him; “though jest now I don’t know how we could work
it to get a man in there.”

She laughed unpleasantly, and suggested, as if she did not mean it,
that some night they might rap one of the waiters on the head, and
then put a man in his place.

Nomad, who was sitting near the door, now made a sudden dive at it,
breaking the conversation abruptly; then flung the door open and
raced along the hall. They heard the click of his revolver as he
cocked it, and his bawling command to some one to stop; and heard,
likewise, the pattering of feet.

The incident brought up every one in the room. Buffalo Bill and
Shepard jumped to the door; the baron tumbled out of his chair,
dropping his pipe; and the woman stood up nervously.

Nomad soon returned, grunting and fuming.

“Waugh!” he breathed. “Thar was a critter out thar eavesdrappin’. I
heard him breathin’, by the lower aidge o’ the door, as he listened,
and jumped fer him; but he was too quick fer me. I might ’a’ shot him
as he skedaddled, but I didn’t hardly want ter do et; an’ when I got
ter the foot o’ the stairs, he was clean gone.”

“An eavesdropper!” the woman cried, shaken with the agitation of
sudden fear.

“I guess we’ll have to loaf round out in the hall while we continue
this talk,” the scout said to Nomad. “It’s a thing we ought to have
done before.”

“Wonder who the skunk was?” puffed the sheriff.

“Some one who had a good reason for wanting to know what was being
said in here, you may be certain,” the scout told him.

“Vale, he vor shure heardt vot you vos saying apoudt putting somepoty
in der blace uff one uff dose vaiters,” the baron reminded.

“Yes, I reckon he must have heard that,” admitted Shepard.

“Which means that we’ll not be able to do it now,” said the scout.
“If he was a friend of Gopher Gabe, which seems likely, of course
Gabe would be looking for a trick of that kind now, and block it
promptly.”

The scout saw that the woman still seemed frightened.

“I was going to make a request of you, and I shall still make it,” he
said, “though what has happened may cause you to think the thing will
be dangerous. I take it for granted that you want to get even with
Tim Benson for killing Ward.”

Her courage seemed to come back with a bound.

“It seems to me,” she said, with her first show of emotion, “that I
would be willing to give my life for that!”

“You will not have to give your life, I am sure; yet you will have
to assume some risk in doing what I suggest. That is that you rejoin
the show company you were with, which is still at the Casino. I think
that would put you in a position where you could do some spying on
Gopher Gabe’s place to good advantage.”

“That certainly would be at the risk of my life, after what that
eavesdropper must have heard,” she told him.

“But are you willing to try it?”

She drew a deep breath; then for a moment or so was silent.

“Yes,” she said, “I will try it; I’ll rejoin the company, if the
manager will take me back.”

“I think he will do that. If he isn’t willing, a little money given
to him quietly will work it. Yet I hardly need to say to you that
in my opinion he will consider that you are worth more to him now
than ever. You understand what I mean. Everybody has been talking
about your supposed connection with the road agents. Could there be a
better advertisement, from the manager’s standpoint?”

Shepard slapped his knee.

“Jest the ticket!” he said. “If the lady will consent to it.”

She was silent again, as if thinking this over.

“I can try it,” she declared quietly, rising. “But don’t forget that
what I came here for was to ask you to watch Gopher Gabe’s. I will do
what I can, from the Casino side, if I get the chance; but you men
ought to be able to do a good deal more from the outside.”

The scout was on his feet as she turned to the door.

“Remember,” he said, “that while we are watching, we will take means
to protect you as far as we can. We are anxious to get Benson.”

“And mighty anxious to get Juniper Joe back in the jail,” added the
sheriff.

She stopped in the doorway, turning to the scout.

“I may want to communicate with you. I shall use the post office if I
do. I suppose _that_ can be trusted?”

Nomad had come back to the door, along the hall.

“Nothin’ kin be trusted in this hyer thievin’ town!” he declared.

She smiled on the old trapper with what must have been something of a
remnant of her vanished coquetry.

“Not even me?” she said.

Then she hurried along the hall and left the hotel, pulling her veil
down as she did so.

Nomad came on into the room, after a steady look at her back.

“Waugh!” he said, flinging himself into a chair. “Is she playin’ fa’r
er otherwise? Mebby so; I dunno.”

“Nomat, I am mit you,” declared the baron. “Vhen I rememper my vife,
vot was so sveet yoost pefore ve vos marriet, unt den vos a she-tiger
yoost afdher ve vos marriet, I ton’dt dake no stocks in enny vomans.”

Buffalo Bill laughed.

“She will play fair while it is to her interest to do so, and just
now she thinks it is to her interest.”

“Well,” drawled Shepard, “we can watch her while we’re watchin’ other
people. But I’d like to know who it was had his nose stuck under the
door hyer while we was talkin’.”

“It looked to me,” said Nomad, “like the back o’ White-eyed Moses.”

CHAPTER XV.

THE SHERIFF’S WARNING.

Gopher Gabe, fat but rat-eyed, sat in one of the little rooms back of
his saloon, a schooner of beer on the table before him. His full jaws
had a sleek, round, well-fed look, which, with his eyes, gave him a
fancied resemblance to the thick-cheeked, pouched gopher of the West,
and had conferred on him the name by which he was best known.

In another respect the saloon keeper was like the gopher: He worked
underground. Though in secret connection with most of the “bad” men
of Blossom Range, he had managed to hide the fact from the general
knowledge of the public. Most people were reluctant to think that a
man so “whole-souled” as Gopher Gabe could be a secret partner with
the thugs and road agents who had made Blossom Range notorious.

He ran a saloon, it was true, and gambling was done there. Also, he
had an interest in the Casino and the unsavory wine rooms connected
with it. Everybody knew that, yet few, if any, guessed the whole
truth.

Into the small room where Gopher Gabe sat, White-eyed Moses suddenly
projected himself at such speed that his coat tails flapped out
behind him. His white eyes were staring and he was much excited, as
well as breathless.

“Vhat an escabe!” he gasped, sinking into a chair.

Gopher Gabe, who had lifted the foaming glass, put it down untouched.

“What in Sam Hill----”

“You said I shouldt vatch Buffalo Bill’s rooms, if I could,”
explained the fiddler. “So when, this morning, I seen Shepardt go
dare, and then this voman, Miss Vera Bright, I triedt it. That is
vhat I mean. They were in his room, talking, and I dropped down
by the door, in the hall outsite. I vas gitting some imbortant
information, I t’ought, vhen that trapper chumbed at the door, and I
had to gidt.”

He breathed heavily.

Gopher Gabe looked at him steadily.

“I reckon what you heard was about that jail escape and the robberies
last night? Naturally Shepard would go there to talk about it, as he
thinks he is small persimmons alongside of Buffalo Bill. What was
they sayin’.”

“Vell, the voman is going in with them!”

The saloon keeper stiffened back in his chair.

“So?”

“They was talking it over. She was gifing her suspicions about you.”

“So?” said Gabe, but his voice had risen, and his rat-like eyes began
to glitter. “What was she sayin’?”

“She was telling them to vatch your blace.”

“So?”

“That’s vhat I made of it. She is wanting rewenge on Juniper Joe and
Benson for killing Ward.”

“Git a woman worked up along the jealousy-and-revenge line,” said
Gopher Gabe, “and you’ve got a devil to deal with. But _she_ don’t
know anything.”

“I am hobing not.”

“I’m certain she don’t. She was with the show only a week, and all
she saw was what went on in the wine rooms. What’s she goin’ to do?”

“Vell, I don’t know that. She was gifing them tips.”

“And will give ’em more if she can. But that needn’t scared you.”

“I see you ton’dt understand. I was scared because I am so near being
catched. I didn’t get oudt of the hall before that trapper vas in it.
I t’ought he was going to shoot.”

“Did he recognize ye? That’s important.”

“I am hobing he didn’t, but I don’t know. He didn’t see my face, I am
sure. I was going down the stairvay vhen he shouted to me to stop. He
clicked his rewolver, but I didn’t stop.”

“You didn’t hear anything to make you think they guess where Juniper
and Benson air?”

“Only vhat she said. She told them to vatch your joint. And there was
some talk about putting some one in blace of one of your vaiters, so
that he could act as a sby.”

“Well, we can block that, now that we’re on. I don’t think they can
find Benson and Joe.”

“Are they going out to the Utes?”

“No. They’ll be safer right where I’ve got ’em. I ain’t scared yet.
Buffalo Bill has been watching this place straight along, but not
saying anything about it; we know that. Let him watch. He’ll not
catch me napping.”

“Shepardt has been your friendt.”

“He is yit. But of course he won’t stand for lawbreakin’ and
jailbreakin’. So long’s he thinks I’m on the square, Shepard ain’t
goin’ to make trouble; but----”

A man who had come into the saloon, instead of stopping before the
bar, had come on back, and now approached the small room where Gopher
Gabe and his fiddling lieutenant were conferring.

White-eyed Moses took a look through the crack of the door.

“Gootness! It’s him, right now.”

“Matt Shepard?”

“Sure.”

“Well, that’s all right. Jest you keep your face straight, and say
that you hain’t been near the Eagle House. I’ll fix him.”

Matt Shepard, square-jawed, big-framed, honest, and gritty, but a
man of the type known as a “mixer,” came up to the door of the room,
then pushed it open, and walked in, looking at the proprietor and at
White-eyed Moses.

“Hello, Mose!” he said, taking a seat quite as if he felt at home.
“Where you been keepin’ yerself lately?”

“Oh, all roundt. In the usual blaces,” was the fiddler’s answer.

“Fiddlin’ business as good as ever, eh?”

“Purdy goodt!”

“You wasn’t over t’ the Eagle House a while ago? Think straight now!”

“I vasn’t over dare.”

“You’re goin’ to stick to that?”

“Vhy shouldt I be over dare?”

“It was said that you was spyin’ on Cody!”

White-eyed Moses threw out his hands in vehement disclaimer.

“Well, I ain’t goin’ to ask you to swear to it,” said Shepard. “If
a man’s word can’t be believed, I wouldn’t believe his oath. You’ve
heard, o’ course, of the escape of Juniper. Everybody has. So, what
do you think of it?”

“You vas neatly done.”

“That’s right.”

He turned to Gopher Gabe.

“I’m goin’ to talk straight, Gabe,” he said to him. “I’ve always been
your friend, you know.”

“Sure!” Gopher Gabe grunted.

“Well, it’s like this: You’re bein’ suspected. First, they say that
you’re in with the thieves and thugs that have been workin’ overtime
round this camp lately. Then they say that you know something about
this plan by which I was induced to let Juniper Joe slip through my
fingers.”

“All a lie,” said Gopher Gabe.

“Of course I expected you’d say that. So I’ve got only this remark to
make, though really I haven’t any right, as an officer of the law,
to make it. It’s jest this: If any of the things that’s bein’ said
are so, I give you warning that it must be stopped. If you’re helpin’
Juniper and Benson in their present game of hide-out, stop it; and if
you’re in with any of those hold-up men, stop that, too; and short
off.”

Gopher Gabe’s face flushed and his ratlike eyes glittered, but he
kept his temper within bounds, so that when he spoke his voice was as
usual. He even laughed as he retorted:

“All lies. You know the kind of business I run here--something to
drink, with gambling as a side issue, and the serving of the Casino
wine rooms. Everything’s open and aboveboard. I ain’t no call to do
any different.”

“You oughtn’t to have, Gabe, and that’s a fact.”

The sheriff got to his feet.

“I stand for law and order here,” he said; “that’s my business, and
I’m goin’ to run it straight so long’s as the people elect me to the
office. You’d do the same, in my place. But I play fair. So I jest
dropped in to give you warnin’.”

He left the room, and they heard him speak to the barkeeper on his
way to the street.

“Now, vhat do you think of that?” asked White-eyed Moses.

“It’s like Shepard, and it’s the thing that makes him so popular.”

“He’ll pull you, chust the same?”

“Oh, yes, if I give him the chance.”

“You noticed that he ditn’t say anything aboudt Vera Bright and the
putting of some one as a sby in blace of one of your vaiters!”

“Well, I reckon he’s got sense enough to keep some things to himself.”

Gopher Gabe finished the beer on the table.

He did not seem disturbed.

CHAPTER XVI.

THE GOPHER BITES.

Vera Bright found that Buffalo Bill was right in his conjecture that
she would have no difficulty in securing her former position and that
the manager would consider her recent notoriety an added attraction.

So she appeared in the show that evening in her former part.

When the performance was ended and she went back to the wine rooms,
she was told that Gopher Gabe wished to see her.

One of the waiters brought the invitation.

“He’s in that little den he uses, back of the saloon,” she was
informed. “You’d better see him.”

Vera Bright shivered, in spite of herself; she recalled the fact that
some one, possibly White-eyed Moses, had eavesdropped at the door of
Buffalo Bill’s room at the Eagle House.

“He isn’t in a temper?” she said anxiously.

“I don’t think so; he seemed in good enough humor. But the way he
said it when he told me to tell you made me know that he meant it. So
I’d advise you to go.”

For a moment Vera Bright thought of bolting out of the place and
giving up the task she had assumed. Then her native courage came to
reassure her.

“He may talk rough,” she thought; “but so long as the waiter knows
that he sent for me he won’t do anything more than that. And if I’m
to stay here and play spy I must expect to meet him.”

So she girded up her courage and went to the room which Gopher Gabe
used at times, where he would sit giving his orders.

His round, fat, flushed face showed only the utmost kindness as she
came into the room after pausing timidly on the threshold. The hour
was late--the performance had lasted a long time. She wondered if she
was not doing a foolish thing.

“So you came!” he said. “I thought you would.”

He got up, gave her a chair, then closed the door; but she observed
that he did not lock it.

“Good show to-night, they tell me,” he observed as he came back, “and
a good audience. I suppose the manager raised your pay. He ought to.”

She felt afraid of him; he was so large and strong, such a very giant
of a man--his jaws were heavy, his neck thick, his shoulders big
and broad. He was a huge, coarse leviathan, and she felt that if he
wished he could crush her between his fat, thick fingers. Again the
feeling came on her strongly that in mixing in this matter she was
putting her life in danger.

There was a slight trembling of her voice when she asked him why he
had sent for her.

“Well,” he said, leaning back in his big chair and looking steadily
at her, “I understand that you have gone over to my enemies; I wanted
to ask you if it was true.”

“Not in the sense you perhaps think,” she assured him, knowing now
that White-eyed Moses had heard and told, and that she could not
deceive the man before her as to what had passed at the Eagle House.

“In what sense, then?” he asked.

“I have nothing against _you_,” she told him.

“Against some of my friends, eh?”

“Not unless you call Juniper Joe and Tim Benson your friends,”
she declared. “I don’t need to explain about that matter, as you
understand it.”

“You’ve got it in fer them because you think they killed Ward, and
you was sweet on Ward! That’s it, eh?”

She clinched her hands tightly together in her lap.

“Something like that,” she admitted.

“Well, what is it you’re goin’ to do?” he asked.

“If I can find out where they are I’m going to notify the sheriff.”

“And Buffalo Bill?”

“Yes, I shall tell him, too.”

“Well, now, do you think all that gives you any cause to ask them to
watch my establishment?”

He saw her tremble.

“I--I----”

He stopped her with a wave of his fat hand, leaning toward her.

“Before you answer that, which will be with a lie, I reckon, tell me
what you know about this feller on top o’ Folly Mountain?”

“I don’t know anything about him.”

“We’d like to know somethin’ about him, more than we do.”

“I’ve heard it hinted that he is a road agent, playing a game there
to fool the people.”

“I’ve heard the same, and I’d like to know the truth. Now, I get
right down to why I sent fer you. By offerin’ to go in with Buffalo
Bill and Matt Shepard, you’ve showed that you’re a good deal of a
fool. I’m speakin’ straight, you see. What can they offer you? And
what have you got in common with them, anyhow? Your kind is the
kind that hangs out at the Casino and round the wine rooms; not the
law-and-order crowd. You know it.”

“Yes, I know that, though I’m ashamed of it.”

“Get over that!” he said roughly. “You’ll receive more kindness from
your own crowd than you ever will from any other. Take it from me
straight, that you will. So, in the end, you ain’t goin’ to gain
anything by goin’ in with that crowd. Cut it out!”

She returned his steady look.

“What do you want?” she asked.

“That sounds more like it. In the first place, I want to say to you
that you can’t stay round here and me not know everything you’re
doin’; just recollect that, and it may be of help to you. I’ve
got friends in plenty; men you wouldn’t think of, too. When that
law-and-order crowd gets through with you, and that will be just as
soon as they ain’t got no further use for you, you’ll get no favors
from them; you ought to know that. With your own crowd you can always
have friends and help when you want it. I know what’s troublin’ you.
You think you want to got even with Benson and Juniper Joe. Now, let
me tell you that you don’t. You’d better forgit that old jealousy
quarrel and let it go.”

But he saw her eyes blaze when he said it.

“You won’t?” he asked.

“Not until both of them are back in jail or hung for it,” she told
him, her voice tense with sudden emotion.

“A fine spirit for a woman to get into!” he declared, with a forced
laugh. “But I think you’ll get over it when you’ve had a little time.
Now, I’m goin’ to make you a proposition. It’s got money in it, too.
I’ll pay you twice what you’re gettin’ at the Casino, if you’ll
scrape an acquaintance with the Fool of Folly Mountain and find out
just what he is up to.”

He studied her face. Long experience had made him apparently able to
see to the heart of this woman, right through the powder and paint.

“You won’t do it?”

She shook her head.

“No!” she declared.

“Why won’t you?”

“Because, right now, I’ve got other work to do. Besides, I don’t care
to.”

“You can’t waste time on that feller on Folly Mountain?”

“No; and I don’t want to.”

“So you’re goin’ to stick to this thing of bringin’ Benson and Joe to
the gallows?”

“That’s just what I’m going to do!” she told him.

“You told Buffalo Bill to git one of my waiters out of the way and
put a spy in here in his place.”

She did not answer.

“That’s so, ain’t it? Out with it!”

“I see I’m a little fool.”

“I think you are, myself.”

“I mean, I’m a fool, or I would have lied to you, and made you think
I would do whatever you told me to do; now, I’ll have to get out of
that Casino company, and out of the wine rooms, and won’t be able to
do any of the things I had planned.”

“Still, you won’t come round to my idea, even when you know that?”

“No! I can’t.”

“You’ve got in you the making of a mighty good woman!” He sneered.
“But let me tell you why you didn’t lie to me. It’s because you
couldn’t. You know you couldn’t fooled me, if you had tried it. So,”
he paused, and drew a deep breath, “I’m givin’ you now the last
chance. Say the word, and you’ll not want for friends, or money,
while you’re in this town. But if you still want to stand in with
that law-and-order crowd--well!”

He drew up his shoulders and threw out his hands.

“If you do,” he ended, “that’s your lookout. I’ll----”

“You’ll do what?” she said, rising, terrified by his answer.

He rose, too.

As it chanced, his chair was nearer the door than hers, so that now,
apparently without having intended it, he blocked her way out.

“I’ll do this!” he said, stepping toward her.

She stared at him, frozen and stupefied with sudden horror, because
of the alteration in his face and manner; it was as if a smiling man
had changed into a snake before her very eyes. And though she tried
to recoil, she did not seem able to do it.

“I’ll do _this_!” he repeated, putting out his hand--a fat, pudgy
hand, that now had a clammy look, as if the fingers were brown eels.

She tried to step backward and cry out.

But the hand shot out, and the next moment it had clutched her
throat. She fell to the door, writhing in that deadly, serpent grip.

CHAPTER XVII.

THE BARON’S EXPERIENCE.

“Idt pegins to loogk like excidemendt iss goming my vay in punches.”

The round-bodied baron, hiding in the shadows, stared hard at a man
of big girth who hurried past him bearing a burden in his arms that
strongly resembled the limp form of a woman.

The baron, having heard everything in that interview with Vera
Bright, had begged to be assigned work in and about the Casino.

“I haf done some goot sbying dhere alreadty,” he urged. “I know some
uff der beoples, too.”

“But you couldn’t disguise yerself, Schnitz. Every dog in Blossom
Range knows ther look o’ ye, by this time,” old Nomad had told him.

“Vhen I dry, I gan disguises meinselluf as vell as eenypoty,” the
baron had protested; “but yoost dhis dime I aind’t going to tried
idt; I am going to der show, unt loogk aroundt a liddle afdher idt
iss ofer. Alreadty I haf peen to dhis show more as vunce; unt I gan
go ag’in mitout keeking oop any teeficuldy.”

Buffalo Bill had let the baron go.

After the Casino performance was over, the German managed to lose
himself in the wine rooms and corridors that lay behind the Casino
and connected it with the establishment presided over by Gopher Gabe.

Yet he had not escaped observation entirely. A waiter, meeting him
in a passage, had asked him what he was doing there. And when the
baron said he was trying to find his way out, the waiter had escorted
him to the exit.

The baron had gone out; then he had come in again.

This time he professed to be seeking White-eyed Moses.

“I hear he iss a Cherman, unt uff so, I vant to git acvainted mit
him,” was his statement.

He did not find White-eyed Moses--did not look for him; but again
made his way into the passage which he had been forced to leave.

When near the saloon he heard the low grumble of the voice of Gopher
Gabe, at the time Gabe was talking with the woman; but he could not
hear what was said.

Crouching in a dark corner, the baron waited; he wanted to see with
whom the saloon keeper was conversing.

It was while in that spot that the big figure of Gopher Gabe loomed
before him; then passed swiftly on, bearing in his arms what seemed
to be the limp body of a woman.

Gopher Gabe had apparently passed without seeing the baron.

The latter rose up immediately and began to follow.

“Dot iss shure a vomans,” he thought; “unt it look to me as if she
iss inkinscious. Uff so, idt haf a meanness.”

In the dim light, the baron saw Gopher Gabe slide his huge bulk
through one of the doors of the wine rooms. Then the door closed
behind him. But as the room was not lighted the baron was not able
even yet to make sure that this was Gopher Gabe.

So he crouched outside, again waiting. He had reached the belief that
the woman was Vera Bright.

Five minutes later the big man came out of that room, alone.

Again he passed the baron, without apparently seeing him; and went
toward the saloon.

The baron squatted in the gloom, staring at the door, which the
saloon keeper had closed behind him on coming out.

“He leef der inkinscious voman in dot room vor shure,” was the
baron’s conclusion. “Maybe diss iss a case uff murter. Idt iss oop to
me to see. By yiminy, uff a murter haf been gommitted, Gopher Gape
vill findt himselluf in a slings.”

He rose to his feet, trembling with eagerness.

“Shall I dry der door?” he asked himself. “I ton’dt know vot iss in
dare; unt maybe I gan’t git in uff I dry idt. Yidt, here iss going.”

He crept up to the door, listened, then tried some keys he had on a
ring in his pocket. To his gratification one of them turned the bolt
of the lock, and the door opened.

Having entered cautiously, he closed the door behind him; then stood
listening in the darkness. The room was quiet. From the wine rooms
beyond he heard singing and laughter.

“Iss eenypoty in here?” he asked, in a hoarse whisper.

He got no satisfaction from this; so concluded to risk a match.

When it flared up and he looked about by its light he saw the
outlines of a very small square room, which was empty. The only door
was the one by which he had come in, and there were no windows. The
woman was not there. The only thing which drew his attention as being
out of the ordinary was a piece of wood, or board, braced below the
ceiling, which seemed likely to fall if touched or jarred.

“Vale, I am oop a sdump!” he concluded, staring round in
disappointment. “She vos broughdt in here, budt she iss not bresent.
Vot is der explanadions?”

He turned to the door, intending to leave the room.

As he did so he felt the floor begin to sink under him, carrying him
downward.

He jumped for the door; but he could not get out now, even when
he tried to open it, for the descent of the platform was so swift
that by the time he had the door opened a blank wall was passing
apparently upward before his face. He could not see it clearly,
because of the darkness; but he felt the wall sliding upward, when he
touched it with his fingers.

“I am going indo der cellar uff dhis estaplishmendt! Maybe der voman
vent der same vay. Yaw! I pedt you I am guessing righdt. Now, uff----”

The sinking floor stopped with a bump that brought the baron to
his knees. He heard the piece of timber which he had seen over him
scuttling down, and threw up his arm to ward it off; failing to do
so, it rapped him on the head, knocking him heavily to the floor.

The door opened; and the baron, dazed and bewildered, was seized
by strong arms and dragged out, not knowing at the moment what was
happening to him.

When he came back to something like clearness of thought a dim light
was shining before him, and by it a man was sitting. The man was
Gopher Gabe, and the light was from a candle stuck on top of a box.
The place seemed to be a cellar, and had the odor of one.

The baron’s first effort was to brush away cobwebs that seemed to
obscure his vision. In trying it, he made the discovery that he was
tied up, hand and foot. He was dizzy and half blind.

“Vale,” he said, “how iss dhis?”

His voice sounded strange to him, and far off.

“You know where you are?” came in answer.

“I seem to be in der cellar. Who ar-re you, eenyhow? Somedings seems
to pe fluddering pefore mine eyes, so dot I do not see so blain as I
wouldt like.”

“How did you get in here?”

“Idt iss der kvestion I am vandting to ask uff you.”

“Do you know who I am?”

The baron leaned forward and stared.

“Iss dare somedings pefore mine eyes? I am in sooch a bevildermendt
dot I ton’dt know nottings blainly.”

“You got a crack on the head when the elevator stopped; I guess
that’s what’s the matter with you. There was a piece of timber loose
in that elevator, and it fell down on you.”

“T’anks vor der misinformadion,” the baron grunted incredulously.

“But the question is, What was you doin’ in that elevator?”

“I ditn’t knowed idt vos one.”

“Well, you know now; and by buttin’ in where you had no business you
got yerself in this fix.”

The German, feeling his way back to clearer thought, did not answer
this.

“You was spying!” said the man.

The baron stared hard at him again.

“You are Misder Gopher Gape, I t’ink,” he said at last.

“So you’ve recognized me?”

“Vhy you tie me oop like dhis, Misder Gopher Gape?”

“So you won’t hurt yerself, and so you won’t go pokin’ about in
places where you’ll get into trouble. I’m goin’ to let you think over
that a while. By and by, I’ll see you again.”

Gopher Gabe arose, took the candle, and disappeared, leaving the
baron in total darkness.

“Vale, dis iss a kveer pitzness,” he said. “Yaw! I remember now, dot
I was drying to findt oudt vot habben to der vomans. Unt so I gidt me
into teeficuldy. I vonder vhat pecame uff her?”

He had unconsciously spoken his thought aloud, in his queer English.

Then a voice reached him, from some spot near:

“I am here!”

The baron twisted around in his cords, staring.

“You ar-re here? I ton’dt seen you.”

“It would be hard to see anything, in this black hole.”

“Yaw! I pelief you. You come down py der elefator, too--huh!”

“I don’t know how I got here.”

“Yaw! I remember. You vos inkinscious.”

“That man attacked me, after he had sent for me to visit him in his
room back of his saloon; he choked me until I couldn’t breathe; then
I lost consciousness. I think he means to kill us. For myself, I am
sure of it.”

“Yoompin’ yack rappits! Iss dot so-o?”

“I’m sure of it. I saw it in his eyes when he lunged at me.”

“Dhen I am t’inking dot ve petter pe findting a vay to gidt oudt uff
dhis blace.”

“If it could be done!” she said hopelessly.

“Aber I----”

But he stopped; for voices had reached them. They had been speaking
in whispers, or little more; and the voices came merely as a low
grumble, as if walls separated them from the speakers. When they kept
silence and listened they could now and then make out words, that,
apparently, were not meant for their ears.

“We’ll show Cody a thing or two,” was one thing they heard. “He
has been thinking he is only up ag’inst a couple of men. He is now
gettin’ his eyes open to the fact that he’s got a crowd to fight. But
we can down him. A shot from the dark will put him out of business.
As for this fool Dutchman, we’ll hold him a while, for we may want to
use him; then _he_ can go over the road.”

The grumble rose and fell, so that a good many things could not be
made out; but something was said about the Fool of Folly Mountain.

Then some words came quite clearly.

“He’s in with us, all right;” this plainly referring to Uncle Sam.
“Cody thinks he is standing in with him; and we’ll let him think it.
By and by, if we don’t down him too soon with a bullet, Cody will
learn the truth.”

Again the grumble died down.

Then once more words came which could be understood.

“The trapper, too; we’ll fix him. Needn’t think he can come into this
camp and put the kibosh onto us; it can’t be done easy. We’ve got
too many friends here, and our organization is too strong.”

For some time the voices went on, in a grumble that rose and fell.
But, though snatches of the talk came into the cellar, the baron got
little more that he could piece together into intelligible sentences.

At last the talk stopped altogether. But the men were not heard to
walk away. Still, it was apparent that they had gone.

“Vot do you t’ink uff idt?” the baron breathed at last.

“It proves just what I said--that Gopher Gabe means to kill us. It
proves, too, what I’ve thought, that he has a strong organization in
this town. Cody will find that he is fighting all the thugs and bad
men of Blossom Range, and there is a regiment of them; I think that
in the end they will kill him, too.”

“Ton’dt you pelieve idt!” protested the baron. “Dare iss nodt
eenypoty vot gan kill Cody.”

“He doesn’t bear a charmed life any more than other men; and a bullet
in the dark, or a knife thrust, can put him out of the way as easy as
it would any one else.”

“You ton’dt knowed Cody!”

“Yes, I know him. But his days are numbered.”

“You are loogking indo der darkness,” said the baron; “loogk oudt
ondo der sunlighdt.”

The woman seemed to laugh.

“I can’t see any sunlight, in this black place.”

“Imachine dot you see der sunlighdt, eenyhow! Idt vill hellup. As vor
Schnitzenhauser, he nefer gifs oop. I haf peen in vorse blaces, unt I
am sdill lifing. You pedt me, ve gan gidt oudt uff dhis.”

“I wish you would show me how.”

“Py yiminy, I vill!”

He began to tug and struggle, in a wild effort to release his hands
from the cords that cut them.

“I pedt I vill magke idt,” he declared. “Uff in no odder vays, I vill
gidt you to gnaw dhem off yoost like a radt.”

CHAPTER XVIII.

AN ASSASSIN AT WORK.

The disappearance of Baron von Schnitzenhauser and Vera Bright filled
Buffalo Bill and Nomad with so much uneasiness that they instituted a
thorough search for them, but without avail. They had dropped out of
sight completely. All that was known, was that the woman had returned
to her work at the Casino, and had disappeared; and that the baron,
set to shadow the Casino and Gopher Gabe’s, had also vanished.

Buffalo Bill sent for the sheriff, Matt Shepard; and laid the facts
before him.

“You may not want to think so, Shepard,” said the scout; “but Gopher
Gabe is at the bottom of this. So, as you’re on talking terms with
him, I want you to tell him, as coming straight from me, that he had
better drop this business. Tell him that I know he is holding the
baron and the woman; and that it’s up to him to let them go, and
right off.”

“Which, if he don’t,” added Nomad, in a rasping voice, “thar’ll be a
dead saloon keeper purty prompt in this hyar town!”

“You’d better not say that to him, right now,” advised the scout,
speaking to Shepard, “but give it to him hard, that he is making a
fool of himself. Tell him it shows he must be in with the blackleg
gang that has been running the robbery-and-murder mill round here
lately, and that he ought to know what the end will be for the
members of that gang.”

Matt Shepard went over to Gopher Gabe’s.

The saloon keeper was in his usual place, wiping off the sloppy bar
with a damp cloth. He looked white-faced and worried.

The sheriff delivered Buffalo Bill’s message.

Gopher Gabe heard it through without apparent emotion, but a bit of
color came into his fat cheeks, and his ratlike eyes glittered.

“You tell Cody for me, that he is an a-number-one fool,” was his
answer. “Does he take me for an idiot?”

“You don’t know a thing about it?” Shepard asked.

“Certainly I don’t. I’d be a candidate for a lunatic asylum, wouldn’t
I, if I done a thing like that?” He crushed the damp cloth in his
thick fingers, and looked at Shepard. “Cody has got so excited over
his failure to do anything, that he has gone to seein’ visions. Now,
there ain’t no band of highwaymen makin’ their headquarters in this
town; and you, as sheriff, ought to know that. There’s been hold-ups
and robberies; but they’ve been done by individuals. Cody’s like a
blind snake in August--scared at every sound he hears, and strikin’
out at everything.”

Matt Shepard was about convinced that this was the truth.

“Of course, he’s naturally he’t up by this disappearance of his
pard,” he said, almost apologetically.

“Maybe the Dutchman is on a drunk, and layin’ out somewhere,” Gopher
Gabe suggested.

“It might be,” Shepard admitted.

“As for that woman, the place to find out about her is at the
Casino; if the manager of the show can’t tell you anything about her,
I can’t.”

“About this Fool of Folly Mountain?” said Shepard, coming back to
what to him was a subject of mysterious interest. “They tell me he’s
been buckin’ the tiger heavy of late, in your rooms back there.”

Gopher Gabe smiled.

“Well, he says he is gittin’ a lot of gold out of that wuthless dirt
in what he calls his mine; and if he wants to drop it here with me, I
ain’t goin’ to make a kick, am I?”

“And they say he’s gittin’ thicker’n fleas with some of the suspected
men about town?”

“I reckon you’d better see him, about that.”

“I’m beginnin’ to watch him.”

Shepard came away from Gopher Gabe’s knowing considerably less than
when he went. He reported to the scout his disbelief that the saloon
keeper was not playing a straight game.

But the report did not change the scout’s opinions, or cause him to
lessen his efforts.

He was rapidly accumulating proof that in Blossom Range Juniper Joe
and Tim Benson were connected with a desperate band, who were not
only disposed to protect those rascals, but willing to “put out of
the way” their enemies.

Proofs of the desperate character of the men he was watching came
fast.

As Buffalo Bill was sitting in the Eagle House dining room that
evening, the time being just after dark, a shot sounded in the
street, and the bullet shattered the glass beside his plate, throwing
splinters into his face.

Nomad dived with a whoop under the table, crawled out on the other
side, and with revolver in hand ran to the window through which the
bullet had come.

But he saw no one.

That night Buffalo Bill spent several hours in quiet work around
Gopher Gabe’s and the Casino, with Nomad doing business on the “side
lines.” They returned to the hotel together, at a late hour, having
accomplished nothing.

Hardly were they closeted in the scout’s room, talking over their
work, when a man passed rapidly through the hall before the scout’s
door. He stopped just the fraction of a second, as if to make sure,
by the sounds of the voices within, where Buffalo Bill was sitting;
then he fired his revolver through the door, and went jumping in wild
leaps down the back stairs.

It was useless to follow him.

Five minutes later a bullet came through the window, struck and
caromed from the top of the table at which the scout was sitting,
then imbedded itself in the wall behind him.

Nomad promptly turned out the lamp.

“Waugh!” he growled. “I reckons we’ve got to set round hyer in ther
dark, ef we don’t want ter git lead under our hides! This thing is
gittin’ plum serious.”

The scout went to the window, drew down the curtain, then turned up
the lamp; but he did not sit down again by the table.

“When such things as this begin to happen, it’s clear proof that
somebody’s getting badly scared,” he commented.

“Who’s doin’ et? Thet’s what I wanter know.”

“Some of Gopher Gabe’s emissaries, of course; but he ought to hire
men who can do a little better shooting.”

“Thet bullet come nigh ernough ter make a clost call.”

“Well, yes; when it jumped from the table, it almost kissed me on the
nose.”

He went to the wall and looked at the hole torn by the bullet.

“From a forty-five Colt revolver, I judge,” he commented.

Steps were heard in the hall, and Nomad pulled his revolver.

“Ef thar’s more shootin’, I shoots fust!” he growled.

But when, in answer to a rap; the scout opened the door, they saw the
white face of the night clerk; he seemed scared.

“Was that shooting in here?” he asked.

Nomad pointed to the bullet hole in the wall.

“Ther eending of et war hyer, though ther beginnin’ wasn’t. Somebody
has got inter ther pesky bad habit o’ poppin’ at Buffler; et’s likely
ther same cuss what tried ter pot him at the supper table.”

“This has got to stop,” said the exasperated clerk; “we won’t have a
guest in the house if it keeps up. To-night, after that shooting at
the dining table, four of our guests left; the ones who were sitting
at the table with you. They said they didn’t care to run such risks;
and that if some one was trying to shoot you, they preferred to
absent themselves from your company.”

“Who do you think’s doin’ et?” Nomad demanded.

“I haven’t the ghost of an idea.”

“Yer might guess.”

“If I did, my guess would be that it’s a friend of Benson and
Juniper Joe. It’s known that the scout is hunting for them two.”

“Also, et’s known, ter me, at least, thet he’s shore goin’ ter git
’em. Yer ain’t heard any news down at your desk?”

When the clerk declared that he hadn’t, and went away, Buffalo Bill
buckled on his pistols.

“Whar away?” Nomad flung at him.

“I think I’ll prowl round outside a little while. Maybe I can get
sight of that rascal, if he’s lurking about.”

“I’ll pike erlong with ye.”

“No; you stay here. Move about now and then; so that if any one is
watching the window he won’t know that I’ve gone out. That may help
me to catch him.”

“An’ help me ter git er hunk o’ lead under my hide!”

Buffalo Bill skulked round outside for an hour; but he saw no one.

“This hyar thing’s gittin’ onto my narves,” the trapper declared,
when the scout came back.

“It’s a bit trying to be shot at, and not know who is doing it!”

He took a turn about the room.

“I think, Nomad,” he said, “that I’ll do some scouting around that
cabin of the Fool, up on Folly Mountain, before I turn in for the
night.”

“Wow!” Nomad gurgled. “He’s gittin’ thicker’n thieves wi’ them cattle
what air herdin’ continyul round Gopher Gabe’s. I’m beginnin’ ter
think he’s ther wust o’ the lot. So, look out fer him; an’, ’special,
look out fer yerself.”

The scout went away, slipping noiselessly down the back stairs, then
out into the night.

But he saw no lurking form as he went.

Buffalo Bill knew now that it was a race between Death and Success,
in his case and Nomad’s. If he did not soon “get” the leaders of the
band he was after, they would “get” him. Evidence was accumulating,
showing that the desperadoes had a surprising number of friends and
allies, in some places where they were least expected.

He was still worried over the fate of the baron. Since the German had
dropped so suddenly and mysteriously out of sight not a word had been
received from him or about him. The same was true of Vera Bright. The
show manager claimed not to know what had become of the woman, and
appeared to be much mystified. It was useless to ask Gopher Gabe.
Matt Shepard was being fatally handicapped in his honest efforts to
aid the scout by reason of his belief in the statements of the saloon
keeper.

During the next day another effort was made to assassinate the
scout. He was shot at in passing the window of a house near Gopher
Gabe’s saloon. He jumped for the door and smashed it in, after the
shot was fired, and saw the disappearing heels of a man who dived
through an open window into an alley. When he reached that window the
scout found that the scoundrel had vanished. But what view he had
almost convinced him that the man was White-eyed Moses. The house
was unoccupied; and the would-be assassin had apparently stationed
himself there and waited for the scout to pass along.

The shooting created some excitement in the street; men also came out
of Gopher Gabe’s place to investigate it. The scout could only tell
them that some one had shot at him from the empty house.

As White-eyed Moses was known to be one of Gopher Gabe’s intimates,
and the baron had been set to watch Gopher Gabe’s as well as the
Casino, the scout’s belief that within Gopher Gabe’s establishment,
or the Casino, lay hid the mystery of the baron’s disappearance,
became more than ever established.

That night, when the Casino show was over, Buffalo Bill stationed the
trapper in one of the alleys, with instructions to watch both the
saloon and the Casino; then the scout swung over the alley wall, and
tried to get at the heart of the intricate maze of corridors and wine
rooms back of the saloon.

He had a feeling that in doing this he was putting his head into the
lion’s mouth. Yet danger never daunted him when such a purpose as
this moved him. He had reached a point where it seemed to him he must
know just what happened to the baron, no matter at what risk.

Waiters were still passing to and fro between the saloon and the wine
rooms. Failing to make any prominent discoveries back there, the
scout moved upon the saloon itself. Entering thus by the rear way, he
came into the gambling room, located back of the room containing the
bar.

It was well filled, and some exciting games were in progress. As men
made way for Buffalo Bill, looking at him curiously, for the rumor
had run round the town that bad blood existed between him and the
saloon proprietor, the scout’s eyes fell on the tall form and blond
locks of the Fool of Folly Mountain. With some others, he was deep
in the mysteries of a card game, at one of the tables.

The scout stood looking with apparent interest at the man who called
himself by the name of Uncle Sam. Finally, the man of the blond hair
and blond mustache, apparently feeling the scout’s staring eyes upon
him, looked up.

“Won’t you have a try at poker, pardner?” he asked, drawling his
words.

“Not to-night,” Buffalo Bill answered, and moved on.

The scout saw nothing to make him suppose that these men knew aught
of the baron, and turned to leave the place by the back way.

As he did so, there was a flash and report, in a corridor leading to
the wine rooms, and the bullet brushed his face.

Buffalo Bill lowered his head and projected himself at the corridor,
hearing the fleeing steps of the man who had shot at him.

“White-eyed Moses!” was his thought.

The rascal, discovering that he had failed once more, was so
frightened by it and the scout’s reckless pursuit that he failed to
fire again, but ran headlong toward the wine rooms.

When Buffalo Bill reached them, however, the man he sought was not
there. And when the inmates were questioned they declared that though
they had heard the shot they had seen no one.

As he turned back, Buffalo Bill thought he heard a voice in one of
the small rooms, the one nearest the saloon.

But when he entered it, the door being open, he saw no one, and the
room was empty. As the cubby-hole of a place was dark, he struck a
match, to look about.

As if that were the signal, the room gave a downward jerk and dip,
then settled with him, sinking so rapidly that he could not get out
by the door.

He did not know it, then; but he was in the same elevator room which
had trapped the baron.

As the elevator struck bottom somewhere with a heavy jerk, the scout
heard a piece of wood break from its fastenings and come down on
him. With quick presence of mind he dropped flat to the floor. The
wood struck so heavily that it would have crushed his head like an
eggshell if it had hit it fair; but by throwing himself flat the
scout escaped with only a bruising of his shoulders, as one end of
the timber struck against the elevator wall and was partly stayed by
it.

“Trapped!” gritted the scout.

He drew his revolver, waiting for the next move of his enemies; for
he was sure this had not happened by chance.

It came soon enough.

The door opened before him, into the cellar, and some men jumped at
him.

But as they expected to find that he had been knocked out by the
dropping of the timber, they were not prepared for the facts. One
went down from a blow of the scout’s fist planted where it would do
much good; the others--there were four of them--tumbled backward.

In another moment the scout was out in the cellar, his revolver
swinging.

“Stand back!” rang his clear voice.

When they came at him with a jump he fired. One man dropped, hitting
the cellar bottom with a grunt. Another the scout knocked down,
giving the rascal a left-handed side-winder.

The total result enabled Buffalo Bill to run to the other end of the
cellar, looking for a way out.

One of the men on the floor opened with a revolver, but he shot wild,
being excited, and not able to see very well.

The scout did not reply to the shooting, but groped along, looking
for an exit.

He came beneath a manhole, with a pile of coal under it. He knew the
coal could not have been dumped there unless there was a place above
for a wagon to stand. So he scrambled to the top of the coal and set
his broad shoulders against the iron covering.

Two of the men were on their feet again and were now coming for him.
One was swearing like a pirate.

They had heard the sliding of the coal as the scout climbed it;
still, they could not see him.

“Surrender!” yelled the fellow of the sulphurous voice.

The scout had by this time unsettled the covering of the manhole. He
now heaved it upward and aside; then quickly drew himself up through
it.

A shot roared behind him, as the light from the opened manhole
revealed to the men in the cellar what he was doing. But Fortune
still favored him. He was outside now, unhurt, in an alley beside the
saloon, the alley opening on the main street.

In another moment he was in the street itself.

He ceased to run as soon as he was out in the light. But he did not
tarry, for he expected more shots to come singing after him.

The shooting had attracted attention, and the street was filling with
men, who came pouring out of the saloon.

In their midst appeared Matt Shepard. Then Nomad came whooping on the
scene, hastening from the alley in which he had been left to watch.

“I was trapped in the cellar there, Shepard,” the scout explained,
“by some men who tried to shoot me. I want you to go in there with
me, and we will make a search.”

“Under Gopher Gabe’s?” cried Shepard, staring.

“Yes, the cellar under Gopher Gabe’s; though it seems to extend,
also, under some of the wine rooms.”

“You bet, we’ll look into it!” declared the sheriff. “You jest foller
me; we’ll interview Gabe about this.”

The men who had leaped into the street were returning. Some of them
had heard the scout’s declaration to the sheriff. They followed into
the saloon, hard on the heels of Shepard, Buffalo Bill, and Nomad.

The barroom was filled with a talking, excited crowd. A few men
were still in the gaming room back of it. Gopher Gabe came out of
the latter place into the barroom, as the scout and his companions
entered.

“What’s up?” he demanded. “Was that you shootin’ round hyer, Cody?”

“I was being shot at,” Buffalo Bill told him.

“’Tain’t ther fust time, neither,” Nomad whooped. “Bullets has been
chasin’ him hard fer ther better part o’ two days. We’re gittin’ so
anxious erbout et thet ef we don’t find sompin soon we’re plum li’ble
ter throw fits.”

Buffalo Bill gave Gopher Gabe a keen look, and passed on; the fat,
flushed face of the saloon keeper revealed nothing.

“As the thing happened in your cellar,” said the scout to him, “I
have asked the sheriff to search it, and the wine rooms. Back there
I stepped into a little room, which turned out to be an elevator and
dropped me into the cellar, when the villains who were down there
attacked me, and tried to shoot me. But I winged one of them, I’m
sure.”

“I reckon he must be thar yit,” said Nomad. “Lead on thar, an’ we’ll
mighty soon find out.”

“I heard shootin’,” said the saloon keeper, his tone that of apology;
“but I reckoned it was out in the street.”

Shepard led the way through the gaming room and on into the corridor
indicated, the scout and Nomad tramping at his heels. Behind them
followed Gopher Gabe, protesting that he could not understand this
queer shooting attempt. Back of the saloon keeper streamed the
straggling and excited mob.

“What was you doin’ back hyer, anyhow, Cody?” Gopher Gabe demanded
finally. “Only the waiters is allowed in this passageway.”

“Only the waiters, and officers of the law,” the scout retorted.

“Yes; if you put it that way.”

“That’s the way I put it, Gabe. As I was shot at from the window of
an empty house near this place, I thought I’d look round near the
wine rooms, in the hope that I might find who did it. Then this thing
happened.”

“It goes ahead o’ me,” said Gopher Gabe, “who could have done it.”

They gained the little cubby-hole of a room that had been transformed
into an elevator, or had been built in that shape to conceal its
design.

“This is the place,” said the scout, stopping before the door. “I
thought the elevator would be at the bottom of the cellar, but I see
that it has been raised. Perhaps you will know who raised it? I went
in here; then struck a match to look round, as it was dark. As I did
so the elevator descended; and that bit of timber up there, which
I see is in place again, came down on top of me as the bottom was
reached. It’s heavy enough to kill a man, if it struck him right; and
you will please note that it seems braced up there, as if for the
purpose.”

Gopher Gabe protested that he had never noticed that the timber was
“loose.”

“It didn’t get me,” said the scout, “simply because I dropped flat as
the elevator landed. But though I wasn’t much hurt by it----”

“War yer hurt at all, Buffler?” Nomad bellowed.

“It hit me on the shoulders, but did no damage. Then the door was
pulled open, and men came at me from the cellar, trying their best to
kill me. I found a manhole and got out, or I reckon they would have
succeeded.”

“It’s a mighty queer thing,” said Gopher Gabe. “Some rowdies got in
hyer, I reckon, and tried to do ye, but I’m not responsible fer that;
you’ve got a lot of enemies in this town, Cody. I suppose you know
it?”

The scout looked straight at Gopher Gabe.

“Yes, a lot of them!” he said.

“We’ll go down and look round,” said Shepard. “How do ye work this
thing, Gabe? Hanged if I knowed you had an elevator hyer. What you
use it fer?”

“I keep whisky barrels and the like down there,” the saloon keeper
explained. “I put ’em in, and get ’em out with this elevator.”

“Oh, I see!”

As many as could crowded into the elevator and were lowered by Gopher
Gabe to the cellar.

This time the timber above did not come down. Some unobserved touch
of the hand of the saloon keeper stayed it in place.

When the cellar was gained and entered, the sheriff flashing round it
the light of the lamp he had brought, no wounded or dead man was seen
in it; there were no evidences of the fight.

It looked, at first blush, as if the scout had been dreaming. If
he had not been able to show spots on the walls where bullets had
struck, many men there would have gone away believing that he had
lied.

The manhole was found closed.

“I don’t see nothin’, though, of the men,” said Shepard, disappointed.

“It’s as I said,” was Gopher Gabe’s comment; “some street rowdies
that have got it in fer Cody jumped on him in hyer and tried to do
him.”

“Why war they layin’ fer him in hyar?” asked Nomad.

“You can answer that as easy as I can,” the saloon keeper replied.
“How am I to know anything about it? Everything was runnin’ along
smooth upstairs when this thing happened. If I should make a guess,
it’d be that they sneaked down hyer, thinking to find somethin’ they
could lug off. Then, when Cody come down they thought he was after
’em; and so they tried to get ’em.”

It seemed so reasonable an explanation that most of the men who heard
it believed it to be the true one.

CHAPTER XIX.

SHIFTING THE PRISONERS.

The Fool of Folly Mountain had no more than got home when he had
callers, though the hour was so late that it verged upon morning. He
had lighted his lamp and was thinking of turning in for the balance
of the night, when they tapped on his door. When he admitted them he
saw that they were Gopher Gabe and White-eyed Moses.

“Have seats, gentlemen,” he said, in his suave manner. “Sorry I can’t
offer you cushioned rockers, but stools are all I’ve got in stock
right now. I haven’t much time to sit down myself, so don’t find the
need of soft chairs.”

He pushed out two stools for them.

Seating himself, Gopher Gabe looked curiously round the room, at its
rude and simple furnishing, and then at the man himself. He could not
but note that the fellow who called himself Uncle Sam was a tall,
handsome man, made remarkable in appearance by his blond mustache and
the long, blond hair that fell down on his shoulders. The man’s eyes
were keen and penetrating, almost belying the smiling face and genial
manner.

A door opening into the small back room gave a glimpse of an
assayer’s furnace and appliances.

“I’m judgin’ that your secret process for gettin’ gold out of just
plain dirt is a good deal of a success,” said the saloon keeper, with
a meaning smile.

“Well, yes; I’m doin’ tol’able in my line, thank you! Took out a snug
sum this week.”

“And doubled it at my gaming tables.”

The stranger’s gurgling laugh overflowed. The compliment seemed to
please him.

“I hobe that our friendt vill not t’ink it an insuldt if I say that
he seems to know vare a blendy of aces are to be foundt most easily,”
remarked White-eyed Moses.

Uncle Sam laughed again.

“That seems to be the general inference,” he admitted; “but I assure
you, gentlemen, that I get my aces from where they ought to come--the
regular pack. Shall I be blamed if the dealer throws them to me, when
he would, perhaps, prefer to throw me something else? It is just
gambler’s luck.”

“It makes you a heap of a winner,” was Gopher Gabe’s dry comment.

“It’s a fact that the winnings seem to come my way with astonishing
regularity. But what would you? Shall I refuse to win, when I can? I
play for money, you know--not for my health. The other gentlemen are
doing the same; so if they lose it’s their lookout.”

“Cards and minin’ ain’t your only line, I take it?” said Gopher Gabe,
with a wink.

“Idt is vhat brought us up here--ower obinion that you had somet’ing
else up your sleeve,” White-eyed Moses added.

“Several times, and in various ways,” said the saloon keeper, “you
have given us to understand that.”

Uncle Sam winked back at Gopher Gabe.

“It may be so,” he admitted.

“You know what we are drifting at?” said White-eyed Moses.

“Usually, I’m a good guesser, gentlemen!”

“Then, gettin’ right down to business,” said Gopher Gabe, “wouldn’t
you like to go in with us?”

“Getting right down to brass tacks, as you say. I’d like to do that
very thing, if my understanding of your meaning is straight.”

“You ain’t playing this game of assayer hyer without a mighty good
reason,” urged Gopher Gabe.

“You’re right, I ain’t!”

“The gold you get out of this dirt hyer you put into it before you
get it out?”

Uncle Sam winked again, twisting his face in a comical smile. Then he
lifted one eyelid.

“See anything green under there, gents?” he asked.

“Ve knowed all along that it was bluff,” said White-eyed Moses.

Uncle Sam winked again, at the fiddler.

“How much you makin’ out of it?” asked the saloon keeper.

“All I can.”

“How many hauls do you make in a week?”

“In the time I’ve been here I’ve made just five--if that’s what you
mean.”

Gopher Gabe and White-eyed Moses looked at each other. The Fool of
Folly Mountain leaned back on his stool, smiling.

“There have been just seven hold-ups round here in that time, that
we know about. We can account for two of them; that is, we know who
worked ’em. You done the rest?”

“I guess we understand each other, Gabie. So I reckon you might as
well get down to business.”

“You would go in with us?”

“Kind gentlemen, I would, and be delighted. I believe I could clear
up more money, in with you.”

“What kind of a hole have you got back there?” asked the saloon
keeper, looking at the assay room.

“That’s my bluff assay room; but there’s space behind it.”

“A secret place?”

“Hide a man in there, and you couldn’t find him in a hundred years. I
knew that hole was there when I bought out the tenderfoot. He worked
back here in secret, thinking gold was to be found in great hunks;
I’ve been using it secretly, too, but for another reason.”

“You’ve got your winnings back there?”

“And my stealings--some of them.”

“Could you keep a couple of people snug in there for a week or so?”

“For a month, if you want it done.”

“That is shust what ve have come to findt out about,” White-eyed
Moses admitted, rubbing his hands together.

“I guessed it.”

“You dit?”

“Sure thing.”

“Vhat dit you guess?”

“That the people you want me to care for back there air the man and
the woman who have so mysteriously dropped out of sight recently.”

“I’ll tell you how it is,” said Gopher Gabe, growing confidential
now, drawing his stool nearer the other.

“We have got them two, and it’s puzzlin’ us what to do with them.”

“You might knock ’em on the head!” said Uncle Sam, with apparent
callousness.

“Lader, ve might,” admitted White-eyed Moses; “but not shust now.
You see, ve don’t vandt to gommit murter, unless ve have to. It is a
murter charge they have got ag’inst Juniper Joe.”

“Yet you’ve been trying to kill Cody!”

“I ditn’t finish what I was saying. Ve vant to hold them as some sort
of hostages, you see. If ve git indo a hole that we gan’t crawl out
of, ve gan, maype, use them to secure ower safety. You see the boint?”

“I see that, all right.”

“We’ve been holdin’ ’em in a room leadin’ off from that cellar which
was searched to-night,” the saloon keeper told him. “Cody, when he
was knockin’ round down there, hammered with his knuckles on the
walls. He didn’t hit the right spot, or he would have tumbled. The
thing is too risky. He will search the place again, and he’ll find
that room. Then I’ll be in more trouble than I want.”

“If I ton’dt kill him in the meantime!” said White-eyed Moses.

“Moses will have to go into training, before he can qualify as a
pistol expert,” said Gopher Gabe, with a skeptical laugh.

“You mean that when he shoots at a man he hits the lamp beside him,
or shoots through the window where he is sitting, and hits the wall?
It would indicate that our friend Moses has got a bad case of shaking
palsy in his trigger finger, when shooting times comes. He ought to
get over it.”

Uncle Sam’s gurgling laugh sounded again, as he concluded:

“Why don’t you hire a substitute, Moses, who isn’t affected in that
way?” he asked.

“_I’ve_ tried to hire ’em,” the saloon keeper admitted. “But the men
of this town are so paralyzed with fear whenever Cody comes in sight
that money won’t buy ’em; they say they don’t want to die with their
boots on. He has got a bad reputation as a quick gun man, and they
don’t want to take the risks.”

“Yet a bit of cool assassination couldn’t get ’em into trouble! I
should think they would appreciate the fine art of downing a man in
the dark, when he wasn’t looking. Drop a man that way, and he can’t
shoot back, you know.”

“I reckon you’re laughin’ about it.”

“Oh, no! The thing is too serious to laugh about.”

“White-eyed Moses is weakenin’ on the game himself. He come nigh
gettin’ Cody’s lead yisterday.”

“It vent t’rough my hat!” the rascal confessed.

“And destroyed your nerve, eh?”

“So we want to change tactics for a little while; that is, we want to
get them two people out of my cellar into a safer place. We thought
of you. Knowing that really you are of our class, we come hyer; and
I’m glad to find we wasn’t mistaken.”

The stranger smiled, apparently pleased by the compliment which
allied him with all the thugs and toughs of Blossom Range.

“Show me my duty and I’ll do it,” he said; “that is, if there’s good
money in it.”

“A thousand dollars a week,” said the saloon keeper; “and I’ll give
you five hundred of it right now, if you’re willin’. Besides, you
can, if your place back there is really secure enough to hold our
prisoners, keep on beating the fools at my gaming tables, and go
right ahead, too, with your hold-up work; though, in that last, there
is so much danger that I’d like to have you drop it till this thing
blows over. It will be safer for you, if you do.”

“At least vhile Buffalo Bill is here!” said White-eyed Moses.

“Then you’re going to let him live?” cried Uncle Sam, in mockery.

“I am nodt shoking!” Moses protested, flinging out his hands.

“Same here. I was never in a more serious humor in my life.”

“Can we bring them up here to-night?” Gopher Gabe asked.

“If you like, and think it’s safe.”

“I want to see the hole back there first; that will help me to decide
the matter.”

Uncle Sam arose, and took the lamp from the table.

“Just follow me, gents, and I’ll show you as cunning a fox den as you
ever looked into.”

He led the way into the back room, where he pushed on a concealed
panel, which slid to one side under his pressure, revealing a black
hole that was seen to be a passage.

This they entered, the man going ahead with the light, after closing
the secret door behind them.

A few yards of the tunnel admitted them to a small chamber in the
earth.

“The tenderfoot gophered this out, and thought to make a fortune,”
Uncle Sam explained.

Gopher Gabe looked it over with interest, and estimated the distance
to the cabin.

“I reckon they could holler a long time in hyer without bein’ heard
beyond your cabin,” he said.

“Until they was black in the face, and nobody’d ever hear ’em.”

“Idt seems,” said the fiddler, “shust the t’ing ve are vanting.”

“I reckon,” said Uncle Sam, “if you’re lookin’ for a close cage to
hold your birds in you see it right here. I’ll take care of ’em for
you; for that thousand a week, you bet!”

When they had looked the place over thoroughly and discussed it, they
went back to Uncle Sam’s cabin.

Gopher Gabe looked at the hidden door, which appeared to be the same
as the rest of the wall.

“I think it will do,” he said.

He stripped off some bills, from a roll he drew from his pocket, and
passed them to the man of the blond hair.

“Five hundred,” he said; “count it; you’ll get the other five at the
end of the week.”

The stranger slipped the bank bills through his fingers quickly, then
put them in his wallet.

“Correct,” he declared. “Bring along your cattle and I’ll take care
of ’em for you.”

“You go with us down to my place now,” said Gopher Gabe, “and we’ll
turn ’em over to you there; and find some men who will help you get
’em up here. How does that suit you?”

“If the bunch should be jumped on its way here, you don’t want to be
found with it. That’s your idea?”

“I’m paying _you_ to take that risk.”

“That’s clever of you, anyway.”

“I admit that in this game against Cody I’m playing double,” said the
saloon keeper. “You’ll know by and by how that is.”

“I reckon I know now, pard,” was the amiable answer. “You’re the wise
critter sitting in the dark and pullin’ the strings, rakin’ in most
of the money, too, while others do the dangerous work. But it’s all
right. I ain’t no call to kick. Just ante up the cash to me at the
end of each week, and I’ll hold that couple back there till their
heads are gray. I can’t make a thousand dollars a week easier, as I
see it.”

“Andt it is safe--for you,” urged White-eyed Moses.

“I’m goin’ to make it safe, pards.”

“We’d better be movin’, then,” said the saloon keeper, “if the thing
is all understood. Daylight will come jumpin’ along by and by.”

“Right you are. I’m ready.”

Uncle Sam locked the door of his cabin when they went out of it.

Then they took their way together downtown, but kept to the dark
streets.

Entering Gopher Gabe’s establishment by the back way, they came again
into the gaming room; when the man of the blond hair was surprised to
find two men in it--Tim Benson and Juniper Joe.

They looked a bit startled, but Gopher Gabe reassured them.

“He’s all right, boys,” he declared, referring to Uncle Sam. “He’s
come in with us, jest as I knew he would. I think we’re goin’ to find
him a mighty valuable man.”

He introduced Uncle Sam to the two men.

“What’s your right name?” Benson asked, looking at the tall man with
the blond hair. “We don’t want to make any mistakes, you know.”

“Well, I’ve clean forgot what it used to be.”

“You’ve had a good reason to forget it?”

“You’re sayin’ it.”

“Well, if you should ever think of playin’ us false,” Benson flung at
him, “better think twice about it; for you won’t live long afterward.”

Uncle Sam laughed.

“That don’t trouble me,” he declared.

“Idt is no use to pe making threats,” said White-eyed Moses.

“Correct!” agreed the saloon keeper. “You fellers want to be friends.
It stands you in hand; for I’m going to hide you at his place for a
couple o’ days or longer; we talked it over while comin’ down hyer.
I’m goin’ to ask you to help him get that fool Dutchman and the woman
up to his cabin, too. So we’ll have to hustle.”

“Changed your plans, eh?” asked Benson, rising.

“I had to. Cody is catching on. If he should find you in here it
would land me, along with you--see? So I’ve got to get you out of
here. He’ll raid this place again, in better fashion, before another
twenty-four hours; and I reckon you don’t want him to ketch you in
here any more than I do. That’s the way I look at it. If he should
find you occupyin’ that room where you’ve been--and at the same time
unearth the baron and the woman down below, I reckon it would be me
for the jail, along with the rest of the bunch.”

It was singular, the influence the fat saloon keeper had over these
men. Benson was the brainier man, yet he seemed willing to obey the
saloon keeper’s orders.

The five men went down into the cellar, taking the back-cellar
stairs, and carrying a lamp.

The place was nearly filled with barrels and casks, some empty,
others containing liquors of various kinds.

Two of these casks the men rolled out of the way, under the saloon
keeper’s instructions, when a small door was revealed.

This he opened. By stooping, the men passed through it into a small
room. In that room the light of the lamp showed the baron and the
woman, both trussed up in a painful manner.

The baron began to rave as soon as he saw them, for the stolid Dutch
patience had at last given away.

“Cut it out, my friend,” said Uncle Sam. “You’re goin’ with me. If
you do right, you’ll be treated right. But we ain’t goin’ to have any
howling, understand, either here or on the street.”

The German stared up at him, blinking his eyes in the unfamiliar
light.

“Take a good look at me,” the man said, with a laugh; “maybe you’ll
be able to recognize me hereafter.”

“You ar-re vun tuyfel!” the baron spat at him.

“Think so? All my friends say that I’m a perfect angel.”

The woman had not a word to say; she seemed chilled by her position,
and filled with hopelessness.

By one of the back doors of the Casino the prisoners were got out
into a dark street. Four men were in charge of them--Uncle Sam,
White-eyed Moses, Benson, and Juniper Joe.

The ropes had been removed from the ankles of the prisoners, but
their hands were still tied; and they had been told that if they
tried to escape, or call for help, they would be killed without mercy.

In that darkest hour before dawn the whole population of Blossom
Range appeared to be asleep. Not a person was encountered in any of
the dark, back streets through which the party passed.

When the cabin of Uncle Sam was reached, on the crest of the hill
called Folly Mountain, the darkness still held.

“I reckon we’d better not have a lamp,” said Uncle Sam. “Its light
might attract attention. I can strike a match, and use that; and put
it right out. So, in with you.”

The baron and the woman went into the cabin without resisting. In
fact, the baron seemed to have resigned himself to his fate quite as
fully as the woman.

The three desperadoes went away as soon as the prisoners were in the
hole back of the cabin; but Juniper Joe and Tim Benson informed Uncle
Sam that they would be back in a short time, and “board” with him.

The blond-haired man watched them through his darkened window as
they melted out of sight down the hill; then he took up his lamp,
unlighted, and unlocked the door which had been closed on the
prisoners.

Not until he had passed into the prison and had locked the door
behind him did he light the lamp.

The prisoners were lying on the floor, bound again hand and foot.

“This is rough!” he said, holding up the lamp and looking at them.

“You gan bedt idt iss!” the baron exploded.

“Now, I’ll tell ye what I’ll do; I’ll take these cords off o’ you if
you’ll give me your solemn word that you won’t try to get out and
cause me to lose the money I’m to receive for holding you? What say?”

“Ach! Cut ’em off!”

“It seems to me that I can’t stand them on any longer,” spoke up the
woman.

Laughing, the man began to untie the cords.

“I don’t want to cut ’em,” he explained, “and this takes time; but if
you’ll have patience off they will come soon. Ye see, I may want to
put ’em back on you, just as they are now.”

“Donder und blitzen!” the baron sputtered, when once more he was free
of the bonds that had chafed him.

“Feels good, eh?”

“Vot iss idt you ar-re going to do mit us now?”

“You’ve promised to be good children, you know; which means that you
won’t try to get away; and I’m goin’ to treat you accordingly. If any
of that crew comes back, I’ll have to tie you up again; but until
then I’m jest going to hold you on your word of honor.”

“Idt iss der limidt.”

“You mean _I_ am the limit?”

“Idt iss yoost vot I mean.”

“Had anything to eat lately, you two?”

“Nodt anyt’ings.”

“Well, you stay right here and be good, and I’ll bring you something.”

“Why can’t we go out into the other room?” asked the woman. “It seems
to me I’d give anything for a breath of fresh air.”

“Well, you see, you couldn’t eat out there without a light, and a
light might tell tales; so you’d better do the eating act in here.”

“Yaw! Dot iss so,” the baron agreed. “How longk do ve haf to sday
here?”

The blond-haired man laughed.

“Wow!” he gurgled. “I’ll have to keep you here as long as I get
that thousand dollars a week. Unless,” he added, “you could make it
fifteen hundred, and buy me off. I’m on the make.”

He went out of the room, laughing. What he was doing seemed a joke.

Ten minutes later, having supplied them with food, he left the cabin,
locking the door on the outside.

But he had not secured the hidden door leading from the cabin to the
excavated room that was occupied by the baron and the woman. This
door was pushed open, as Uncle Sam went away; and the woman, coming
out for a “breath of fresh air,” stood at the one window, watching
him as he disappeared down the hill.

“Der ouder door iss locked, huh?” asked the baron.

“Tightly locked,” she told him.

“Vale, vot do you t’ink uff idt?”

“The thing is so daring,” she said, “that it makes me dizzy.”

CHAPTER XX.

SPRINGING THE TRAP.

Tim Benson and Juniper Joe wanted to get out of the country, but they
yearned for more money before they went. They had become so much
frightened that not even the offer of a hiding place in Uncle Sam’s
cabin could reassure them. Seeing more clearly every hour that Gopher
Gabe thought more of his own safety than he did of that of any member
of the gang, they were resolved to cut loose from him, but to hide
their intention until after they had pulled off another “job.”

That job was no less than the cracking of the safe of the Blossom
Range bank, which they knew was stuffed with money and gold. The
express company had refused to carry either money or treasure over
its route until times bettered. So the prudent people of the town had
rushed their wealth to the bank, where guards were mounted over it
day and night.

The question of how it could be cracked with safety, under these
conditions, was an important one. Benson wanted to get the personal
aid of Gopher Gabe and White-eyed Moses, both of them once experts
in that line, though latterly they had taken to pathways that they
reckoned more secure.

They refused to do the dangerous work; but agreed to meet Benson and
Juniper Joe that night, with others, at the cabin of the Fool of
Folly Mountain, there to talk the matter over privately. They would
look about during the day, they said; so would be in position to
give advice, if nothing else.

Strolling into Gopher Gabe’s establishment that day, the Fool of
Folly Mountain was asked by Gopher Gabe to come into the back room,
where a “talk” could be had.

Back there the miner found both Juniper Joe and Tim Benson; also
White-eyed Moses, and another all-round bad man, called Williams.

They conferred with him about the matter in hand, after cautiously
“sounding” him.

He thought it was a good scheme, he said, if it could be worked; and
he agreed to a meeting of the “gang” at his cabin that night.

“I don’t think I care to try the safe-crackin’ job myself jest yet,”
he told them; “though maybe I’ll come to it by and by; but I want you
fellers to do it, so that you can sure cinch onto enough money so
that I won’t have any trouble in gettin’ my little thousand a week.
You see, I’m lookin’ out for Number One, the same as you are.”

They asked him about the prisoners; and were assured that they were
“all right.”

“Cody is gettin’ ready to raid this place,” Gopher Gabe told him. “I
got it straight. But he won’t find a thing when he does it.”

The night was dark and late when Gopher Gabe and his friends came to
the cabin on the mountain. With the saloon keeper were Tim Benson,
Juniper Joe, White-eyed Moses, and the scoundrel called Williams.

The Fool of Folly Mountain met them at the door and let them in. The
place was as dark as the night outside.

“I’ll light my lamp as soon as you get inside,” he said to them.
“You see, if it was lit now the light would shine out when the door
is open, and somebody might see you comin’ in; I don’t care for that.
I’ve got to look out for my own health, gents.”

He laughed in his easy way; then told them to stand still while he
made sure the curtains were all drawn tight, and he could light his
lamp.

“You might crack some of my valuable furniture, if you should bark
yer shins ag’inst it,” he explained further, laughing.

The only furniture to be seen when the lamp was lighted were the
stools and bed and the few belongings of the cabin.

“How’s the prisoners?” was Gopher Gabe’s first question, when he was
seated on one of the stools.

“Fine as a fiddle--even Moses’ fiddle!”

“I didn’t know but the Dutchman would rave round some.”

“Well, he did, at first; but I argued the thing out with him.”

“He didn’t seem to be open to argument?”

“He changed his mind, when I told him if he wouldn’t take my argument
any other way I’d open a hole in his head with a bullet and so get
it in. That weakened him. Improved much in your marksmanship lately,
Moses?” the Fool asked airily.

“Ah, drop it!” the fiddler growled.

“I ain’t heard that you have killed Buffalo Bill yet!”

“That’s all righdt. But ve ditn’t come here for shoking.”

“No?”

“We come hyer to talk business,” said Gopher Gabe. “But first I’d
like to look at them prisoners.”

“Doubt my word, eh?”

“No; I just want to see ’em.”

“Right this way, then.”

He took up the lamp.

“Unless some of you gents have got the stub of a candle in your
pockets, you will have to sit here in the dark,” he said, “or foller
the procession.”

They preferred to follow the procession.

In the back room Uncle Sam stopped, and, with interest, showed them
his furnace, blowpipe, and other things; also a lump of gold which he
had laid on a shelf.

“Kind o’ keerless, to lay gold round that way,” said Williams, eying
the chunk greedily.

“Mebby so. But we’re bound to be honest among ourselves, if not with
other people; you see, I’m trustin’ you, in showin’ it.”

“Where’d you git it--out of the rocky dirt back there?” asked Gopher
Gabe, with a hoarse laugh.

“That’s the result of the last hold-up I manipulated,” said Uncle
Sam, with apparent pride. “There’s some nuggets, some gold dust, and
the gold from four watches, melted down into that. As soon as the
express office people git over their scare, I’m goin’ to ship it to
my sister in ’Frisco, and tell the express people I got it out of my
mine by my famous secret process.”

“I reckon you ain’t got no sister!” said Williams.

“I see that our friend Williams is inclined to be a scoffer; and
scoffers never come to any good end. Get over it, Williams.”

When he had shown them around the apartment and talked learnedly of
his “secret process,” he was ready to go into the hidden room with
them; the place that held his “mine.”

“That talk is my regular stock in trade, that I hand out to all
the inquisitive people who come up here askin’ fool questions,” he
explained; “you ain’t expected to understand it; nobody can. I don’t
understand it myself; but it sounds good.”

Tim Benson smiled. Such work was of a kind that _he_ could appreciate.

“Throw anything that seems to be high-browed at the average man,” he
said, “and he’s ready to think that you know everything.”

“Same as you did to Matt Shepard, eh?” said Uncle Sam. “There was
nerve for you, gents--the clear, wire-coated, fibrous article. I
think I have some nerve myself; but Benson seems to hold the medal
right now.”

Benson was flattered, and smiled.

The blond-haired man pushed on the hidden panel, and swung open the
door leading into the black hole; then he took up his lamp again, and
led the way into it.

“Right at my heels, gents. There’s nothin’ in here to bite ye.”

They crowded in after him, and he closed the door; then led the way
to where, at one side of the room, the baron lay tied hand and foot.
At the other side was the woman, tied in the same way.

“The Dutchman was ragin’ round so at one time that I had to anchor
him to the wall, as you can see,” he said. “Trust me, gents, to keep
him; I’ll do it if I have to kill him!”

A rope passed round the baron’s rotund body held him to the wall.

“Ach!” he spat at them as the light was flashed in his face. “Go
avay!”

“How are ye feelin’, Dutchy?” asked the man of the blond hair,
laughing down upon him.

“Uff I effer gidt dese t’ings off uff my handts, I vill keel you!”
the baron howled at him.

“You see how gentle and tame he is, gents!” said Uncle Sam. “I don’t
know but I’ll have to put a gag in his mouth, to keep him from biting
himself.”

“Vhen I gidt oudt uff dhis,” the baron snarled, “I vill shoodt you
yoost so full uff holes dot you vondt holdt vhisky any longker.”

“Wow! He thinks, Gabie, that I’m a steady patron of your bar. You
might disabuse his mind of so unflattering an idea.”

The men stood looking at the baron.

“Go avay!” he shouted at them.

They moved over to the side of the woman, though not because he had
ordered them off.

Under the light of the lamp she looked pale and worn; but perhaps
that was largely because the paint had come off her face.

“The light hurts my eyes,” she urged.

Gopher Gabe turned on his heel.

“Oh, they’re all right,” he said. “We’ll go back into the house and
have a talk now.”

“You wouldn’t want to see where I’ve cached some of the gold I’ve
been gettin’ by my secret process?” asked the Fool.

Williams perked up his head, showing his thieving interest; but the
others, particularly Gopher Gabe, did not seem so interested.

“I think I won’t show it--now,” said Uncle Sam. “Williams looks as if
he’d like to steal it.”

“Is that an insult?” asked Williams, bristling.

“Only the truth, Williams.”

“Oh, come on!” Gopher Gabe growled. “We’ve got something to do, other
than fightin’ this night, if that bank business is to be pulled off.
That’s what we want to talk about; so, come on!”

The Fool of Folly Mountain led the way back into the cabin, lamp in
hand. This time he did not close the sliding door behind him; but it
was a thing not noticed.

He went steadily to the table in the middle of the room, set his lamp
on it, so that the room was brightly lighted; then put stools round
the table for the men to sit on.

When he had done this he stepped toward the back room; but stopped
near the doorway, and stamped his foot.

Attracted by this, and by a scraping of feet and a rustling sound,
Gopher Gabe and the men at the table looked around. What they saw
paralyzed them.

The Fool of Folly Mountain had two revolvers leveled, covering
them. Beside him, in the doorway, stood the baron, holding two more
revolvers. Out from one corner of the room had stepped Buffalo Bill,
with two more revolvers leveled; and out of another corner Nomad had
appeared, with still two more.

“The game is up!” said the Fool of Folly Mountain. “You can see that
I hold all the aces.”

Gopher Gabe tried to rise from his stool, but sank back, an
exclamation of bewildered amazement exploding from him.

“Tricked!” said Benson.

With one sweep of his hand he knocked the lamp from the table,
smashing it; then they heard him crash through the one little window.

Another man tried to follow him; when there was a flash and report,
and he rolled to the floor; the man was Williams.

“Hands up, everybody! The next who tries it will be shot down!”

The words were from Buffalo Bill.

“Cody, I’m the boss fool, after all; and deservin’ the name of the
Fool of Folly Mountain; if I hadn’t been, I wouldn’t have put the
lamp where it could have been knocked over. But you get by that
window and down the first critter that tries to go by you.”

“I’m by et now,” came in the voice of Nomad; “and you bet ther next
devil tries it he goes down, jest like this thing on the floor that
has swallered ther lead pill I sent at him. Gents, we’re hyer fer
clean bizness.”

The Fool of Folly Mountain got another lamp, from a stand near his
elbow, and lighted it; then, holding it over his head, he looked at
the table.

Gopher Gabe, White-eyed Moses, and Juniper Joe sat there, rigid and
scared; on the floor by the window, which had a ragged hole in it,
lay the body of Williams.

“Who in the devil’s name air you?” the saloon keeper howled at the
Fool, his tongue so thick he could hardly pronounce the words.

His face was white, his ratty eyes rolling, his pendulous lips were
apart, and his whole huge body quivered with fear.

“Yes,” said Juniper Joe, not less scared, “who air ye, anyhow?”

The man of the blond hair smiled.

“Wash off the stain that has turned my hair and mustache to golden,
and make a few other changes, and you might recognize me; for I’m
Cody’s old chum and side pardner, Wild Bill Hickok!”

The men at the table groaned.

“Shall I jump through the winder and try ter git that feller?” Nomad
asked. “He’s ther wust of ther lot.”

“He is,” the scout admitted; “Benson is the worst of the lot, but he
hasn’t escaped yet, even if he is out of this room. Better let him
go, right now, Nomad, unless you’re hankerin’ to get a bullet. Better
put in your time in tying these rascals here, while the rest of us
keep them covered.”

“Uff yoost vun uff dhem moves,” said the baron, “I am going to shoodt
him; I haf suffered so mooch dot it vouldt pe a bleasure.”

The white, scared face of the woman called Vera Bright appeared in
the doorway.

“You’ve got them?” she said, peering in.

“We will have,” Wild Bill told her, “just as soon as Nomad can
harness them up.”

She came on into the room.

“Idt vos a great drick, huh?” cried the German to her. “Aber I ton’dt
t’ought at one dime dot I gan standt idt to blay it to der endt.”

“So, you wasn’t tied at all back there?” said Gopher Gabe, boring the
baron with his ratlike eyes.

“Not so dot I feldt idt, eenyhow,” said the baron. “Ve vos der bait
for der rat drap, undil idt couldt pe sprung.”

Juniper Joe began to rave wildly, cursing the man he had known as the
Fool of Folly Mountain.

“Was it a fair deal?” he howled. “You went even into the road-agent
biz, jest to carry this thing through.”

“Which is where you’re mistaken, old boy,” Wild Bill told him; “I
only told you so, to get you to take me into the gang, so that I
could get on the inside of its schemes. See? And the thing seems to
have worked most beautifully.”

Nomad was tying the rascals, doing the work well and expeditiously.
He was enjoying it, too.

“Trapped!” snarled Gopher Gabe, as if the thought choked him.
“Trapped!”

CHAPTER XXI.

TIM BENSON’S ESCAPE.

There was no more astonished man in the town than Matt Shepard when
he learned what had happened, and that the Fool of Folly Mountain was
none other than the famous Wild Bill. The whole of the population of
Blossom Range were equally amazed.

“It’s even a better trick than Juniper Joe played when he pretended
to marry Benson and fooled the whole kit and b’ilin’ of us,” the
sheriff declared.

But Buffalo Bill was not satisfied; Tim Benson had got away, and he
wanted Benson.

Juniper Joe was back in jail, in charge of Shepard; and with him were
Gopher Gabe and White-eyed Moses. Now that he was trapped and caught,
fearing the worst, White-eyed Moses had “peached” on the whole gang,
so that others were soon brought to the jail; and there was an exodus
of scared people from the town.

Knowing that Tim Benson had on more than one occasion sought refuge
with the Utes, Buffalo Bill took with him his pards and Shepard, and
went out there.

Old Iron Bow, the chief, was not pleased with their intrusion into
the village.

When Buffalo Bill demanded the surrender of the white man, Iron Bow
told him no white man was there.

“You will let us look for him?” said the scout.

Iron Bow declared that the thing would be an outrage, but if the
white wanted to look they could do so.

As well as they could, Buffalo Bill and his companions searched
through the Ute village; but they did not find Benson.

“I suppose he suspected we would come here the first thing, and so
kept away,” was the scout’s conjecture.

“Trust Benson for a long head,” said Shepard. “He’s the slipperiest
rascal in the West.”

It had been said of Tim Benson more than once.

Iron Bow’s warriors became ugly and truculent before the white men
left the village, so that it seemed a longer stay might have brought
about a collision.

“Oh, they needn’t howl so,” said the sheriff, when the village was
left behind; “everybody knows that they hide all sorts of jailbirds,
if only the said jailbirds can bring along a good supply of whisky
and blankets, and amm’nition, an’ the like o’ that. Some o’ these
times I’m goin’ to get a line on that work, and lug old Iron Bow down
to jail fer it.”

“Waugh!” whooped Nomad. “You’ll stir up an Injun uprisin’, ef ye do.”

“Vot iss makin’ me mad as hornedts,” declared the baron, “iss dot I
ditn’t shoodt Penson vhen he smashed der lamp. Dot vos incriminal
carelessness, vor I had a beadt on him.”

“If ye had, baron, you would be now deprivin’ yerself o’ much-needed
excitement,” Nomad told him. “You couldn’t be huntin’ fer him right
now, ef he war dead, could ye?”

“And you couldn’t be runnin’ the pleasant resk of him slammin’ a
bullet into ye as you go along hyer,” added Shepard.

“Dot iss so,” the baron admitted. “I am t’inkin’, too, dot pefore ve
gidt him ve vill pe having so mooch excidemendt as neffer vos.”

Between the town and the Indian village was a hill, which had some
good hiding places in and around it.

This they searched, on their way back; though really they had begun
to feel that perhaps Benson had hurriedly left the country.

Benson was in hiding on this hill, and he had seen them coming.

He was armed, and in a desperate frame of mind.

“So, they think they’ll surround me, and get me!” he snarled, when he
saw Wild Bill and Shepard go in one direction, and the scout, with
the others, in another direction. “There will be dead men here, if
they crowd me.”

He got into a position where he could see the approach of Buffalo
Bill and those with him, for he feared the scout most of all.

They passed beneath him, in a troughlike depression. He saw them
enter the “dip,” and was seized with the thought that he might slay
them all, when they gained a certain point.

Close by him was a great bowlder. He was familiar with it, and knew
that it might be set in motion down the hill if a lever were set
under its edge. He found a stick that would do for the lever, which
he put in position; then he waited.

He could not see them now, but he could hear them. When he judged the
right moment had come he threw his weight and strength on the lever,
and started the stone.

He started more than that--he started a landslip!

The crash of the bounding bowlder, and the roar of the landslip which
it had started, warned the scout and his pards of their peril.

Yet it seemed that the discovery of their danger came hardly in time.

“Run for your lives!” the scout yelled.

But as they ran for their lives the Dutch pard went down before the
terrible landslip.

Fortunately, Baron von Schnitzenhauser was an exceedingly
quick-witted man in times of danger; otherwise, it is probable he
would not have lived so long.

He scrambled for a hole that had a covering of rock, in the shape of
a shelf, and hurled himself under it just in time.

With a booming roar the bowlder passed over him; then the loosened
soil and rocks followed it, with a noise that was deafening.

The baron was buried, apparently; but he still could breathe; for the
shelf of rock held the weight of the débris from even touching him.

Buffalo Bill and Nomad turned back. The landslip had passed, but a
cloud of dust hovered. Out of it floated those yells of the baron.

“Waugh! He’s livin’, anyhow,” said Nomad.

The yells of the baron also brought Wild Bill and Matt Shepard; they
had started when they heard the landslip.

It took two hours to dig the baron out; but he issued forth without a
scratch on him.

“A fool for luck,” said Shepard, when the baron had been unearthed.

“Uff you mean der Fool uff der Folly Moundain, idt iss so,” admitted
the baron, feeling gingerly of himself, to make sure he was
uninjured. “It iss no luckiness for me dot I am scar’dt into sixdeen
fidts alreadty, iss idt?”

“Another lucky boy,” remarked Wild Bill, “is Tim Benson. He started
that landslip, and I saw him running. But he was too far off for me
to shoot at him; and by this time he must be miles from here.”

“Whether he is so very lucky or not will be told by and by,” said
Buffalo Bill. “I still intend to get him.”

CHAPTER XXII.

TIM BENSON’S CLEVERNESS.

With Tim Benson at large a desperate fear lay on the town and on the
trails.

Therefore, when Hank Elmore, stage driver, swung his horses round in
front of the stage station, and bawled out, “All aboard fer Calumet
Wells!” the response was disappointing.

A woman stepped out of the station, closely veiled, and carrying a
large hand bag. Elmore dropped from his high seat and handed her into
his vehicle. Both Elmore and the spectators knew that she was Miss
Vera Bright.

“Nobody else wantin’ to take passage in this hyer hearse?” demanded
Elmore, swinging round on his high-heeled boots. “Tim Benson ain’t
goin’ to----”

A belated little man pushed his way hurriedly through the crowd.

“I’m going,” he said, and ran up to the coach.

“Hop inside, er on ther seat with ther driver, jest as ye like,”
cried Elmore.

He swung on round, glowering at the crowd.

“As I was sayin’, thar ain’t no need fer ary gent hyer what is
wantin’ to travel over this trail to-day to be afeard o’ Tim Benson.
I know he’s a rantakerous gun man, what shoots first and does his
explainin’ about it later; and that he has conducted more hold-ups
than ary man whatever was in this town; but he’s got sense. He don’t
hold up no stage when thar’s nothin’ to be gained by it. To-day I
ain’t kerryin’ no gold dust, ner treasure o’ any kind--- ’ceptin’
the lady, gents, o’ course!--so, I know he won’t bother me. He allus
knows when treasure is goin’ out, an’ when it ain’t; an’ he was never
knowed to come fer an empty stage. How he knows when it kerries
treasure I reckon is _his_ business. So--who’s goin’ over the trail
with me ter-day?”

When nobody else showed a desire to accompany him, Hank Elmore
climbed to his high seat, swung his long lash, yelled at the horses;
and the stage bounced and jolted away over the cobblestone street,
into the Calumet Wells trail.

“It’s gittin’ so that women have sure got more sand than the men!”
was his mental comment, as he thought of his female passenger. “But I
wonder why she’s pikin’ out of Blossom Range?”

The man who had entered the stage was apparently thinking the same
thing; for he began to question her.

“I’ve seen you at the Casino,” he said, his tone one of flattery.
“Good show they’ve got there! I understood that you was to stay
another week.”

She had lifted her veil after entering the stage, and now gave him a
close look.

“I don’t think I know you!” she said, as if that were a sufficient
answer.

She observed that he was a small man, with a face clean shaven, and a
quiet, even unassuming, manner.

“Oh, I reckon it ain’t any of my business,” he admitted, “if you put
it that way. It’s no loss, if you don’t know me. But I’ve seen you a
number of times. I s’pose you’re on your way to Calumet Wells?”

“Yes,” she said, but indifferently.

“And beyond that, of course; for that ain’t no proper stopping place.”

“Yes, I’m going beyond there.”

“To ’Frisco?”

“Perhaps.”

She drew back into her corner of the stage. But she found it hard to
stay there, for the pitching vehicle now and then projected her out
of it, once almost into the arms of the man before her.

“I--I beg your pardon!” she cried.

“Don’t mention it.” He laughed. “’Tain’t the first time I’ve had a
lady throw herself at my head.”

“It’s a poor joke!” she declared. But she laughed, too.

He began to talk to her again, then; and presently began once more to
ask questions.

“What you got in that big hand bag?” he queried.

“What should I have in it? My clothing, of course.”

Suddenly the expression of his face changed, and she knew him--knew
that this little man was Tim Benson himself--Benson, the terrible
desperado and road agent; and she knew she had nothing to expect from
him in the way of favors.

She started up with a little cry, but a jerk of the stage threw her
back against the cushions, while the rattle of the wheels over the
rough trail drowned her cry so that it did not reach the driver.

“That’s all right,” said Benson; “I see you know now who I am!”

“Yes, but----”

“Just a little trick I have, by which I fool both my friends and my
enemies. It’s easy, when one has the gift, and knows how. Just draw
up a few facial lines here, and a few others down there, elevate
your brows, squint your eyes a little--just a little!--change the
appearance of your hair, and the thing is done. Nothing easier.”

He ran his fingers through his hair, hiding his face with them for
the fraction of a second; then looked at her. The change was so
complete that again she would not have recognized him.

“Easy enough, when you know how, eh? But it takes a lot of practice.
I worked at that for years before I could get it down fine. But you
needn’t be startled; and, particularly, I advise you that it would be
foolish for you to call out to the driver. It could do you no good;
and might cause his sudden demise.”

She sat staring at him, fascinated, terrified.

“Perhaps you’ll be willing to tell me why you’re leaving Blossom
Range now?” he added.

Suddenly her eyes blazed.

“I thought _you_ were gone!” she gasped.

“And that, because of it, your work there was done?”

“Yes.”

She was silent a moment or so, still staring at him.

“Couldn’t we be friends hereafter?” he asked.

“No,” she told him, the fire in her eyes increasing. “You know what I
have sworn to do?” Her voice trembled.

“Hand me over to the hangman, or kill me yourself.” He laughed. “It
isn’t a nice resolve for a woman to make.”

“If I had known you were going on this stage!” she panted.

“Ah! My dear girl, in _that_ you have a lot of company. A great many
people would have been glad to know that I was going on this stage.”

“They said you had left Blossom Range.”

“Of course, I wanted them to think that. I could have stayed longer,
but I didn’t care to.”

“I know why.”

“Perhaps you can guess.”

“You knew that Buffalo Bill would get you, sooner or later.”

“Well, Cody can make himself very unpleasant, you know. He is out of
town this morning; and I was told that he was out along the trail
looking for me. He left Wild Bill in the town, though, to keep watch
there. I saw Hickok in the street; but I’m sure he didn’t recognize
me, any more than you did.”

He looked through the little window on that side.

“Hello!” he said. “This old hearse has been doing some tall traveling
since we hit the trail. Either that, or we have found each other such
pleasant company that time has fled faster than either of us was
aware. I prefer to think it is the latter.”

He looked at her again, as if musing.

“I want to say to you that if at any time you are very much tempted
to sing out your discovery of who I am to the driver, better not do
it.”

He pulled a revolver from his pocket, and laid it on the seat by him,
with the muzzle toward her.

“Oh, I’m not going to use it,” he told her, when she shrank back in
evident fright. “Not unless Cody appears in the trail, as I’m half
expecting him to do; then I may use it on him. It’s a funny thing,
the way he has been able to keep tab on me. He couldn’t find me,
yet he seemed to know all the time about what I was doing. It’s my
opinion that he heard I meant to leave the town, and thought I would
walk. If so, it was a foolish idea; as he ought to know I never walk
when good riding can be had.”

He looked at the hand bag again, lying on the floor of the stage at
the woman’s feet.

“Anything else in that but your clothing?”

“Nothing!”

Her voice was weak from fear of him.

“You seem to be scared. Well, you needn’t be! And I’ll say that it
doesn’t become you, as a woman who has sworn against me all the
terrible things you have. How are you ever going to carry them out,
if you weaken like that?”

He reached over, and pulled the bag across to him.

Then he cocked his revolver on the seat beside him.

“This revolver will go off and do you irreparable damage,” he said,
his voice hardening, “if you try to interfere with me now. You know,
of course, that I’m a desperate man. Please don’t forget it.”

“What are you going to do?” she asked.

“Well, I’m going to change myself into a woman. See? If you’ll watch
me, you’ll see how it’s done. Where is the key to this thing?”

She hesitated; then, trembling, she gave it to him.

He unlocked the bag and tumbled the contents out on the floor of the
stage.

“I ought to have a mirror---- Ah, thanks, here is one!--and it would
be better if I had a steady floor under me. Yet needs must, when the
devil drives. I’m really expecting my friend Cody to appear now
soon; and I must be ready for him.”

He chuckled, when he saw face powders and paints.

“Just in my line,” he said. “I thought you’d have them, and the
clothing as well. In fact, I’m ready to confess right now that I knew
you were to go out in this stage, and laid my plans accordingly.”

“You’re a--devil!” she gasped.

“Thanks, my dear, for the pretty compliment!”

He pulled a dress out of the heap, looked it over quickly, and began
to put it on, over his clothing.

“Just the fit,” he told her. “I’m a small man, you see.”

He worked quickly.

“I see that you’ve got a roll of false hair that is beautifully
blondined; I’ll thank you for the loan of it a while.”

She stared at him in terror; then, in fear, she gave it to him.

“You see,” he said, as he got to work, “that I wear my hair long; so
I can use this little headgear of yours very readily. I’ll take those
hair pins, too, if you please.”

He looked into the hand mirror that had been in her bag; then pinned
the false hair in place.

Having completed this to his satisfaction, with glances now and then
into the mirror, he took up her powder and puff, and began to dab the
powder over his face.

“I took the precaution to have a clean shave before I started,” he
explained airily, but quietly; “so this will work all right.”

The whip of the driver was cracking from the top of the stage, and
the wheels were jarring heavily, so that the stage pitched about; yet
the pitching did not seem to discommode him. He worked quickly and
with skill. On his cheeks he put some of the paint which the woman
had applied so liberally to her own; he looked at her sharply from
time to time, then consulted the mirror.

To her amazement, she saw that he was transforming himself into a
clever counterfeit resemblance--that his features were becoming
marvelously like hers, even to the heavily laid on paint and powder.
Besides, he had a wonderful facial ability, enabling him to twist his
face into a fair counterfeit presentment of hers.

“I’ve sometimes thought I made my mistake in life in not going on
the stage,” he remarked casually. “As you’ve had experience, you may
be able to judge of that better than I can. This road-agent business
is horribly dangerous, as you may guess; and it isn’t any fun to be
breaking jail one week, and running away from Buffalo Bill the next;
which you know has been my awful lot. Yet there is still a lot of fun
in it, and whole worlds of keen excitement. And what is life, if it
is barren of excitement?”

He had brought into the stage a small hand bag; which now, after he
had made the desired changes in his appearance, he opened. From it he
took the contents, and transferred them to her hand bag.

Again he looked out of the window; but though his eyes were turned on
the landscape speeding past the stage, his ears were keen; for when
in desperation she moved, with the wild intention of trying to get
his revolver, he lifted it from the seat beside him, and pointed it
at her.

“I wouldn’t try it, my dear!” he said, in his smooth voice.

He looked again at her. She had dropped once more back against the
cushions, with a gasp of terror.

“You see, I should hate awfully to be compelled to shoot you!” he
explained, in a cold-blooded tone that made her shudder. “It would
be bad for both of us; and bad to muss up the stage, you know; it’s
really a very good stage, and newly recushioned. So you understand
how I feel about it.”

“You are a devil!” she gasped again.

“Only a man determined to protect himself at all hazards. I wanted to
look out and see if we aren’t reaching the vicinity of Stag Mountain.
In the cañon, just beyond it, as you doubtless know, there have been
a lot of stage hold-ups lately; it may be we will meet trouble there.
We are nearing the place right now. Our Jehu above seems to be laying
on the whip a little more heavily, and I judge that he is thinking of
that place, too. He has been through a good many of the hold-ups. I
should think, by this time, he would be so used to them that if they
did not happen he would miss them as a bit of fun.”

She did not answer.

“But I’ll say this. If we are held up there, you sit still right
where you are. Otherwise, this revolver might go off in your face. I
shouldn’t hold myself responsible for the consequences.”

The tall peak of Stag Mountain came into view.

Benson closed the woman’s hand bag and dropped the key into his
pocket. Then he lifted the skirt of the dress he had put on over his
clothing, and hid the revolver somewhere under it.

“We’re comin’ to ther place,” Hank Elmore bellowed to them, leaning
down from his high perch so that they could hear him. “But I don’t
reckon we’ll meet up with any trouble to-day.”

He cracked his whip over the backs of the horses, and the stage
lurched and bounded into the gorge that swung past the hill, and on
into the cañon noted for its many hold-ups.

As if to bolster his courage, he began to sing.

CHAPTER XXIII.

BUFFALO BILL’S HOLD-UP.

Matt Shepard bounced quickly into the room occupied by Wild Bill
Hickok, at the Eagle House.

“Excuse me!” he said. “But if what I hear is so, Tim Benson has got
out o’ the town!”

Wild Bill, who had been sitting comfortably by the window, came to
his feet with a jump.

“Do you reckon it’s so?” he asked.

“They say he took the stage; that _he_ was the man that was seen to
git on. It was only after the stage had pulled out, that Barney,
the stableboy, decided that the one man who went as a passenger was
Benson. Barney has got keen eyes, and I’m bettin’ his guess is the
truth. If so, Benson fooled me complete.”

Matt Shepard turned back to the door when he had delivered this.

“I thought I’d tell you,” he said. “I’m goin’ to git some men
together and shack right out after that stage. Benson has fooled me
so many times----”

“And may be fooling you now,” the man from Laramie reminded.

“You mean this guess of Barney’s may be wrong?”

“It’s just what I mean. Who else went in the stage?”

“Vera Bright.”

“Wow!”

“But I’m guaranteein’ that she didn’t know that the man who climbed
into the hearse with her was Benson.”

“Where is Miss Bright going?”

“On her way to ’Frisco, I heard. She’s had enough of the game here.
She told me only yisterday that she believed Benson had got out of
the country, and she was goin’ this morning.”

“It’s a queer thing, if they’re there together.”

“But just like Benson. Nobody can ever tell what he’ll do. He’s
sharper than tacks and slipperier than eels. But that stage is
humpin’ right along--Elmore is driving, and he makes things hum when
he’s on the box.”

“Yes, that’s so.”

Wild Bill came out of his room, following the sheriff, and locked the
door behind him.

“What you goin’ to do?” Shepard asked.

“I’m going to get word of this to Buffalo Bill as fast as I can.”

“Where is he?”

“Out on that very trail, and looking for Benson.”

“You follow the stage, as soon as you can get your men together! I’ll
shack out alone.”

Wild Bill went down the stairway to the lower floor three steps at a
jump; then ran out to the stable, at the rear of the hotel, where he
kept his riding horse.

Before the slower-moving sheriff was well out in the street, Wild
Bill had his horse ready, and was in the saddle.

He struck at once into the Calumet Wells stage trail, galloping out
of the town; but he did not stick to it long. The appearance of the
dust in the trail told him that the stage had passed that way not
long before.

“I’ll want to pass round the stage without Benson knowing it, if the
scoundrel is in it,” was his thought, “and so get word to Cody. It
will take some hot riding to do it, but I’ve got an animal here that
can go. Shepard is a slow mover; so he won’t get this far out within
an hour, if then; for he will want to get a lot of men together, with
horses, and that will take time. The stage will be at Stag Mountain
long enough before the sheriff can get anywhere near it. That would
be just the place for Cody, if I can get the word to him in time.”

So Wild Bill swung out of the trail, turning off to the right, and
rode at a swift gallop.

Occasionally, as he drove his horse on, he consulted his watch, and
looked at the rising peak of Stag Mountain, estimating the probable
time the stage would get to that point.

Having left the trail, he did not see the stage at all. But he came
abreast of Stag Mountain in a remarkably short time, and swung on
around it, keeping to the path he had chosen.

“If Cody suspects that Benson may try this trail, in an effort to get
out of the town, I’ll find him near the other end of the cañon,” was
his conclusion. “I’ll look for him there, at any rate.”

The man from Laramie, knowing of his pard’s plans, judged so
accurately that, when he came again into the stage trail, just beyond
the cañon, he saw first a rifle poked at him over the bushes, then
the head of old Nomad appear.

“Waugh!” the trapper bellowed at him. “I war jest on ther p’int o’
pumpin’ lead at ye. Better swing back on them reins. Buffler’s in
hyar.”

Buffalo Bill and the Baron rose out of the bushes and stepped into
the trail, where Wild Bill had brought his panting horse to a halt.

“News!” said the man from Laramie.

“I cal’lated et, soon’s I seen ’twas you!” said Nomad.

“Tim Benson is coming in the stage, so I was told. Shepard gave me
the word; and though it is just a guess, I straddled my animal and
brought it to you.”

“And the stage is due here at almost any minute,” was Buffalo Bill’s
comment.

“Yes, I reckon it is. I rode like the devil was after me, for I was
bound to git here first. Shepard is to follow it with a posse; but
it’ll take him half a day, likely, to turn round a few times and get
under way.”

“Uff idt iss drue,” said the baron, “I gan see some bromise of a varm
dimes goming. Dot Penson iss a fighdter.”

“Anybody with him?” the scout asked.

“Yes--and it’s a funny thing! Vera Bright is in the same stage.”

“Waugh!” Nomad whooped. “Thet actress woman. But she’s his inemy.”

“As I understand it, she didn’t know he was to go, and perhaps
didn’t recognize him; he’s got a wonderful way of changing his
appearance--never saw anything like it. The only thing I’m afraid of
is that a mistake has been made, and he ain’t in the stage with her
at all. She went; that’s sure. And a man went--a small man, about the
size of Benson; one of the stableboys says he knows it _was_ Benson.
Now you know all I do.”

“Budt ve vill haf to do some mofing kvick,” averred the baron. “You
vill pe hearing dot stage in apowet fife minudes.”

“You’ll have to look out for Benson’s revolvers,” the man from
Laramie warned. “He’s quick with the trigger, and he will shoot if
cornered. We’ve got to get the drop on him.”

Buffalo Bill took charge of the situation, and led his friends at a
run toward the cañon, which lay like a black gulf on the southern
side of the low peak called Stag Mountain.

Through the cañon the trail ran, and because the cañon was dark, with
bushes growing on each side, it had for many months been a favorite
place for hold-ups. Benson had used it in that way a number of times
himself.

Hardly had the scout and his friends got into position in the bushes
in the cañon when the rumble of wheels announced the approach of the
stage.

They soon afterward heard the snapping of Elmore’s long whip, and
the voice of the driver. He was singing, to give himself and his
passengers assurance. Elmore always got nervous when he came to that
spot. Though he had been in a score of hold-ups and never injured, he
expected that each would be his last. If there had been another way
for the stage, he would have taken it. There was a bridle path, which
Wild Bill had followed; but though it was wide enough for a horse,
the stage could not get through it.

Elmore’s bellowing voice was wafted ahead of him into the dark-walled
confines of the cañon:

“The red-headed man from Santy Fe,
Held aces four, an’ then some more;
He got my wealth away frum me,
An’ I am sore--I’m mighty sore!”

The stage came in sight, lurching down into the cañon. Elmore swung
his whip, making it crack like a pistol.

“G’lang!” they heard him yell. “Git through this hyar brimstone hole,
fast as ye can. Whoop! Wow! Go on, there!”

Hank Elmore, thinking he was through, or nearly so, and safe, broke
out in song again.

But suddenly his singing changed to a howl, his foot was jammed
automatically against the heavy brake, and he pulled back on the
lines.

“Whoa!” he yelled.

Out of the bushes on each side weapons had appeared, making him think
that it was another road-agent hold-up; though in an instant he saw
that the men were Wild Bill, Buffalo Bill, old Nomad, and Baron von
Schnitzenhauser.

“What in the name o’ Sam Hill!” he yelled, in his amazement, as he
recognized them. “Gents, this is----”

“Just keep your seat and steady your horse,” Buffalo Bill shot at
him. “We won’t trouble _you_. The man we are after is in the stage.”

“Wow!” said Elmore. “Is that so? What’s _he_ been up to?”

“If we aren’t mistaken, you’re pulling Benson along in your old
hearse to-day,” the scout told him.

Elmore came near falling out of his seat.

“Bub-Benson! But--say, it cain’t be. Bub-Benson ain’t----”

Buffalo Bill advanced on the stage, a revolver in each hand, paying
no further heed to the stage driver.

“We think you’re in there, Benson!” he called out. “So you might as
well step right out and surrender. We know you’re a big little man,
and a mighty good pistol shot; but there are four of us here, and we
can do some shooting, too. So, even if you downed one or two of us
you couldn’t get away. And it would go mighty hard with you. Better
come right out like a little man and surrender.”

But there was no reply to this.

“Hold your revolvers on the stage doors,” the scout commanded. “If
Benson jumps out and tries to get away, down him. He has given us
enough trouble.”

He stepped to the door of the stage on his side, and boldly drew it
open with his left hand, holding a revolver in his right.

“You might as well come out, Benson. There is a woman in there. Miss
Vera Bright; but, of course, she knows that we mean no harm to her.
We’re after Tim Benson.”

There was a rustling sound; then a woman--or what they took, in the
rather dim light, to be a woman--came out of the stage, carrying a
hand bag.

“You--you sc-scared me so!”

“No harm will be done you, Miss Bright,” said the scout. “But there
is a man in here; and we want him.”

The scout put his head in at the stage door, and saw a form lying
back amid the cushions.

“Hello!” he said. “What is this!”

The next moment he had leaped into the stage, after calling on his
friends to keep a close watch.

A woman lay unconscious against the cushions of the coach, the scout
saw at once.

He stooped over her, the light not so good that he could see her
face clearly; but a feeling that something was wrong came to him.

“Stop that woman outside!” he yelled.

He turned to get out of the stage.

At the same instant Nomad yelled something.

“Stop her!” Buffalo Bill shouted.

Nomad began to run after the supposed woman.

“She is hikin’, Cody,” he announced.

“Then shoot her! For that woman must be Tim Benson!”

The trapper’s revolver roared the next moment.

“Waugh!” he howled. “She’s gittin’ away, Buffler!”

The scout flung himself out of the stage.

All he saw at that first look was the skirts of the supposed man, as
they whipped out of sight behind a rock, and Nomad lunging in that
direction.

“I’m afraid we’re tricked,” said the scout to Wild Bill and the
baron. “But you stay right here; some woman is in the stage, or else
Benson. We will know directly.”

Then he sprinted after Nomad.

The disguised man was out of sight, amid the rocks that lined the
cañon, by the time the scout and the trapper reached the spot where
last they had seen him.

“Waugh!” Nomad roared, staring around. “Was et a man, er a woman?
Anyway, ther critter hes kited.”

The scout ran on, looking about, hand on ready revolver, prepared to
shoot, and expecting to be shot at. The rocky sides of the cañon were
bush-grown, and there were little crevices and cracks making off from
it on the right and left. These were dark, and made darker by the
bushes. The outlaw had all the advantage. He could lie hidden; and
when he felt safe, he could climb softly up the broken and ragged
cañon wall, or sneak away along the rifts. Twenty men would hardly
have been enough to make a prompt and thorough exploration of the
many hiding places.

Buffalo Bill turned back, meeting Nomad, who had been following.

“Er clean giterway!” the trapper howled.

“It looks it, Nomad. But we’ll go back to the stage and see what we
have there.”

Instead of answering, Nomad whirled as if on a pivot, swinging his
revolver round, and sent a shot plunging and roaring into one of the
side gorges. At the same time he followed the shot by rushing into
the place.

“Did you see him?” Buffalo Bill called, following the trapper.

“I heared him--er her!”

But the sound did not come again.

What was heard next was a plunging of the stage horses, then the
bounding and rattling of the stage, accompanied by a roar from Hank
Elmore, commanding the horses to stop.

“I reckon ther hosses hez tuck et inter their heads ter make a break,
too,” commented the trapper.

He and Buffalo Bill rushed into the gorge, searching for the author
of the sound they had heard. But they unearthed nothing, and by and
by came out.

“We might’s well give et up, Buffler,” the trapper admitted ruefully.
He was in a fuming rage. “This is tough luck. Whoever thet was made a
clean giterway. Looks like er trick o’ Benson’s.”

Hastening back to the spot where Wild Bill and the German had been
left with the stage, they found the stage gone, and those who had
been with it.

“This is a beastly mess!” Nomad whooped. “Even so big a thing as a
stagecoach slips right through our fingers. But I reckon thet Wild
Bill an’ ther baron aire chasin’ arter et.”

They followed, also, hurrying at a run along the trail.

When they came out of the cañon they saw the stage and horses a
quarter of a mile away. The German and Wild Bill had apparently
overtaken the stage, and then had turned back, for they were coming
toward the cañon. The stage driver, after wrapping the lines round a
tree by the trail, came also toward the cañon, hastening to overtake
the man from Laramie.

“Might’s well wait fer ’em ter git hyer,” suggested Nomad. “I’m plum
winded. But ef we war follerin’ Benson, ther kyote got away.”

“I believe it was Benson, in spite of the woman’s clothing.
Circumstances suggest it.”

“And Wild Bill said thet et war him.”

When Wild Bill came near he swung his hat and whooped:

“Did he get away?” he demanded.

“Plum made ther through trip,” Nomad answered, his face an angry red.

“Was it a woman who was left in the stage?” the scout asked.

“It was Vera Bright.”

“You’re sure of that?”

“There’s no doubt whatever, pard. We brought her round, and she
talked with us. She’s in the stage yet, but weak; we left her there
and come hoppin’ back, judgin’ that you was needin’ help. She told
us that Benson had taken her hand bag, got clothing and other things
out of it, and made a change in his looks, while he was in the stage
with her; and that she was too frightened to make an outcry. He said
to her, too, that he was expecting you to appear, and that he would
fool you, and get away.”

“Et’s what he has done, ther ornery skunk!” cried Nomad. “But et’s
jest like Benson.”

“He iss like der flea,” put in the baron; “vhen you haf got him, you
gan loogk vor him at some odder blaces alreadty.”

“He’s certain a mighty smart un,” commented the stage driver. “I was
tur’ble oneasy as I driv up ter ther cañon, but I’d ’a’ been throwin’
fits ef I had guessed thet Benson was the little gent ridin’ in my
hearse.”

“Benson knew that the town and the trails were watched and covered,
so he had to make use of some scheme to get out at all; and, of
course, he wanted to get out,” said the scout. “I wonder where he
will go now?”

“Could we trail him?” asked the man from Laramie.

“That’s to be settled, after we try it.”

“Then you mean to try it?”

“I certainly shall do everything to keep him from getting out of the
country. After he leaves this rocky section and puts his foot on
softer ground he has got to make a trail, and I see no reason why we
can’t find it and follow him. It will take time; but if no rain comes
to wash out his tracks, we can do it.”

“No rain in sight now,” said Nomad. “Et don’t rain down in this
kentry enough ter make a man reckle’t what a good rain seems like.”

A sound came from the direction of the horses, that the stage driver
had tied to the tree.

“Wow!” he howled. “They’ve broke that hitchin’ strap, and thar they
go, cuss ’em!”

The horses had broken away from the tree, and were going down the
trail at a tearing gait, dragging the stagecoach, which swayed and
bounced on the rough places, as if it would go over.

The excited stage driver started after them on foot, as if he thought
he could overtake them in that way.

“No use to run your lungs out in that style, Elmore,” the man from
Laramie called out to him. “Our horses are right here. You can
straddle the back of one of ’em, with the reg’lar rider, and get
there a heap quicker.”

The scout and his pards hurried to get up their horses, which were
hidden out in the scrub.

But by the time they had done this the stage had bobbed out of sight.
By and by they even ceased to hear it; though, before the sounds of
its flight ceased, a crashing sound reached them, much as if the
stage had been overturned.

“That girl is shore gittin’ a run fer her money,” observed Nomad;
“thet is, ef she likes fast goin’ in an ole stagecoach. I’m hopin’
she ain’t hurted none whatever.”

They were quickly galloping along the trail after the stage.

When they came in sight of it they saw what had happened. Scared by
shadows at one side of the way, the horses had swung out of the plain
road, then had vainly tried to get past, a big bowlder by going one
on each side of it; the result of which was that the pole of the
stage had struck the rock, breaking the pole, bringing the horses to
a violent stop, and tumbling the stage over on its side. In addition,
the horses had snarled themselves in their harness with a perfection
that rendered them helpless.

Hank Elmore was aghast when he beheld the damage.

“I wonder what et done fer ther woman?” was Nomad’s query. “I don’t
see her stirrin’ round, and ef she ain’t eternally smashed, I sh’d
think thet she’d git outer ther ole hearse.”

“I am guessing,” said the baron, “dot she iss inkinscious ag’in.”

“Repetition of a thing creates a habit,” said the man from Laramie,
with a laugh on his lips. “I’m hoping it won’t be so in her case; as
unconsciousness would be a bad habit to cultivate.”

They galloped up to the stage and the tangled horses. But when they
had done so and looked into the vehicle, they were struck with
amazement.

_The woman was not in the stage!_

“Wow! What’s ther meanin’ of et?” Nomad whooped.

“Uff she had peen sbilt oudt alongk der vay ve musdt haf seen her,”
said the German.

“That cushion has fallen, and maybe she is crumpled up under it,”
Buffalo Bill suggested.

But she was not under the cushion; nor was she in the stage at all.

Hank Elmore, fuming and growling, was trying to get his horses
untangled.

“This trip puts ther kibosh on any I ever took,” he growled. “I have
been through hold-ups a-plenty, but this is wuss than any of ’em,
fer me. One o’ you fellers that’s got a sharp knife lend a hand
yere; this hawse has twisted ’leventeen bowknots o’ leather round his
forrud laigs, and I cain’t untie none of ’em; we’ve got ter do some
knife work, I reckon.”

Wild Bill sprang to his aid, and the recalcitrant harness was hacked
away.

After making certain that the woman was not in or near the stage,
the scout requested Nomad and the baron to look for trails near by,
then turned about and retraced his way, leaning over from the saddle,
searching carefully.

A whoop from Nomad stopped the scout and brought him back.

“I’ve found tracks,” said the trapper, “but they ain’t hers; look
like a grizzly b’ar’s; but thet cain’t be, fer a grizzly don’t w’ar
shoes.”

The scout flung himself out of the saddle; and, leaving Bear Paw
standing in the trail, he hurried over to the spot occupied by the
baron and Nomad. Wild Bill and Hank Elmore were still unsnarling the
stage horses.

The trapper pointed solemnly to some tracks that he and the baron had
found.

“Erbout big ernough fer a grizzly,” said Nomad, “an’ ther feller thet
made ’em shore shuffled along jest like a b’ar; yit I reckon ’et
war a man, ’count o’ ther shoes. I never yit heerd thet b’ars war
addicted ter ther shoe habit.”

The tracks were large, showing they had been made by shoes of the
biggest size. As the trapper stated, the wearer had progressed with
a shuffling movement, as was to be told by the fact that where the
ground was soft the tracks were long-drawn, indicating that the feet
had slid along, instead of being well lifted.

“Der kvestion vot me unt Nomat haf peen asking,” said the baron,
“iss, Dit he haf der vomans?”

“We couldn’t tell, Buffler; fer, ye see, though them tracks sink
purty deep, it may be bercause ther feller was a purty good weight
hisself; ther size o’ them feet indercates a big man.”

“We’ll see if we can pick up the trail of the woman,” said the scout.
“That is, if she left the stage at this point, and not before it
reached here. It seems to me, though, that she could not have got out
of the stage, the way it was tearing along, until it made its stop
right here.”

“What would she want ter leave it fer?” asked Nomad.

“She iss Vera Bright,” said the baron.

“By which the baron means, I judge,” the scout explained, “that she
has been little better at times than a comrade and friend of outlaws,
and perhaps is not to be trusted to do the honest thing in this case.”

“Vot I am t’inking iss dot perhabs she ditn’t vant to seen you, Cody.
She might haf a reasons.”

The scout was searching for tracks of the woman.

Soon he found them--off on the right; small tracks, going in the same
direction of the large ones.

“Now, which were made first,” he asked, “the woman’s, or the tracks
of the big feet? You can see that both are fresh.”

“Idt gidts me,” the baron confessed.

“Likewise, hyer,” said Nomad. “Was she follerin’ ther man, er was he
follerin’ her; er was they travelin’ independent? Ther only way ter
find out is ter overtake ’em, I reckon.”

The horses had been released from the tangled harness, and the
disgusted stage driver was tying them to some trees. Wild Bill walked
over to the place where Buffalo Bill and his pards were discussing
the trails.

“I’ve been hearing your talk,” he said. “And I judge you’re up in the
air.”

The scout admitted it.

“What you going to do?”

“Follow these trails, and see what became of the woman first. Then
try to pick up the trail left by Tim Benson. I suppose there is no
doubt the fellow was Benson?”

“Miss Vera Bright declared he was Benson.”

“Budt can she pe trusdted?” asked Schnitzenhauser.

“I think so, in that,” Wild Bill told him. “She was scared, and she
seemed to be speaking the truth. Yet I can’t understand why she left
the stage here, unless the jolt she got when the stage hit that rock
unsettled her mind a bit.”

Buffalo Bill followed along the trail of the woman.

“It’s a thing we’ve got to find out,” he said.

CHAPTER XXIV.

GORILLA JAKE.

Tim Benson, having by some clever and careful climbing, got out of
the cañon gorge, and to the high ground beyond it, was hastening
along, hurrying so rapidly to put distance between himself and the
men he feared that he had not stopped even long enough to remove the
woman’s dress he wore, when he was brought to a sudden and gasping
halt by seeing a revolver poked at him over the top of a bush.

“Try ter draw a gun, and I’ll down ye!” came in warning from behind
the bush.

Benson’s hands, going involuntarily to the revolver he carried,
stopped on touching the dress, which at the moment he had forgotten
he was wearing.

“Hands up!” repeated the fellow behind the bush.

Grumbling, and still ready to fight, Benson complied; he did not
believe the man who spoke was one of Buffalo Bill’s followers, which
increased the likelihood that the man was an outlaw, like himself.

“Come out of that, and let me see you!” he said. “Likely I know you,
if you’ve been herding round here.”

The man came out, with his revolver leveled.

As soon as Benson saw him he dropped down with a breath of relief,
then began to laugh, as an understanding of the situation came to
him. Yet the man saw nothing to laugh at.

“I’ll jest take that there hand bag,” he said, “and any other
vallybles ye’ve got about ye.”

“Wow! Gorilla Jake!”

The man stopped with a grunt of surprise, but still kept the revolver
pointed at Benson.

“It’s funny, eh?” he said. “Well, explain it, so’s I can laugh with
ye.”

The fellow was a very giant, so far as stature went; but he seemed
an immense ape, or gorilla, rather than a man. His arms were so
abnormally long that the one which hung down at his side extended to
his knee. His legs, by comparison, were short. His body was long; his
shoulders big and thick. His head was small, with cunning, apelike
eyes, set in the midst of a hairy face. His clothing was rough; his
hat, a brimless thing, crowded down so tightly on his skull that the
small size of his head was clearly shown.

“Who--who do you think I am?” Benson gasped.

“I reckon you’re ther woman what let out the screech when I come up
to the stage over thar, after it whanged into the rock. I looked in
at ye; then you give out that clippin’ yell and streaked it; I never
see a female make sech a jump. And run! Well, you was runnin’ like
a locomotive. I seen you had a hand bag, and that the stage held
nothin’; so I piked out and follered ye. Now, I’ll take the hand bag.”

Tim Benson stared at the apelike man before him.

“When was this?” he asked.

“Waal, I’m figgerin’ that you know that jest as well as I do. I’ll
thank ye fer the hand bag.”

“Was it _this_ hand bag?”

“I’m sayin’ it was. Hand it over.”

“See here, you’re fooled.”

“Not on yer life, I ain’t. When ye hand that bag over, simply git rid
of all yer other vallybles, too; fer I want ’em. How you knowed I’m
called Gorilla Jake, I dunno; but it don’t make much difference. I’m
him. Knowin’ it, you ought to know that I’ve got an impatient temper.”

Tim Benson stood up, smoothed out his facial muscles and threw off
the dress he had drawn over his clothing. Then Gorilla Jake saw that
he had a man to deal with. When fuller recognition struck him like a
blow in the face, he fell back.

“Benson!” he howled.

“Needn’t yell it. There’s men on my trail; and they’ll be on yours in
a minute, if they ain’t already. You know ’em, too--Buffalo Bill and
his crowd.”

Gorilla Jake looked around, with a startled air.

“Was that the crowd that was up by the cañon?” he asked.

“You’re speakin’ it.”

“Gee-whittaker!”

“But you needn’t holler it. They’ll be hoppin’ along here soon
enough, without that. What are you doing here?”

“What air you? And what was you playin’ woman fer?”

Tim Benson stood up, listening for sounds of pursuit.

“Let’s hunt a safe hole somewhere; then we can talk things over. It
may be a lucky thing for both of us that we’ve met.”

“Not fer me--if you’ve got Buffalo Bill’s crowd follerin’ ye!”

But the apelike man followed Benson when the latter set out to seek a
safer stopping place.

It was found by and by, in a hole, after a careful climb across a
rocky slope.

“There’s a few bushes growing in the crevices here,” said Benson,
“and they’ll help to hide us; while this position, away up here,
gives us such an outlook that Cody’s crowd can’t come on us easy
without us seeing them. So we can talk things over.”

Gorilla Jake dropped down inside the hole with Benson.

“First,” said Benson, “what brought you here?”

“I might answer by sayin’ my feet,” the apelike man answered,
spreading his mouth in a horrid grin; “but that wouldn’t be
explainin’, would it? So I forks over the information that I was on
my way to Blossom Range, and was keepin’ out of the reg’lar trails
simply as a matter of habit.”

“Any sheriffs chasin’ you?”

Gorilla Jake hesitated.

“Not this trip.”

“The last I heard of you,” said Benson, ignoring the hesitation, “was
when it seemed you was going to hang for killing Nat Spargo, over in
Valley Falls.”

Gorilla Jake drew up his huge shoulders.

“I got out o’ that,” he explained, “by makin’ the jury believe that I
done the thing in self-defense; but it was a close squeeze.”

“What is your lay now?”

“Seems to me that I’m doin’ all the explainin’!” the apelike man
objected. “But, never mind--I’ll git my whack at you when I’m
through. Jest now I was goin’ to Blossom Range, where I thought I
might find some o’ my old pals. But the chief reason was the Utes,
that’s livin’ jest north of it.”

He pulled a package from his pocket. Opening it, he displayed a
number of brown tablets.

“Good trick,” he said; “I paid fifty dollars fer the recipe tellin’
how to make ’em. I never need to go road agentin’ no more, to git all
the cash I want. Feller that I bought the recipe of was a Chinaman.
Ordinary, I take the drugs in their raw state, and mix ’em in whisky.
But over in Virginny City I found a drug-store man what made it up in
that shape fer me; and I kin kerry a lot of it in a small compass.”

He held one of the brown tablets up in his fingers.

“Contains jest two grains,” he said. “Let a man mix one o’ them in
his whisky, and then let him drink it, and he’s jest got to have
more. After that, I’ve got him. It makes him see visions and have
the howlingest happy ole time, with adventures in clear joy, such as
never was; all fer a few cents. One tablet will do that. Give him
three; and he gits wild. Give him four er five, and he’d kill his
best friend fer a dollar. Give him as high as ten, and he jest lays
down and don’t know nothin’ fer twenty-four hours straight.”

Tim Benson became intensely interested.

He took the tablet and looked at it; felt it, smelled it, then tasted
it.

“Not much taste to it,” he remarked.

“It’s the effect what does the work.”

“You’ve tried ’em yourself?”

“Not any fer me, thank ye! If I did, I’d simply be eatin’ ’em all the
time; and it would be the end of me. It gits the best of ’em, after
a while, if they don’t stop it; and they can’t stop it so long as the
stuff is to be had. Start an Injun at it, and first he’ll trade ye
his gun; then he’ll pass over his ponies and his blankets; finally
he’ll give ye his squaws, if ye want ’em.”

“He might murder you to get the stuff, I should think.”

“It don’t work that way. When he’s the wildest, he’s still got sense
enough to pertect the man what furnishes him his means of happiness,
so’s he kin git more. See? So I always feel safe.”

“Is it an opium compound?”

“Thar’s opium in it, and Indian hemp; them’s the principal
ingrediments. Thar’s another thing called woolly loco; an’ some
jalpasca, which comes frum Ceylon. But--shucks, d’ye think I’m goin’
ter give ye ther recipe of how to make this?”

Tim Benson sat staring at the little tablets.

“How many you got of them?” he asked.

“More’n enough to set a hundred men crazier’n a band o’ bobcats.”

“That’s good!”

“See hyer,” snarled the apelike man, showing his fang-like teeth.
“Seems to me I’m doin’ all the talkin’--answerin’ all the questions!
You ain’t opened up any information about yerself, thet I’ve noticed.
No hawg bizness goes with me!”

“I was just thinking.”

“Didn’t I notice it. I want you should do some talkin’.”

“I think we can make this stuff highly useful.”

“I’m doin’ that already; it’s highly useful, to pull money in my
direction. That’s a secrit I ain’t goin’ to sheer with nobody.
Besides, you said we would have a confidential ixchange of
information personal. I’ve laid my cards on the table; put down
yours.”

“Oh, I see! You want to hear my story.”

“Prezackly.”

“It’s short--but not sweet. As I told you, Cody and his crowd are off
over there somewhere, looking for me. I came in the Calumet Wells
stage from Blossom Range this morning. In the stage with me was a
woman, that you don’t know--a show girl, who goes by the name of Vera
Bright. I thought a good deal of her at one time; in fact, me and a
gambler and road agent by the name of John Ward ran a close race for
a snug place in her affections. She allowed Ward was a better looker
than myself, and he won out.”

“I know him.”

“You mean that you once knew him. Right now he is dead.”

“Wow! What did he die of?”

“A bullet out of my pistol.”

The apelike man edged away, staring at Benson.

“Does that hit you in a tender spot?”

“Not p’ticklerly; he wasn’t no friend of mine.”

“I’m glad of it. This woman I’m telling you about never forgave
me for killing Ward; though, as I look at it, it was Ward for the
graveyard, or me. He would have killed me, only that I got him first.”

Then Benson related his adventures in Blossom Range in detail, and
when he had finished the apelike man sat staring in admiration at the
master villain.

“You’re shore a wonder!” he ejaculated.

The compliment pleased Benson, and he smiled.

“I got away, as I said; then I met you.”

“Jest so. Well, I heard a rumble and noise in the trail, and saw the
stage down there, with the horses snarled. Looked like nobody was in
it, er that they was all dead; so I slid down to investigate. When
I poked my nose in at the stage door thar was a woman layin’ on the
cushions. I reckon she thought I was the devil, fer which I ain’t
blamin’ her; I never did count much with women, ner in a beauty show.
She let out a yell, jumped out of the stage, and fair flew; and she
come in this direction.

“About that time I thought I heard men frum the cañon, and I kited;
fer I didn’t want to meet ’em. I run over in this direction, and then
I heard you. Thinkin’ it was maybe somebody that had follered me, I
got behind that bush. It was my intention, if the man was alone, as I
thought, to hold him up and rob him. But it was you.”

“So we understand each other.”

“Yes; now we understand each other.”

“Got any plans now?”

“I told you I was goin’ into the town, then to the Utes.”

“Better keep out of the town right now. As for the Utes, I want to
talk with you about them.”

Throughout their talk Tim Benson had not been at ease, owing to his
fear that Buffalo Bill’s party might come upon him unawares.

Now he got up and crept stealthily away, after telling the apelike
man that he wanted to look round, and would be back in a minute.

When he returned he had news.

“I got a look at ’em,” he announced, “from that hill out there.”

“Wow! Ye did?” said Gorilla Jake, sitting up straighter.

“They’ve found the woman that you scared away from the stage--the
woman I was telling you about--and they’re taking her back to it. I
reckon they’ll send her on to Calumet Wells with Elmore, or back to
Blossom Range.”

“Who’s Elmore?”

“Hank Elmore is the stage driver.”

“Oh!”

“Soon’s they’ve got the woman off their hands they’ll be up here,
follerin’ our trail.”

“They’ll find it hard work trailin’ us acrost them rocks.”

“I guess you don’t know Cody. He can smell out a trail just like a
bloodhound. He’ll find it.”

“Then I reckon we’d better be goin’ on.”

“Yes, after we’ve had a few more words. You said you were going into
the town.”

“It was my calc’lation.”

“But you didn’t tell me who is after you!”

The apelike man stared again--and the clever road agent saw that in
his guess he had hit the bull’s-eye.

“Who said anybody was after me?” said Gorilla Jake.

“Your manner told me. Who is it? Perhaps I can give you some
information.”

The apelike man looked round, then at Benson.

“Might’s well tell it, I s’pose. I was follered by them cussed Betts
brothers.”

“Jim Betts and Bill Betts, the Great Combination?”

“Edzackly. I see you know ’em.”

“Only too well. I saw ’em no longer ago than last night.”

Gorilla Jake stood up with a jump.

“But there’s no use getting scared about it--here!” assured the
crafty road agent. “It was down in Blossom Range that I saw ’em.”

Gorilla Jake sat down, his great frame shivering.

“I might’s well tell ye the whole of it.”

“I think it will be better, if you do,” said Benson, who had lied in
saying he had seen the Betts brothers in the town; the truth being he
had not seen them there or anywhere else recently, though he knew who
they were, and feared them almost as much as he did Buffalo Bill.

“I put a knife into the superintendent of the Goliath Mine, at
Soda Springs,” Gorilla Jake explained. “Hard luck had me by the
throat, and I was tryin’ to git the cash that was in the safe at
the mine office. The superintendent was in the office, and we come
together. He gripped me; and to git free I knifed him. It was only
ten days ago. The thing made me pick up my feet and git out o’ that
in a hurry. A reward was offered fer me alive er dead, by the mine
directors, and it put the Bettses hot on my trail; but I thought I
had shook ’em off.”

Benson concealed the feeling of satisfaction which this gave him.

“You won’t dare to go into the town now, at any rate,” he said.

“No, I reckon not.”

“And Buffalo Bill will help the Bettses, of course.”

“He allus does,” Gorilla Jake admitted, “when they happen ter be
workin’ in the same territory.”

“So it looks to me that the best thing we can do is to join forces.
And since you’ve told me about those tablets, and that you intended
to go to the Utes, an idea has come to me.”

“I was goin’ to sell the stuff to the Utes; but I’ve got to have
whisky as a basis, to soak the things up in; that’s why I was goin’
into Blossom Range--to git the whisky. Can’t do nothin’ without it.
I doctor the whisky with the tablets. A red jest naturally likes the
stuff, anyway; put that dope into it, and you couldn’t pry him away
from it with a crowbar. He’ll trade everything he’s got fer it. I’ve
heard them Utes have got some gold dust, and I know they’ve got furs
and pelts. So that was my lay. I thought I’d be safe there for a
time, and that maybe the Bettses would git tired, or lose the trail.”

Tim Benson sat thinking over this, forming his crafty plans. He knew
now that Buffalo Bill would “get” him unless he could hurl a force
against the scout’s party and crush it. That force might be the Utes.

“I’ve got the whisky,” he announced, “and I’ll go in with you in this
thing; it will make for the safety of both of us. I’ve been using
the Ute village as a hide-out on more than one occasion, and have
found it a mighty good place. But Cody has brought up Matt Shepard,
the sheriff, with a posse, and gone all through it, more than once
recently. And he’ll do it again. The Utes are afraid of the sheriff
and his posse; though without that posse backing him they wouldn’t
stand it. Iron Bow told me the last time I was with him that he
couldn’t hide me again; he’s afraid Shepard will lug him off to the
Blossom Range jail. So it’s not that the old scamp ain’t willing
enough to hide me; and he wants the whisky I give him for it.”

“Where do ye keep this whisky? Git it in the town every time?”

“I used to. Lately I had a burro load cached in the hills, as a thing
to fall back on, if I wasn’t able to get it in the town. Ye see, I
didn’t dare take it all to the Utes at once, and didn’t want to. The
most of it is in that cache now, in bottles.”

“Wow!”

“How does it hit you?”

“Great!”

“My idea is this; and you can tell if it will work. Give enough of
that stuff of yours, in that whisky, to a lot of the warriors, and
get them into a bloody humor; then make them think that Buffalo
Bill’s crowd is out here to make trouble for ’em. It ought to send
them out against Cody’s gang red-headed.”

The apelike man gurgled what he probably thought was a laugh.

“It’d do it.”

“Then, the thing is easy. If the stuff will do that we can simply
wipe that crowd off the face of the earth.”

Gorilla Jake stood up and looked across the rocky land.

“How fur is it to that whisky cache? Seems to me I’d like a drink
myself. But with no dope in it; none o’ that dope fer me!”

“The cache isn’t far from the Ute village.”

“If the reds has found it thar’ll be an empty cache when we git
thar.”

“I don’t think they could find it.”

“I reckon we ought to be movin’ out of this. If I understood you,
after Cody’s crowd put that woman back into the stage they’re likely
to come this way, follerin’ our trails.”

“They’re sure to.”

He stepped farther out, still looking about.

Suddenly he turned and dived back. As he did so a bullet plunked
against a rock right over his head.

“Gee-whiskers!” he sputtered. “That was a close call.”

No rifle or revolver report had sounded.

“_They_ ain’t in the town, you bet!”

His apelike face had changed in a moment to an ashen white, showing
terror. “It was from Bill Betts’ rifle,” he said.

Tim Benson was not a little startled.

“You saw Bill Betts out there?” he asked.

“I seen the swish of his umbreller; then that came at me.”

Sweat began to stream out of his face.

“Take a look out, and see! It was over by that big rock. But look out
fer yerself.”

A good deal puzzled, Tim Benson crept to the edge of the hole and
looked out. After staring hard he failed to locate the umbrella.

“I don’t see anything,” he called back in a whisper.

“Mebby she’s circlin’!”

“_She?_”

“I see that yuh don’t know much about ther Betts brothers. Jim, he’s
a tall, ganglin’ feller; while his brother is little; that’s Bill.
And Bill he does the female lay.”

“I see. One of my little tricks--plays woman.”

“Where they ain’t known they purtend ter be husband and wife, and
air gin’rally quarrelin’ about all ther time, jest to fool folks.
The woman--I’ve kinder got inter ther habit o’ callin’ Bill a
woman!--don’t carry any weepins that anybody knows of, but she is
allers packin’ about with her a big gray umbreller. It’s her rifle;
an air gun, that shoots wicked, yit don’t make a sound that you can
hear ten yards off. She whanged at me jest now with her air gun.
Which shows that she seen me. And o’ course she’s crawlin’ up. Ain’t
thar no way o’ gittin’ out o’ this infernal hole without rushin’ out
thar?”

“I don’t see her, or the umbrella,” Benson declared.

Gorilla Jake ventured to creep out at Benson’s side. As soon as he
could see across the rocks he dropped down, dragging at the sleeve of
his companion.

“Thar! Thar!” he said, shivering. “Don’t yer see it?”

“Blamed if I do.”

“That gray rock off thar; looks jest like a gray rock, anyhow. It’s
her umbreller. She’s squattin behind it, waiting fer me to show
myself. She’ll hold us hyer till Cody’s crowd comes up. It’s her
game. She thinks she has got me in a hole, and now she has plugged up
the hole.”

Tim Benson saw the “gray rock,” when Gorilla Jake pointed it out to
him; but even then could hardly believe that the gray object was not
a rock.

“If it’s an umbrella, a bullet through it ought to get Bill Betts,”
he said.

“Which goes ter show that you don’t know her. She is layin’ off to
one side, prob’ly, wi’ a rock coverin’ her, er coverin’ her head and
shoulders, so a bullet through ther umbreller wouldn’t git her.”

He worked a little higher, even at a risk, and tried to look round.
He was perspiring profusely, and his gray eyes glittered; while his
lips, drawn back, revealed his fanglike teeth. More than ever he
resembled an ape or gorilla, rather than a man.

Tim Benson was not slow in perceiving the desperate character of the
situation. Bottled up in the hole by that deadly air rifle, what was
to hinder the pretended woman from keeping them there until Buffalo
Bill’s party could come up? That would mean Benson’s capture, as well
as Gorilla Jake’s.

He drew back his head and studied the stones at the rear of the hole.
Then he looked at the long arms of the man-ape, and his powerful
shoulders. Benson himself was a small man; but this giant at his side
might do the thing he could not. He could furnish the brains which
Gorilla Jake lacked, and the man-ape could furnish the muscle which
he lacked. It was, it seemed, a fortunate combination.

“If you’ve got the courage, Jake,” he said, “there’s no reason why,
with your strength, you can’t push those two stones out of the way
back there. It would furnish us a means to get out of this hole.”

Gorilla Jake stared at the stones, licking his hairy lips.

“If she didn’t pot me while I was doin’ it!” he objected.

Benson looked round again.

“Here, we can up-end this stone,” he said, “and it will screen you
from her bullets while you turn the trick. But we’ve got to be quick
about it.”

“Quick’s the word! Cody’s crowd is comin’; I know it by the way she
jest sets down thar behind that umbreller.”

They up-ended the stone, a thing easy to do when the man-ape applied
his immense strength to the task.

Believing that this would screen him, Gorilla Jake now attacked the
stones at the rear of the nest, which Benson pointed out. It was a
wonderful exhibition of brute strength; the muscles on his arms and
shoulders corded themselves up like knotted ropes, his breast heaved
up and down convulsively, sweat rained from his face; but he moved
the heaviest of the stones, and with a great surge of his writhing
body threw it to one side. The next, which had lain under it, was not
so difficult, and a hole had been opened.

Through it they pulled themselves; then slid their bodies down the
slope on the other side.

They now had the rocky hill between themselves and the terrible
“woman” with the umbrella.

Gorilla Jake bounded to his feet like a huge ball of live rubber.

“Now fer the tall hills!” he panted.

“Yes; this is our chance. Poke your nose at that peak over there, and
keep going. I’ll try to hold you in sight. I guess we can give that
crowd the slip even yet.”

Then they began to run, with the peak as their first objective point,
being careful to keep to rocky and hard ground.

CHAPTER XXV.

THE BETTS BROTHERS.

Tim Benson was right in saying that the rocky slopes crossed by him
and Gorilla Jake would not detain Buffalo Bill, or throw him off the
scent.

But the difficult character of the work slowed his progress, even
though he had with him such wonderful trailers as Nick Nomad and Wild
Bill Hickok.

As for the baron, he did not waste time in trying to spell out the
tracks--which he could not see at all without assistance, and hardly
then--but contented himself with looking ahead and around, thereby
performing a most useful service, as it would not have been advisable
for all the eyes of the party to engage in trail searching.

While doing his part of the work, the baron saw a man duck down
suddenly behind a rock.

“Vot iss?” he gasped, stopping dead in his tracks.

“Jes’ now it’s a fool Dutchman squawkin’ too loud!” Nomad flung at
him.

“Budt I seen somepoty.”

This attracted attention.

“What did yer see, Shnitz? Don’t stand thar gogglin’.”

“A man.”

“Benson, I reckon. Whar was he?”

“Budt idt vos nodt Penson. He iss a liddle veller. Dhis vos a dall
man, unt he vos vearing vhiskers!”

Buffalo Bill and the man from Laramie began to ask questions.

“Righdt py dot rock pehint I seen him, yoost now. He vos so dall like
he iss vearing sdilts, unt he haf longk vhiskers like a sbinach.”

“Which don’t prove et wasn’t Benson,” Nomad objected. “Thet feller
kin change his looks more than any actor thet ever helped ther
bloodhounds chase _Eliza_. When we last seen him he was wearin’ one
o’ Miss Vera Bright’s dresses and doin’ ther woman act. Benson is
rale cute.”

“Budt he couldn’t make himselluf so dall as dot, couldt he, mitout
sdilts?”

“Waal, who’s ter know he warn’t w’arin’ stilts?” said Nomad,
determined to meet all objections, for he was sure that the man seen
could be none other than Benson.

But a minute later he was undeceived; the man appeared in full view
for just a second, then jumped back behind his rock.

“Waugh!” Nomad whooped now, rubbing his eyes. “Ef thet ain’t ole Jim
Betts, I’m er Piegan.”

“Right-o! None other!” chimed in Wild Bill.

Buffalo Bill had discovered the same thing. He stepped out, so that
Jim Betts could see him clearly.

Thereupon the hidden man appeared again; this time coming toward them
with tremendous strides of his long, birdlike legs.

“Thunder and carry one!” the man from Laramie exploded. “What’s Betts
doing here?”

“Vhen he iss arrifed he vill exblandion idt,” suggested the German.

Jim Betts came up rapidly, his small head outthrust, his spinach
whiskers floating in the breeze.

“Howdy!” he called, yet he did not speak loud. “You out after the
same man we air?”

“If you are after Tim Benson, we are,” the scout told him.

Greetings followed.

“We ain’t after him,” said Betts; “we’re after Gorilla Jake, fer
knifin’ the mine superintendent at Sody Springs. Thar’s a big
reward out fer him, dead er alive; and wherever a reward floats its
invertation thar me and Bill is mighty cert’in to be found. We been
trailin’ him fer better’n a week. He’s been p’intin’ his nose toward
Blossom Range; but we rounded him up, arter a fashion, in these
hills, this mornin’, an’ air now lookin’ fer him.”

“Did he wear big boots?” asked the man from Laramie.

“Yoost so peeg as vot a grizzly bear vears?” added the German.

“Waal, he does. He’s a sort o’ grizzly, too; er, ruther, human ape.
If ye ever set eyes on him ye’ll never fergit him.”

Jim Betts took from his pocket a soiled reward advertisement, which
gave a very accurate description of Gorilla Jake; then the scout
recalled who the man was.

“I’ve heard of him, but never seen him,” he explained.

“Then you know he’s a troublesome citizen,” said Betts. “When I seen
you comin’ along hyer I couldn’t make out who ye was; so I dodged
behind that rock. Then I tuck the risk of showin’ myself, knowin’
that if you was friends, and recognized me, you would come on.
Brother Bill is out hyar some’eres.”

“Waugh!” Nomad’s face was wrinkling with smiles of pleasant
recollections. “I recomembers yer brother, all right. He’s ther
female. Bill still w’arin’ skirts now?” he asked.

“Not this trip; ’tain’t necessary. But he’s got his ole umbreller
with him. I prefers pistols and rifles m’self; but Bill he says give
him ther ole umbreller. It’s a wonder the way ther thing will shoot,
an’ ther way he kin shoot it.”

“You’ve seen those big tracks near here?” the scout queried, after
explaining further about Benson. “We lost them.”

“Yes,” said Betts.

“We’re follerin’ purty near by guesswork now,” Nomad admitted. “Yit I
cal’late we’re p’intin’ right.”

“Waal, I’m powerful glad t’see ye!” Betts asserted again. “Was your
man goin’ in this same direction?”

“Vot a kvestion!” exclaimed the baron. “Uff nodt, vouldt Puffalo Pill
pe going dhis vay?”

“Then we’ll go on together,” said Betts. “I likes to keep within clus
hailin’ distance o’ Brother Bill, as he’s a master hand to git into
trouble when I ain’t nigh to advise him.”

“An’ Bill says,” Nomad reminded, “that _he_ has continyul got ter
look out fer you, ter keep _you_ frum gittin’ inter trouble.”

“Jest his idee o’ humor,” Jim Betts asserted airily.

They were moving on together, across the stony land.

Half an hour later they came in sight of Bill Betts, crouched near
his gray umbrella gun, watching the hole where he believed Gorilla
Jake lay concealed.

When he saw his brother and the men with him, he stared; then he
lifted his hand, on recognizing them. After that he closed the
umbrella part of his gun, and slid backward, rising to his feet as
soon as he felt safe.

In a minute or two he was before them.

“Glad to see everybody--Cody specially!” he cried, making an
all-inclusive bow. “But right now I ain’t got time ter tork. Right
off thar is a hole what Gorilla Jake is hidin’ in, an’ another man
what’s a stranger ter me hidin’ with him. I’ve been holdin’ ’em in
thar by slammin’ away now and then with this ole air gun; and I’m
afraid they may make a break fer other cover unless we close up on
’em quick.”

They “closed up” on the hole amid the rocks, near the crest of the
ridge, following Bill Betts. He began to sing out for the occupants
of the hole to “surrender,” as soon as he was near enough.

“Might’s well come right out o’ that and save trouble,” he warned.
“I has got Cody and his crowd backin’ me now; and if we’re forced to
charge ye somebody’s goin’ to git hurt mighty bad. What do ye say?
Goin’ to surrender peaceable, er do we have to come fer ye on ther
run?”

Nomad, obeying a motion from Buffalo Bill, had hitched back, and was
now circling round the base of the ridge, to get on the other side.

But at a risk, the scout took a shorter cut to knowledge.

“Your men may not be in there,” he said to Betts.

He stood up quickly, inviting a bullet, and saw the hole made when
Gorilla Jake heaved aside the stones.

“The nest is empty!” he shouted; and started toward it with drawn
revolver.

“Iss dot so-o!” howled the baron, tumbling right after him. “Den ve
haf peen wit-oudted!” He meant out-witted.

The others followed.

“Thunder and carry one!” exploded the man from Laramie, as the
deserted hole in the rocks was reached and he looked about.

Bill Betts was stupefied.

“May I be doggone!” he said. “I reckon I’m about forty different
kinds of fools, fer not suspectin’ that. But, ye see, I didn’t
suppose them rocks could be lifted; fergittin’ that Gorilla Jake is a
human steam engine, when it comes to strength.”

He began to look about on the other side of the ridge, searching for
the tracks of the fugitives there, a work in which he soon had plenty
of assistance.

CHAPTER XXVI.

IN THE UTE VILLAGES.

Having made their successful getaway, Tim Benson and Gorilla Jake
covered the distance to the whisky cache in record time.

The whisky was in flat, pint bottles, and it was vile stuff. Still,
Gorilla Jake celebrated the opening of the cache by swallowing the
contents of one of the bottles.

Only about half the bottles were removed, the others being carefully
concealed again. The men divided those taken, distributing them to
the best advantage on their persons, after “doctoring” them with
Gorilla Jake’s tablets.

Before they started on for the Ute village they did their best to
obliterate all traces of the cache and of their visit to it. Also, in
approaching and leaving it, they blinded their trail with great care.

“If Cody finds this trail he’ll be doing good work,” said Benson. “I
don’t think he can do it.”

Gorilla Jake’s brutish face had flushed under the influence of
the liquor swallowed, and his gray eyes were glittering. He still
shuffled his steps with half-dragging feet, and swung his long arms
clumsily; yet his courage was improved, and he walked more erect.

“I reckon it’s a good thing fer you,” he said, growing boastful,
“that I met you jest as I did.”

“I judge it was a good thing for both of us,” Benson parried.

Though Benson had not touched the whisky, his face had a peculiar
look, and one that was not pleasant. All the facial masks he assumed
at various times were now laid aside, so that his real self was more
than usually well revealed. It denoted cunning; but also a fear
that had begun to approach terror. It showed, too, a lack of mental
balance. Some of Benson’s “feats” had often made his friends say he
was “crazy,” though in its literal sense they did not mean it. If
they had beheld him now, though, they might not have thought him
crazy, they would have seen that he was desperate. And desperation
carried to an extreme is but a form of insanity, in that it leads
men to do things which in ordinary moments they would not dream of
attempting.

No greater proof of Benson’s decided list toward insanity was needed
than the step he had decided on, and was now bent upon carrying out.
A man normally balanced would have seen that its end was more than
threatening. For, even granting that he induced the Utes to destroy
Buffalo Bill’s party, that could not be the end of it. Other men
would be sent, backed by the power of the American Government. A
perfectly sane mind would have known that he could no more combat and
destroy them all than the old woman could sweep back the sea.

Benson justified his plan to himself by the thought that if he had
to “go under” he could send Buffalo Bill ahead of him to the land of
shades.

A question was voiced now by the man who looked so much like a great
ape that Benson had a real scorn of his mental ability:

“Don’t ye reckon it’d be best if we jest dropped this hull blamed
thing and purceeded to put distance between us and these hyer people?”

Benson stopped, his face white and nervously troubled, his brows
lowering.

“Weakening, are you?” he snarled.

“Not edzackly, but----”

“Then, swing along. In an hour or less Cody’s crowd will pick up our
trail in spite of all we’ve done, and will be follering it. I ain’t
any notion to be caught by ’em, out here.”

A cluck of anger sounded in the throat of the apelike man. He did not
like the tone in which this was said to him. But he “swung along,”
following hard at Benson’s heels.

On gaining the edge of the village, they were met and opposed by
warriors. But Benson stood his ground.

“Tell Iron Bow that Little Eagle comes, with his servant, bearing
gifts for the chief and warriors, and wishes to see him,” he said,
making his communication in Ute.

Iron Bow, the chief, was already approaching, drawn by the hubbub. He
arrived in no pleasant humor; and he stared in a forbidding manner at
the apelike man with Benson.

“Little Eagle knows,” said the chief, “that it is not well for him to
come again to the Ute village. Iron Bow is his friend; yet the chief
must think of his people.”

“I don’t know what ye’re sayin’,” objected Gorilla Jake, “but I don’t
like the looks o’ things hyer.”

Benson gave this no heed--he did not even look at Gorilla Jake, but
merely smiled upon the frowning chief and truculent warriors; then he
fished from a pocket one of the bottles of “doctored” whisky.

“I and my servant have come with gifts for the chief and warriors,”
he said smoothly, as if he had not heard the objections of Iron Bow.
“Here are bottles of the white man’s fire-water, which my brothers
like so well.”

He tried to pass them around; but the eager Indians, forgetting their
angry growls, clutched and crowded so that it was soon a case of
“first come, first served.”

Iron Bow, deeming a scramble beneath his dignity, raised the bottle
given him to his lips, after which sounded a hollow “gurgle-gurgle,”
as the tempting liquor slipped down his throat. He was almost the
only Indian there permitted by others to drink his bottle empty in
peace.

“My servant has more,” said Benson airily, having passed out all that
he had. “But you must not fight for it, and you must not make such
a squabble over it that you may break the bottles. It is very good
fire-water, as the chief knows.”

He turned to his “servant,” and Gorilla Jake’s pockets and shirt
began to yield up “doctored” bottles.

As many as thirty warriors, and the chief, got enough of the powerful
and poisonous stuff to fit them for murder within half an hour.

CHAPTER XXVII.

MATT SHEPARD AND THE MASSACRE.

Instead of driving the stage through to Calumet Wells, Hank Elmore
had turned his horses about in the trail, and, with viciously
cracking whip and jumping horses, he took it at a bouncing gait back
toward Blossom Range.

Elmore was undeniably scared. Aside from that, he wanted to be the
first with the news into Blossom Range, and talk the thing over with
his cronies there, as he had talked over every hold-up in which he
had ever been engaged. Elmore disliked hold-ups, because of the
danger; but when they were past he got great glory and satisfaction
out of the fact that he had been in them. Sometimes he told marvelous
stories of his courage and prowess, but that was only when no one
could contradict him.

With his horses jumping along the trail and the old “hearse” rocking
like a catboat in a gale, Elmore was suddenly taken aback by the
supposed discovery that he was in for another hold-up, even though
he had in the stage only the scared woman who answered to the name
of Vera Bright. He stabbed his boot against the brake, and surged
back on the lines with a pull that threatened them, weakened, as they
were, with splicings and tyings.

But, instead of road agents, the men who came into view were Matt
Shepard, sheriff and jailer of the county, with a body of men behind
him, some mounted and others on foot. Heavily armed, they had looked
peculiarly brigandish.

“Oh, it’s you, is it?” yelled Elmore, much relieved.

“Who did you think it was?” demanded Shepard, while his men swarmed
up behind him.

“Agents!” answered Elmore laconically. “See anything o’ these hyer
knotted lines, gents? See that trace over thar thet’s been cut and
then tied together; and that back band that has been served the same
way? Y’ don’t notice, I reckon, that this hyer harniss is hangin’
tergether with strings. Ef you did, you wouldn’t ask has I been in a
hold-up.”

Shepard and his backers were immensely interested.

“Who was the hold-up gents?” he demanded.

Then Elmore was able to turn one of the few jokes of his life.

“Buffalo Bill and his crowd!” he yelled. “Wow! Would ye ’a’ thought
it?”

But after that he explained what he meant, while the men from Blossom
Range crowded round the stage and looked at the cut and patched
harness and the scratched horses.

“So the lady is inside?” said the sheriff.

She came to the door, very pale and large-eyed. She corroborated the
story of the stage driver, and was able to add details of her own
from personal observation.

“Cody is follerin’ him, then,” said Shepard. “It’s a game we want to
git into. Which way did Benson go?”

“Buffler said he’d be mighty certain to rack out fer the Ute
village,” Elmore explained. “They’re goin’ thar to git him. Buffler
tole me to tell yer.”

Shepard consulted a few moments with his followers.

“I reckon we’ll save a whole heap of time,” he said, “if we cut right
acrost the hills hyer and head straight fer the Ute village. No use
in us goin’ on to where Benson got out of the stage, as we couldn’t
do nothin’ there; it would be a foolish waste of time.”

The men agreed with him.

“So we’ll hit it up for the Ute village. If Benson has taken refuge
there ag’in we’ll snake him out, and I’ll handcuff old Iron Bow and
land him in jail for harboring him.”

Hank Elmore drove on toward Blossom Range, having added interesting
details and additions to the story he meant to tell there, while the
sheriff and his posse set off across the hills by the shortest route,
the Ute village their objective point.

In spite of the fact that some of them were unmounted they made good
progress, not being hampered by the necessity of picking up and
following an obscure trail.

The time was past noon when the Ute village was approached. Afar off
they had heard Indian howling.

A quarter of a mile from the village, when they were most
unsuspecting, they were struck by a blind charge of warriors, of a
kind they had never experienced or heard of, and for which they were
totally unprepared. Shepard had expected to walk up to the village,
summon Iron Bow, demand Benson, then search the tepees, as he had
done before.

Instead came this wild charge, the Ute warriors rising out of a nest
of rocks and pouring down on the posse without warning. They were led
by a small painted and feathered figure and a very giant of a man
who seemed more like a wild animal than a man, though he also wore
Indian paint and feathers. Iron Bow was there, too, transformed into
an Indian maniac.

The screeching braves did not stop even when revolvers were emptied
at them. Rushing on the horsemen, they caught them by the legs and
pulled them bodily to the ground. They seemed in a fanatical rage.
The falling men were shot and hatcheted. Those who at first, in
fright, pulled their horses round, got away. The others fell, dead or
wounded, or captured. Not even the horses were spared; for when there
seemed no white men to kill the Utes began to slay the animals. It
was not a rout, it was annihilation.

Matt Shepard had been shot from his horse, a bullet passing through
his body; but he still lived when he struck the ground, and did not
lose consciousness.

With such horror as he had never felt, he witnessed the terrible
massacre of his followers. A groan which the sight drew from him told
the warriors that he was not dead. One of the braves, thereupon,
jumped at him with a lance, to run him through.

But the small painted chief, whom Shepard had noticed at the
beginning of the charge, leaped in, caught the lance, and turned
its point aside, so that it drove into the ground; then he shouted
angrily to the other Indians, who were crowding round to finish the
white prisoner.

When it seemed that the Utes would kill Shepard, the small man,
yelling something, pulled a whisky bottle from beneath his blanket
and flung it out from him.

The drug-and-whisky-crazed warriors made a combined rush for it, and
in a minute were fighting among themselves for its possession.

The small man whom Shepard thought a chief stood now before him.
Close behind the small man came that other painted figure, that had
such a marked resemblance to a wild animal.

The little man spoke in English, and Shepard recognized the voice of
Tim Benson.

“You know me?” said Benson.

“Yes, I know you now,” Shepard admitted. “It explains things.”

“Glad you see a great light. But you ain’t going to last long.”

“I know it,” said Shepard; “I don’t reckon I can live half an hour.
I’m bleeding inside.”

“You were coming to the Ute village to get me?”

“Yes; there’s no use denyin’ it. I’d have done it, but for this
treachery.”

“Is it treachery for a man to protect himself?”

“We won’t argue it--I ain’t got time! But the white man who will
furnish whisky to Indians had ought to be tortured as well as hung.”

“Where is Cody?”

“I don’t know.”

“He ain’t right out there?”

“Perhaps so; I can’t say as to that.”

“Well, I’d like to send you to him with a message, saying that the
thing that has happened to your crowd is going to happen to his. I’ll
admit that when we jumped down the hill here we thought--I did--that
it was his crowd; and if I hadn’t been mistaken in it he would be
where you are now. I’d like to send that word to him.”

Shepard did not answer. He still looked courageously at the man who
was disguised as an Indian, but a grayish pallor was stealing over
his face.

The Indians had squabbled for the whisky, had swallowed it, and now
came rushing back. They were howling for the blood of the white man.

“Take him!” said the outlaw.

He stepped aside, drawing the apelike man with him.

It was the end of Matt Shepard, one of the bravest of the sheriffs of
the Western border.

* * * * *

The panicky survivors encountered Buffalo Bill’s party. The shooting
and yelling had been heard, and the scout had hastened.

“Better go back!” said Shepard’s deputy, whose name was Dugan.
“Shepard’s dead or wounded, and the hull bilin’ that ain’t killed was
captured, ceptin’ them that’s with me. They’ll wipe you clean off the
slate, if you go there.”

The other men with Dugan said much the same thing.

Then they went on, riding and running in the direction of Blossom
Range.

The hubbub of the Indians had died out.

Buffalo Bill took stock of the situation before moving on. The thing
had a bad look.

“It’s Benson’s work, of course,” he declared.

“Benson’s and Gorilla Jake’s,” said Jim Betts. “They j’ined forces,
ye know; fer they war shore together in that hole what Brother Bill
thought he had blocked.”

“They have given the Indians whisky.”

“Hangin’s too good fer sech varmints,” Nomad declared.

“I reckon, Cody,” suggested the man from Laramie, “that we’d better
find out just how the land lies ahead of us, before we try to do
much.”

“How’re ye goin’ to git Benson, if he’s with the Utes, and the Utes
air out fer that kind of fightin’?” asked Bill Betts.

But they did not spend time discussing the situation uselessly. Under
Buffalo Bill’s guidance they moved forward toward the point where the
Indian attack had fallen.

When close upon it, the scout and the man from Laramie went on,
leaving the others to await the result of their inspection.

The evidence of the bloody work of the crazy Ute warriors was
plentiful and appalling. But they did not find Matt Shepard, alive or
dead.

“He was wounded, the boys reported,” said Hickok, “and I reckon they
hauled him into the village. They’ll be torturing him next. The thing
I’m wishing is that I could get Benson by the heels.”

They were so close upon the Indian village that they had used the
utmost caution in reaching the battle ground, and they could see
right into the village, when they cared to take the chances of
discovery to accomplish it. The Utes were making a lot of noise, and
seemed engrossed in dancing and yelling.

“Well, what shall we do?” asked Wild Bill.

“I was just thinking of sending to the town for help. While our
messenger is gone you and I might do something. If Shepard is in the
hands of the Utes we want to know it.”

“And if Benson is there we want to _get_ him.”

“Right. I think he will be either in our hands or dead before this
thing ends.”

“Who can we send to the town; no one will want to go? We’ve left our
horses, and it will have to be some one afoot. Besides, will anybody
come out against the Utes now, when they hear the story those fellows
will tell?”

As there was no possibility of penetrating into the village while
daylight held, the two scouts and friends back-tracked carefully, and
delivered their report.

While scouting around that afternoon, Buffalo Bill came upon “sign,”
which led directly to the discovery of Tim Benson’s whisky cache.
Wild Bill, Nomad, and Bill Betts were with him at the time.

Though Benson and the apelike man had blinded the trail there, and
had taken every means to conceal the cache from the Indians, the
trained eyes of the scout and his friends enabled them to find it in
a comparatively brief period.

“Waugh!” Nomad grunted, when the cache had been located. “I reckon
Benson’s been hidin’ some of ther gold from his hold-ups right hyar.”

That was the first and most natural conclusion.

“When we’ve gophered down to it,” said Wild Bill, “we’ll know whether
he’s been hiding anything. Whatever it was he may have taken it away.”

“I’m bettin’ thar’s gold down hyer!” Nomad reiterated.

When they had gophered down and came upon the concealed whisky
bottles they were amazed. Yet they did not fail to understand why
they were there. Buffalo Bill had known for some time that Benson
bought the good will of the Utes by providing them with whisky.

“Waal, this hyer is a disapp’intment ter me,” Nomad admitted. “Fer
right now I warn’t seekin’ no red likker.”

“Might sell the truck in town, though, for a good deal,” said Bill
Betts. “It’d be a cute thing to do, to keep the reds frum gittin’ it.”

Wild Bill laughed over this naive view of the proper method to remove
temptation from the Utes.

“Nighabout half enough fer a burro load,” remarked Betts, as the
bottles were lifted out, one by one, and placed on the ground.
“Benson expected ter continner in the whisky bisness with the Utes
fer some time, by ther looks.”

“This sand hyer has been disturbed quite recent,” averred Nomad,
whose old eyes were still of the keenest.

“Right-o!” Wild Bill agreed. “Here is where the Utes got the courage
which enabled them to charge and wipe out the sheriff’s party.”

“A man what will give whisky to pizen reds ought to be hung,” Bill
Betts added. “But what air we goin’ ter do with the stuff, if we
don’t take it to town?”

Buffalo Bill had been considering the possibilities of the discovery.
Now he spoke:

“Everything indicates that Benson cached a lot of whisky here, which
he has used from time to time in influencing the Utes; and that this
last Ute outbreak was caused by it. If so, it occurs to me that he
will come back here soon for more of it. Now that he has started
in, he will have to keep the Utes drunk in order to control them;
otherwise, they might sober up, get scared over what they have done,
and be ready to make peace and surrender him. He has got to block
that; and to do it he must get more whisky. He will come for it
here.”

“Right ye air, Buffler!” said Nomad. “Which means ’et we kin lay fer
him right hyer, and rake him in when he does come.”

“Jest so,” said Bill Betts. “And if Gorilla Jake comes with him, why,
I kin rake him in. Me and Brother Jim is after that reward.”

The bottles lay on the ground, an imposing array.

“Enough to stock up a barroom,” said Betts, eying them covetously.
“Thar ain’t any reason, gents, why we can’t jest shift this cache;
and, then, when we go to the town, take the stuff with us and sell
it thar. Whisky will sell in a town like Blossom Range, when nothin’
else would, and it allus brings good prices. We c’d divvy on the
stakes.”

Buffalo Bill was mentally shaping up another plan.

“As I said,” he remarked, “Benson will have to keep the Utes
intoxicated in order to manipulate them. But suppose he fails to do
so?”

“Then he’ll bust,” said Betts, who was busily engaged in reckoning up
the value of the whisky, marking in the sand and using a sliver of
rock for a pencil.

“K’rect!” commented Nomad, bending over him; but whether Nomad meant
to approve the idea or agreed with the result of Bill Betts’ figures
was not apparent.

“Suppose,” said the scout, “that some of the Indians should be with
Benson when he comes to get the remainder of his whisky here?”

“Wow! We c’d rake ’em all in!” Nomad cried, looking up.

“But if we happened not to be right here, what would happen?”

“Why, we wouldn’t rake ’em in,” Nomad admitted.

“I see you don’t get my idea. It is just this: The Indians would be
angered, perhaps would think Benson had fooled them; then things
would look bad for Benson.”

“He might trail to the other cache, and show the Utes jest what had
been done, and so save himself; for the Utes couldn’t blame him, when
they saw how it had happened,” said Betts.

“I wanted to bring you round to that,” the scout confessed, “so that
perhaps you would agree with my ideas on the subject. My suggestion
is that we empty out this whisky and fill the bottles with water from
the stream over there; then restore them to the cache!”

“Waugh!” Nomad blurted, but not in approval.

“Throw away all this good and vallyble whisky?” cried Betts.

“It isn’t ours to sell in the first place,” argued the scout; “but if
we can accomplish something we will take it anyway, and drain it out
into the sand. Considering the use it is being put to, we have ample
justification.”

“But----” began Betts.

“You have already admitted that if we cache the stuff somewhere else
the Utes may get it. If we turn it into the sand they can’t. That’s a
point to be considered. But the chief thing--the chief object to be
gained--is that it will anger the Utes against Benson, if he brings
them here, or sends them here, and they find that the whisky bottles
hold nothing but water. If he angers them, his influence over them is
lost; particularly we can count on that, when the influence of the
whisky they have had has died out.”

Wild Bill put out his hand impulsively.

“Buffalo Bill forever!” he said. “I was willing to agree with Bill
Betts and Nomad, that it would be a wicked waste to turn all this
whisky out; but you’re right about it. We might not be here when
Benson comes for the stuff, which he will do sooner or later; and
if he comes with a lot of Utes we sure couldn’t grip him, even if
we were here. But if he brought ’em, and then they got their mad up
because the whisky was gone and the bottles filled with water, Mr.
Benson would sure be, right off, in the hottest kind of trouble.”

Buffalo Bill further elaborated his idea, but the gist of what was
said has already been given.

Only one change was made in the plan when they came to carry it
out. The whisky was emptied into the little stream, instead of into
the sand, for the reason that the odor of the liquor in the sand
might betray too much. Then the bottles, filled at the stream, were
restored to their hiding place. When all had been done, careful pains
were taken to obliterate every trace.

The time lacked yet two hours of sunset when the work was completed,
and Buffalo Bill’s little party drew back into the brush, in the
midst of the rocky ground surrounding the cache, where they “bogged”
down, waiting to see what would happen.

Buffalo Bill’s wish still was that Benson would come out there
alone, or accompanied only by Gorilla Jake, and the rascals could be
captured.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

HOW IT WORKED.

If Buffalo Bill had been blessed with the gift of prophecy he could
not have given a more accurate forecast of what would happen.

For no more than half an hour had gone by when Tim Benson appeared,
creeping out of the bushy covert of the hillside, in company with
the gigantic, apelike man, and a score of Ute Indians, with them the
chief himself, old Iron Bow.

It was plain that many of the Indians, if not all, were under
the influence of liquor--their reeling walk showed it; yet they
maintained, in spite of this, their characteristic Indian silence
when on dangerous ground, and they proceeded across the open sand to
the site of the cache without making much noise.

The two who led the way, though they were painted and feathered
like the Indians, it was easy to see were white men. The scout and
his pards knew that the small man was Benson; while Bill Betts was
equally sure that the apelike figure was Gorilla Jake.

“We’ve got the proof o’ all yer surmises, Cody, right hyer in a
nutshell,” Betts whispered. “Benson and Jake has been dopin’ the
reds.”

He did not know how accurately the word “dope” described just what
had been done.

“I figger thet I could drap that skunk Benson right frum hyer,” said
Nomad, fingering his revolver. “But ’twouldn’t do. Bersides, we
don’t want ter start no killin’; we want ter capter him, so’s he kin
git his jest desarts at ther hands o’ ther hangman.”

“And I’d hate to see Gorilla Jake killed,” said Betts, “as it would
cut me and Brother Jim out o’ that reward. Still, we might be able to
perduce his body, even if he was killed; and the reward is fer him
dead er alive.”

It was a characteristic of the Bettses that they kept their eyes
on the main chance, and in all their clever border detective work
thought more of the offered rewards than anything else. If it was
a defect, it was forgiven by their friends, who knew the terrible
chances they sometimes took to bring some ruffian to justice. They
earned all they got.

“I don’t suppose, Cody,” said the man from Laramie, the old reckless
light so often seen in his eyes flaming there once more, “that we
could charge that pizen crew and get Benson and the other feller? If
you say the word, I’m ready to try it.”

“We might do it!” the scout admitted.

“Wow! Then you’re willing!” and Hickok drew out his revolver.

“But I didn’t say that it would be wise to make the attempt. One or
more of us might be killed, and that wouldn’t pay, you know.”

“If we charge with revolvers cracking and every man Jack of us
yellin’ to beat the band those reds would run, and I know it.”

Buffalo Bill was not so sure of it that he was willing to take the
risk.

“Now we’ll see some fun,” whispered Nomad, as the Utes and their
guides came up to the cache which contained nothing but whisky
bottles filled with creek water. “It’ll be like deprivin’ children of
their promised candy. They won’t be willin’ to stand et.”

They saw Benson and the apelike man stop, and Benson point to the
ground. The Utes swarmed round the spot, forgetting their caution,
and talking, with furious gestures.

“Plenty stung up with excitement, when they thinks they’re goin’ ter
git er drink!” Nomad commented.

“They’ll be stung up a heap more when they discover that they ain’t
goin’ ter git none,” said Bill Betts. “Woosh! Wouldn’t I jes’ like
ter turn my umbreller gun loose on them varmints now.”

He pushed the singular weapon out in front of him.

“I reckon that would be too much like murder,” urged the man from
Laramie; “they’re heathen brutes, but still they’re human.”

Benson seemed to be talking to the Utes.

They were too far off to get the words; but they saw Gorilla Jake
drop down and begin to scratch away the sand with his huge, clawlike
hands. He went into the ground with the rapacity of a scared badger.

The excited Utes stooped over him, getting in his way; and there was
a great chattering, showing that they had lost their caution.

Buffalo Bill was beginning to think that an opportunity to charge and
capture Benson was being presented, when Gorilla Jake flung out a
bottle.

One of the Utes pounced on it; and so great was his eager haste that
he did not look at the contents, but broke off the neck of the bottle
with a blow of his brown fist and stuck the broken bottle to his
mouth.

He gave a choking howl of astonishment and grief when his mouth
filled with the luke-warm water; then he held up the bottle,
gesticulating furiously.

Gorilla Jake was flinging out more of the bottles, all of which
were being seized on. But the yell and the jabbering words of the
disappointed Ute nevertheless drew attention.

The Utes discovered suddenly that the bottles held tepid water
instead of whisky. Benson made the same astounding discovery, and so
did Gorilla Jake. The thing was at first incomprehensible.

Benson spoke to the apelike man, who delved deeper and flung out more
bottles. But these, too, contained only water.

The Indians were yelling in their excitement. They were angry, too,
as if they thought that the white men with them had worked the trick.
Knives and hatchets flashed in the red rays of the now declining sun.

“A Kilkenny cat fight,” gulped Nomad. “Now’s ther time, Cody, ter
wade right inter them.”

Buffalo Bill drew his revolver, and was about to give the command,
when a score more of Ute warriors appeared on the scene, coming from
the direction of the village. Apparently, having been left behind
without a knowledge of what was to be done, they had suspected it,
and followed.

“Not now; it would be foolish to charge now!” the scout whispered.

“Waugh!” Nomad growled. “Yer had ought to done et a while ago!”

“That’s what I said,” avowed Bill Betts, fingering his umbrella gun.

He lifted and sighted it. The handle of the umbrella was the gun, the
umbrella frame and cloth being mere deceptions.

“Give the word, Cody, and I can sure sting ’em up some, and they
won’t know who’s doin’ it.”

But Buffalo Bill did not give the word. Twoscore or more wildly
excited Utes too much resembled a hornets’ nest for him to want to
poke them up in that way. Buffalo Bill was noted for his courage, but
that does not mean that he was noted for recklessness. A good many
people mistake the one for the other. Nor was he inhuman.

The Ute recruits were soon yelling quite as much as those who had
arrived at the cache with the white men. What was being said could
not be made out, but it was apparent that warm remarks were being
directed to Benson and Gorilla Jake. Benson could be seen, surrounded
by Utes, waving his arms as if trying to explain the thing.

Conditions changed with startling suddenness. Benson’s words seemed
to take effect. The Utes swung out from that centre of turmoil, and
began to make a search about the deceptive cache in quickly widening
circles.

It was plain to the scout and those with him that they would have to
get back to avoid trouble. The Indians were in a murderous mood. And
to try results with more than forty Utes who were in that ugly mood
would be not merely foolhardy, but an invitation to hasty death.

The Utes were rapidly widening their circles, running round and round
like hunting dogs that have lost a game trail. Apparently Benson had
convinced them that other white men had tampered with the cache,
and they were now furiously resolved to pick up the trail of these
interlopers and properly punish them for such an outrage.

Buffalo Bill gave the order to retreat.

“I hates ter go,” Nomad declared.

“No wuss’n I do,” said Betts. “I wouldn’t be keerin’, if only I had
Gorilla Jake by the slack o’ the neck, takin’ him along with me.”

Buffalo Bill and the man from Laramie dropped behind to hide the
trail; a work which they so thoroughly accomplished that the retreat
was effected quickly and safely.

From the top of a tree on a hill some distance off, as the sun was
going down, Buffalo Bill saw the Utes streaming back toward their
village, the two white men with them. The Utes were howling like
drunken maniacs.

Jim Betts set out shortly after dark with the intention of hastening
to Blossom Range that he might hurry assistance to Buffalo Bill’s
small party. Throughout the whole afternoon the hope had been held
that a strong force would appear from the town, to avenge the death
of the sheriff and his men, but the help had not come. Jim Betts
had been selected because his legs were long and he was a rapid and
tireless walker. No horses were to be had, as those of the scout’s
party were too far away.

But a wise man makes sudden changes in his plans when there seems
reason for so doing.

Hence, instead of striking straight out at his best gait, Jim Betts
did not go toward the town at all, after he had proceeded less than
half a mile in that direction but turned toward the Ute village.

The reason was that he had seen a shadowy, skulking form moving in
that course that he believed to be Gorilla Jake.

Jim Betts, quite as much as his brother Bill, was moved most strongly
by considerations touching his pocket; he, too, wanted the reward
offered for the arrest of Gorilla Jake. If he could get the ape-man
soonest by following him now and pouncing on him it was what he
wanted to do. Perhaps he could, he thought, make the capture and take
Gorilla Jake right on into the town with him.

The thing was too tempting not to try, and he slipped off through the
darkness in hasty pursuit of the skulking figure.

The man he was following was really Gorilla Jake, as Betts made sure
when the Ute village was approached. He had not been able to come up
with him, nor even see him clearly, until the man passed into the
light of a small fire glowing before one of the outer tepees of the
village.

Betts hastened his steps, but he was too late; for the apelike man
flitted on past the fire.

Jim Betts stopped, his heart hammering against his ribs by reason of
his rapid pursuit, while a sense of disappointment and anger went
through him.

The Utes were either having a powwow near the centre of the village,
or were doing a lot of screeching there just because they liked to
howl in their present demoralized condition: but the apelike man had
not gone in that direction; and, because he had not, and no one was
near the tepee or the fire to observe, the daring fellow, who long
before had won the title of the Gamecock because of his recklessness,
crossed the line into the Ute village, still pursuing the murderer
of the mine superintendent.

Once again he caught sight of Gorilla Jake, near another lodge, and
scudded in that direction, bending his tall form and running with
almost silent feet.

“If I kin lay my hands on the dog I’ll choke the wind out o’ him and
manage to git him out of hyer, when, if I kin do that much, you bet I
kin git him down to Blossom Range. I could land him in the jail thar
while I am attendin’ to the other matter, and hold him in it till I
got ready to take him to Sody Springs.”

The Indians were still howling.

To his disappointment he saw the apelike figure turn in the direction
of those inharmonious sounds.

Betts stopped and listened, called himself softly any number of fools
for not getting out of that dangerous place, then went on, still
pursuing Gorilla Jake.

There was a fire leaping in front of a lodge, and in and about the
lodge he saw many Indian figures; but what they were howling about he
could not make out, unless simply noisy because they were drunk. He
concluded that the latter must be the explanation.

Then he saw the apelike man, who had been moving toward the Utes,
stop beside a lodge, duck his head as if he had heard something, then
pass into the tepee.

“Wow!” said Jim Betts, staring. “What’s it mean?”

Anyway, he thought he might be given a chance to dive into that
lodge, even though it was almost under the painted noses of the
yelling Utes, and grip his intended prisoner. He was too close to the
lodge not to try it, reckless as it was.

He was cautious enough to keep the bulk of the lodge between himself
and the Indians, and to take all the advantage possible from the
shadow cast by the leaping fire; he crouched low, too, so that he
seemed to slide his tall form along the ground.

In that manner he gained the rear of the lodge, where he was stopped
from proceeding farther by hearing Gorilla Jake talking with Tim
Benson. At first Betts thought they had company, for he heard Indian
grunts, which came, however, from behind the lodge.

The white men were flinging accusations at each other, as soon as
Gorilla Jake entered the lodge; it was apparent that Benson had seen
him passing and beckoned or called to him to come in.

“You didn’t have as many of them tablets as you said,” Benson
declared.

“And you didn’t have any whisky, ’cept what we fust brought in,”
Gorilla Jake flung back at him.

“Was that my fault?”

“It wasn’t mine!”

“Some one tampered with the cache. I’m betting it was one of Cody’s
crowd.”

“Fer which reason,” said Gorilla Jake, and Jim Betts heard him suck
in his breath angrily, “if I’d hed a million o’ them tablets you
wouldn’t had the whisky to use with ’em.”

“We might have used them alone. We could have told the Utes that they
were better than whisky. That was my plan, when I found the whisky
was gone; then I discovered you didn’t have any more. They’ll sober
off now, and then----”

“We can cut out o’ this, can’t we?”

“Not while I’m on yer trail,” Jim Betts whispered. “You’re my meat.”

“Cody will follow us!” said Benson.

His tone showed that his courage had broken down, or else he was
losing his mental balance.

The apelike man snorted his anger and moved uneasily about the lodge.

“He’ll be comin’ out in a minute,” thought Jim Betts.

In spite of the peril he began to crawl round to the tepee entrance,
with the intention of knocking Gorilla Jake on the head there and
making a desperate fight to get out of the village with him. He drew
his heavy revolver, which he held so that he could use the butt.

Betts had crawled no more than halfway round when the apelike man,
appearing in the lodge entrance, drew toward him a mob of furious
Utes, who came at him howling.

Betts heard him utter an exclamation and step back; then heard him
say to Benson:

“If you’ve got any influence with ’em you’d better use it now. They
want me. I reckon, frum the looks; but they’ll be wantin’ _you_ next.”

The Indians foamed up to the entrance, then flowed on into the lodge.

A desperate curiosity caused the reckless Gamecock to lift the edge
of the lodge skin and peer in, his form flattened out and his face
against the earth.

As he did it a blow sounded; and he saw, then, that Gorilla Jake had
knocked one of the Indians down, and was backing over against the
wall, passing Benson, who sat crouched on a lot of skins.

A growl like that of an aroused animal came from the lips of Gorilla
Jake.

“Stand up hyer and help me!” he flung at Benson.

But Benson knew which side his bread was buttered on right then, and
he did nothing of the kind. He saw that the Utes had come for Gorilla
Jake, and that if he interfered he would put his life in jeopardy. So
he sat still, letting the angry Utes stream past and even over him.

“Wow!” breathed the excited Gamecock, an eye at the aperture taking
everything in. “Wish’t Brother Bill was hyer ter see this right now.
But I’m afeard that this trouble is goin’ to make it mighty hard
fer me and Bill to collect that reward fer Gorilla Jake; it begins
to look as if he is goin’ to git all that’s comin’ to him. Yet that
reward offer said ‘alive or dead.’ If he was scalped, I don’t reckon
that would make any difference. Only--I hope they won’t burn him;
’twould be purty hard ter produce the body, in that case.”

The Gamecock was trembling with excitement and apprehension. He
wanted to hurl himself in there and take the part of the threatened
man, then lead him off to the Blossom Range jail. But, plainly, that
would not do. Even Jim Betts was not reckless enough to try that.

“Benson’s a coward, er he’d git right up and into that game,” he
breathed. “Gorilla Jake is his friend, ain’t he? Well, why don’t he
stand by his friend?”

The Indians were crowding before Gorilla Jake, who was shouting
wildly at them. The one he had knocked down was on his feet again,
this time with a hatchet in his hand.

“Stand back!” the apelike man howled at them. His knife had come
out. “Stand back, all o’ ye, er take the consequences. Y’ ain’t
goin’ to pull me to pieces, and not git my knife, I tell ye. Thar on
the floor is the man you want--not me; _he’s_ the man that started
this thing, by s’jestin’ it. He’s the man that was to furnish the
whisky--the coward; and now he sets thar, an’ let’s me do the
fightin’. Stand back!”

Few if any of them understood his English, but they understood the
significance of the sweep of his long arm as it whirled the knife.

The watching Gamecock did not know what they were yelling, but he
judged that they were accusing him of treachery or deceit, or were
demanding more whisky, which it was clear he could not furnish. It
was plain, too, that they were temporarily crazy. That was the only
explanation; and Benson and Gorilla Jake had made them so. No band
of maniacs in any lunatic asylum ever looked more terrifying or more
desperate.

One of them sprang straight at the throat of Gorilla Jake like a dog
flinging at an enemy.

But he never reached the panting man. Gorilla Jake’s long arm swept
out, struck him in mid-air with a thump, and the Ute dropped at the
feet of the apelike man, his chest torn open by the knife.

“Stand back!” the desperate man yelled, swinging the bloody knife.

He looked insane, too, now; his lips frothing, his great shoulders
and muscular arms working, his hairy, painted face twisted in rage,
and his gray eyes glittering like an angry animal’s.

The fall of the Ute stayed the braves before him, it had come so
suddenly, but only for a moment; then another leaped at him, with
still others rushing in right behind.

Thump! Thump!

Two of the Utes fell. The third Gorilla Jake caught to his breast,
gave him a deadly squeeze, such as a great ape might give, and hurled
him lifeless as a missile straight into the faces of his friends,
knocking down half a dozen.

Flinging himself backward against the rear wall of the tepee, Gorilla
Jake tried to get out there, but found that he could not, and turned
to rip the tough, dried skins with his knife.

It gave an opportunity for the maddened Utes to close in on him, and
they made use of it.

His swinging arm clove open a hole in the tepee, and he staggered
through it, with Utes hanging to him like leeches. Others poured,
yelling, through the hole after them.

As this happened, the staring-eyed white man who watched under the
edge of the lodge saw Tim Benson rise from the skins he sat on and
project himself out of the lodge by the way of the regular exit,
brushing aside the Utes crowding in there.

The Gamecock got into action.

But he was bewildered by his desire to follow and capture Benson and
his equally strong desire to know what was being done to Gorilla
Jake. Already he had reached the conclusion that if he ever received
a reward for producing the body of Gorilla Jake, it would be by
producing a dead body.

The roaring tumult on the other side of the lodge where the apelike
man and the maniacal Utes had gone was indescribable.

But Jim Betts was not able to see what became of Gorilla Jake.

He found it necessary to consider his own safety. Utes were all round
him. One had actually stepped on the Gamecock’s fingers as he lay
sprawled on the ground.

“I got ter git out o’ this!” was his startled thought.

Apparently it was a conclusion taken none too soon.

He began to crawfish away from the lodge, almost flat on the ground,
keeping out of the way of the Indians, who rushed in what seemed the
probable direction taken by Gorilla Jake.

The Gamecock moved rapidly, now that he had made up his mind.

There was another lodge, into whose shadow he got; then he began
to crawl round it, intending to get on the other side, where the
darkness lay heaviest, and then perhaps make a dash to get safely out
of the village.

“I reckon that Gorilla Jake has gone under,” he was thinking, “and
that this climate is gittin’ mighty unhealthy fer Tim Benson. It’ll
be also plum malarious fer me if I don’t move out of it. A sudden
change of base looks mighty good fer my health right now.”

Then he stopped--not his words only, but his motions.

Right before him he saw a blanketed figure hugging the ground.

“Wow! An Injun! Jest when I was gittin’ shet of ’em!”

The “Injun” discovered by him moved with surprising suddenness.

The blanket lifted, and the man under it jumped at him, clutching the
Gamecock by the throat before he could get back or get out a weapon.

Betts was a powerful man, and was never known to surrender readily,
so he began to put up the best fight he could. He partly broke the
strangle hold on his throat, and reached for his knife, gurgling out
a panting exclamation at the same time.

That gurgling exclamation, unintentional though it was, proved a
mighty lucky happening for Jim Betts right then. The clutch on his
windpipe, which was closing again, dropped away; then a voice sounded:

“Who are you?”

“Wow! Who air you?”

Jim Betts fell back, gasping and gurgling.

“I’m Buffalo Bill!”

“Wow! I’m Jim Betts!”

The man drew himself together, pulling the blanket over him.

“I beg your pardon,” he whispered: “I thought you were an Indian.”

“An’ I thought you must be the devil the way you got holt o’ me.”

“Get under this blanket quick, and lie low. Some of the Utes are
coming over this way.”

Betts, helped by the scout, slid under the gray covering, so that,
as both men lay flat, the blanket covering them looked like a dark
shadow against the ground.

“Wow!” Betts was breathing, filled with amazement. “Cody! Wow!
Buffalo Bill! I wonder if my thinkin’ machinery ain’t slipped its
gearin’? Cody can’t be here.”

“What’s happening?” the scout asked in a whisper, lowering his head.

He had been peering out, with the blanket drawn close about his eyes.

“I reckon that Gorilla Jake has gone under.”

“I was guessing as much.”

“You seen him?”

“I heard him.”

“And the Utes!”

“No one could help hearing them.”

“You didn’t see Matt Shepard, the sheriff?”

“I didn’t; reckon he has gone under,” said Betts. “What you doin’ in
hyer, anyhow?”

“And you? We supposed you were on your way to Blossom Range.”

Betts began an explanation, but the scout cut him short.

“Hist! Not now. The Utes are near, some of them!”

Betts and the scout lay snugly under the blanket, and the running
Utes passed on and away.

Buffalo Bill began to talk again in cautious whispers.

“I came in here to look round, thinking that perhaps I might be able
to capture Benson.”

“And I come in hyer to look round, thinkin’ maybe I might be able to
capture Gorilla Jake.”

“But why didn’t you go on to Blossom Range?”

“That’s why. I wanted to capture Jake. I seen him outside of the
village when I fust set out, and turned in hyer after him. I might
have got him, but the Utes chipped in, and I reckon Jake has seen his
finish.”

“You saw Benson?”

“Yes. He was in the lodge with Jake, but he cut and run when the
Utes pounced on Jake, so I don’t know what become of him.”

“I think we’d better try to get out of this.”

“It’s dangerous hyer right now.”

“Almost as dangerous as death itself. If the Utes find us we’re
gone. I never saw Indians so crazy. I’ve seen them drunk, but never
anything like this. If Gorilla Jake has been killed by them I guess
he brought it on himself, for he and Benson must have fired them up
with whisky.”

“Old forty-rod, if it’s filled with drugs and dope to make it go fur,
will knock out a white man, and make a lunatic of a red; I’ve seen it
before.”

“I never saw Indians as wild as these are to-night.”

“I couldn’t understand anything the Utes said, but I jedge they was
crazy mad because Jake and Benson couldn’t furnish ’em no more old
redeye. Deprive a red of whisky, after he’s been havin’ some, and it
turns him into a wild man. Benson and Jake was shore playin’ with
fire, and they’d ought to have knowed it. I reckon it finished Jake.”

“We’ll crawl off in this direction, in the shadow of the lodge; be
sure to keep the blanket over you,” said the scout. “Be careful, too,
that you move slowly and cautiously. I shouldn’t have risked my life
in here if I had fully understood the situation. I’m glad I met you.”

Jim Betts coughed out a low, wheezing laugh.

“My achin’ throat don’t echo that sentiment,” he said; “it’d feel a
heap easier if I hadn’t met you. I never met up with a man had a grip
like that; I thought my neck was bein’ crushed in.”

The scout did not echo the laugh; at this distance the thing looked
too serious.

“I might have killed you, Betts,” he said. “I saw you getting that
knife, and----”

“Then I ripped out somethin’ in purty plain English, and you tumbled.
It’s all right now. But I reckon my throat will ache fer a week. When
I have a heap of time I’m goin’ ter see if you can’t choke an iron
bolt so that it will holler.”

They crept along under the blanket, slipping it over the ground,
until they had cautiously crossed an open space; then found
themselves within the shadow of another lodge.

They were moving away from the centre of disturbance and apparently
increasing their chances.

“Whar did ye leave the rest o’ the boys?” Betts asked, as they stood
up in the shadow of this lodge.

“Where they were when you left us.”

“They knowed you had come?”

“Yes.”

“Brother Bill would be surprised, I reckon, if he knowed I was here.
He says I allus take too big risks. Shall we make a run fer the aidge
o’ the village now? The distance ain’t more’n a hundred feet. Thar’s
a heap o’ noise goin’ on, and I reckon we could make a lot of racket
without bein’ heard by the crazy Utes.”

“I think your brother Bill is right in saying that you are inclined
to take unnecessary risks. If we make a dash to get out of here we
may be seen and might be shot. Caution still stands us in hand, I
think.”

The scout stooped again, and, clinging to the shadow of the lodge as
long as he could, he worked his way toward the outer circle of lodges.

Jim Betts followed him.

Fortunately, interest in another quarter kept them from being seen.

CHAPTER XXIX.

THE DARING OF BILL BETTS.

“Vot iss?”

Nomad and his pards were guarding the camp, Baron von Schnitzenhauser
being on the side toward the town. Hearing something, he dropped
down, the characteristic question whispering from his lips, and
stared hard into the darkness.

The sound, which had been like that of crashing feet, had stopped.
The baron did not know but that an Indian had tried to come upon him,
though an Indian, unless intoxicated, would hardly have made so much
noise.

“Der Inchuns haf peen howling so mooch dot maype I am hearing t’ings
vhen dare aind’t notting to seen,” he muttered.

Then he heard the sounds again, unmistakable footsteps coming toward
him.

The baron lifted his forty-five revolver and poked it at the sounds.

“Uff you tond’t vant to gidt shodt you vill sbeak so quickness like I
dell you,” he commanded. “Who iss idt?”

“It’s me.”

“Yaw! Budt I tond’t know ‘me.’ Who iss ‘me’?”

“Dugan. That you, Schnitz?”

“Oh, idt iss Dugan? Der shepidy deriff--I mean der debudy sheriff.
Uff you ar-re sure dot you aind’t makin’ a misdake you may come on.”

When Dugan, deputy sheriff, came on, Schnitzenhauser discovered that
he had a man with him.

“I’m Hank Elmore, stage driver,” said the second man, reaching out
his hand to the German.

“You haf peen in more danger righdt now as in eeny holdt-oop,” the
baron told him; “vhen I gand’t seen you, I am come mighdy nigh
shooding you. Why you make der sneak?”

“Feared o’ the Utes,” said Elmore. “Where’s Cody? We was huntin’ fer
his party.”

“I am some uff his barty.”

“Yes, I know it; where’s the others?”

“Righdt ofer dhere. Nomat is vatching on der righdt site uff der
gamp, unt Vilt Pill on der lefdt, unt Pill Petts on der odder, unt
me here. Cody is scoudting roundt, unt saidt he vos going into der
willage. From der noises I haf peen hearing I t’ink, py yiminy, dey
musdt haf sbalped him alreaty.”

“Yit you stay right hyer?”

“Idt iss orders. Ve opey orders, uff somepoty gits kilt. Oddervise,
uff Cody iss nodt kilt unt comes py dhis blace, he tond’t findt us
here, unt dhere iss a mix-oop. Notting iss vorser as a mix-oop in der
night. You hav somepoty caming pehint you--huh?”

“Thar will be a crowd in the mornin’,” said Dugan. “I tell ye thar’s
the biggest skeer goin’ on down in Blossom Range as ever ye see,
’count o’ the Utes chargin’ that crowd and killin’ Shepard. I tried
to git a posse to come out to-night, but I couldn’t make it; nobody
had the sand. Elmore said he’d come with me, and we’re hyer.”

“Cody vill pe glad to seen you--yaw. He vants more men as he has got.”

“Where will we find the rest of your crowd?” asked Dugan.

“Go righdt aheadt. Vhen you have gone tventy yardts or so you petter
call oudt, mitout too mooch noise, so dot you don’t git shodt.”

They were about to move on.

“But, in attition,” said the German, “I vouldt pe bleased uff vun of
you couldt dake my blace standting here, as I am getting so mooch
exercise uff my mindt apoudt Cody dot I shouldt like to make an
inwestigadion. Tond’t vorgidt idt.”

They moved on, and soon he heard them speaking with Bill Betts and
Nomad.

In a little while footsteps rustled again, and the baron was about to
call out, when Bill Betts announced his presence and came forward.

“I’m gittin’ that worked up over the racket goin’ on in ther village
thet I want ter see what it means,” he said.

“Yoost der same here. Cody iss in drouble, unt I knowed idt.”

“Sounds like it, don’t it? What I’m most afeard of is that the bloody
Utes air murderin’ Gorilla Jake.”

“Unt maype Penson!”

“I don’t keer fer Benson. But Jake is my meat. Me and Brother Jim
wants that reward fer arrestin’ him.”

“Vale, you don’t can’t gidt it now, uff dhey kill him.”

“We might. I’d like to see about it. And as Cody must be havin’
trouble, I’d like you to go with me, so’s we two kin look into
things.”

The baron shook his head.

“Orders iss orders! I am commandedt to sday righdt here.”

“I know Cody said that, but Dugan is coming right over hyer to watch
at this p’int. He told me he would. I asked Nomad to go with me, and
he said he wouldn’t, though I could see that he was mortally skeered
up about Buffler.”

“You ditn’t ask Vildt Pill?”

“No.”

They were silent a moment, listening to the unearthly racket in the
Ute village.

“Thar’s another thing stingin’ me all up,” Bill Betts admitted.

“Vot iss?”

“I’m harborin’ ther oncomfortable feelin’ that Brother Jim is over in
that village.”

“He vendt to der town.”

“I have a feelin’ that he didn’t, and that he’s now in trouble. You
see, he’s as anxious as me to git hold of Gorilla Jake. I askt Dugan
and Elmore if they met up with him, and they said they didn’t.”

“Idt iss not proof dot he ditn’t go to der town.”

“I know it ain’t. But didn’t you ever have a presenterment, baron?”

“Many dimes, vhen I am asleeb; but odder beoples call idt a
nighdtmares.”

“It is a feelin’.”

“Yaw! Idt iss a offul veeling. I haf hadt him. Vonce diss nighdtmare
vot climbed indo my pedt vos redt all ofer, unt I hollered yoost
like a horse. I am sveadting yidt, venever I t’ink apoudt idt.”

“You don’t understand me, but it don’t make any difference; the
question is, will you go with me? I’m settin’ out right now for the
Ute village. Hyer is yer chance fer excitement, baron.”

The “excitement” appeal seldom failed to move Baron von
Schnitzenhauser. He would have been willing to rove half round the
world to find some unusual form of it. For a moment longer only he
hesitated.

“Dhis site uff der camp is avay frum der Inchuns, unt Dugan iss to
come here soon. Yaw! I will go mit you. I am dot anxious apoudt Cody
I gan’t standt idt eeny longker. Ledt der vays, unt I am mit you. As
for der Utes, raus mit ’em. Cody iss maype needting rescuink dhis
minude.”

Having made up his mind to accompany Bill Betts on this wild
excursion to the Ute village, the baron set out forthwith, tramping
at Betts’ heels with exceeding care. He had been wanting to see
for himself what was happening, for such infernal Indian yelling
he had never heard in all his wide experience. He was genuinely
anxious, too, about Buffalo Bill. He justified his disobedience of
the latter’s orders by this feeling of anxiety, though he knew well
enough that if Cody’s wish could be ascertained, Nomad would have
been selected to go to the village, if any one went at all. Buffalo
Bill trusted the old trapper as he did no one else except Wild Bill
Hickok.

No difficulty was experienced in keeping to a straight line--that
wild howling would have guided one through Stygian darkness. The only
thing was to guard against stumbling and falling. There was little
likelihood that they would be heard, because of the Indian uproar.

“Sounds like ther infernal regions has heaved themselves right out
upon the yearth,” Bill Betts observed when they stopped on nearing
the commotion and noise. “D’y’ ever hear anything like it?”

“Der nearest,” said the baron, “iss vhen my vife gif me a biece uff
her mindt der second day after ve ar-re marriet.”

“Wow! It must er been a heavy piece!”

“Vell, you haf heardt a door preaking down, unt a stick uff vood
hammering on idt. Dot vos my vife drying to gidt at me into der room
vare I haf run. Also-o, she vos yelling for der bolice.”

“You must have had a happy married life, Schnitz.”

“Yaw! Der fairst day idt voss vlatirons, der secondt day idt vos
proomsdicks unt rolling bins, unt der nexdt day idt----”

“Wow!” Betts broke in. “Lissen ter that. We’ve got to git nearer.”

“Nearer idt iss. I am mit you.”

They were not content until they were close up by the lodges. Then,
as they still could not see well enough, they crossed the line into
the village.

“Keep close by me, Schnitz, and be ready fer trouble and to cut and
run if we have to. See that lodge off thar? It’s whar the yellin’ is
fiercest. Sounds like killin’ men thar, don’t it? I have a ingrowin’
feelin’ that Brother Jim is clost about that spot.”

The baron, who had been stooping, stood up and stared off in the
direction indicated.

A leaping fire near it showed the lodge and the swarming, painted
Indians.

“Thar’s a temperance lesson fer ye!” said Betts. “Shows what whisky
will do.”

“Ach! Vhisky iss no goot.”

“I’m goin’ to git clost enough to see if Jim is in the midst of that.
You keep by me. Don’t fergit that I’ve got my umbreller gun. We’re
goin’ to git down now and sneak along behind it. Thar’s bowlders
big and little everywhars you look. Set this umbreller open on the
ground, and in this pore light you couldn’t tell it frum a bowlder.
We can take advantage of that fact; it’s why I like the old gun.
Besides, if anybody comes toward us, I can drap him with it, and
he won’t know whar the bullet come from. You jest keep close at my
heels.”

Slipping to the ground, Bill Betts spread open his umbrella gun, and
he and the baron got behind it.

The baron then saw that around the handle--which was the gun--where
it passed through the umbrella there were openings, so that through
them he and Betts could look out. Through those openings, also, Betts
could aim the gun.

“The old thing is chock-a-block with ca’tridges, as I call ’em,” said
Betts. “I kin mow down half a dozen reds without havin’ to reload,
and I got plenty more ca’tridges in my pockets. Now, we’ll git
closer.”

Pushing the open umbrella carefully ahead of him and moving slowly,
Betts made a cautious approach to the lodge where the howling Utes
were seen.

They were stopped in this perilous advance by seeing the rear of
the lodge break open suddenly and Gorilla Jake come rolling out,
dragging with him a number of Utes. Though he was painted like the
Indians, Bill Betts knew him at once.

“Wow!” Betts breathed. “See that--see it?”

“I am seening idt.”

“Thar he goes down, with Injuns right on top o’ him; they’re goin’
ter kill him. Would you open on ’em if you was me?”

The German caught Betts by the arm.

“Dond’t dooded idt!” he whispered. “Idt vouldt pe our finishment.”

“But they’re killin’ him, I reckon.”

“Yaw! Idt looks like idt.”

“And if they finish him, how am I to git that reward?”

“You von’dt gidt eeny uff idt, Misder Petts, uff you make a
foolishness mit yourselluf righdt now. I am vondering dot dey ton’dt
seen us.”

Then the German saw Tim Benson leap out of the lodge entrance and go
scampering in the other direction. Betts caught sight of him, too.

“Thar goes Benson,” Betts whispered, his hands shaking.

“Yaw! I seen him. Budt I ain’dt vanting to foller him dhis minude.
Vot I am loogking vor iss Puffalo Pill. You ton’dt seen Cody?”

“No, I don’t see him.”

They beheld the “finish” of Gorilla Jake, to the great grief of Bill
Betts. The Indians had killed the apelike man without mercy, simply
because he could not furnish them more whisky.

A little after that the two crouching behind the umbrella beheld the
scalp of the unfortunate man elevated on a lance before the lodge,
with the drunken Indians dancing and howling round it.

“Gives me the creeps!” commented Bill Betts. “I’m beginnin’ to think
that Jim didn’t come hyer.”

“Budt Cody dit!” whispered the German.

“Yit he may have got out before this happened.”

“Yaw, I am hobing so.”

Bill Betts’ keen eyes beheld sneaking forms near the outer lodges. He
stared at them. What had seemed but one man became suddenly two, when
the blanket round them dropped down.

“White men!” he gasped. “I’m betting one of ’em is Jim Betts. He’s
that reckless he’s allus runnin’ inter danger.”

“Unt der odder iss maype Cody, who is yoost as reckless. Now, you unt
me----”

“B’ jings, I believe they’re comin’ round this way. If one o’ them
men is Brother Jim I’ll roast him fer runnin’ hisself into danger
like this.”

The “bowlder,” which the umbrella seemed to be, began to move slowly
backward, the men concealed by it crawfishing toward the outer lodges.

“I hate dog-goned bad to have to go and leave Gorilla Jake!” said
Betts.

“Budt he iss dead.”

“I know it, but the reward said ‘dead or alive.’”

The reckless men did not get safely out of the village without
trouble. When they were still some distance from the outermost lodge
an Indian dog came toward them, sniffing. Suddenly the dog began to
bark.

“Freeze!” said Betts.

“Yaw! I am a piece uff ice.”

An Indian appeared and called to the yelping dog.

“Wow! See that?” whispered Betts.

“I am hearing idt.”

Encouraged by the Indian, the dog made a barking rush at the dark
umbrella.

“The Injun thinks this is a bowlder,” said Betts, “but the dog knows
better.”

“Yaw! He knows idt mit his nose.”

“Shall I let him have it?”

The dog settled the question by making a furious rush upon the
bowlder.

The finger of Bill Betts clutched round the stock of the umbrella
handle in a nervous grip; a dull click sounded, and the dog, yelping
its last, fell dead in its tracks.

The Ute stared in wildest astonishment, then ran to the dog, which
was thirty feet or more from the bowlder.

“Now he vill gome on unt seen us,” whispered the German.

The mystified Indian, after stooping for a moment over the dog,
advanced toward the “bowlder,” probably thinking some one was behind
it, yet puzzled because he had heard no gun.

The dull click sounded again, and the Indian reeled backward with a
yell, his right arm dropping at his side. He yelled again; then began
to run toward the dancing Indians.

“The bowlder’s got to move back ag’in,” said Bill Betts. “Ye’re
seein’ now the uses of a gun what don’t seem ter be a gun. I reckon
this ole umbreller has saved more’n a dozen lives fer me; I’d been
killed that many times if I hadn’t had it.”

“Vun more life idt haf safed you to-nighdt--huh?”

“You bet you! Hitch back fast’s ye kin, Schnitz; thar’ll be more
Injuns whar that’n stood in a little while. He’s reached the dancers
and is spreadin’ the news thar.”

Some of the dancers stopped their whirling and howling and began to
run toward the spot where the dog had been killed and the Ute had
received a shattered arm. The injured Ute led the way, holding his
bleeding arm with his left hand.

“Now we haf got to make der slide.”

“Yes, it’s a lively skedaddle fer us. Up goes ther umbreller. Now,
jump fer it.”

The umbrella closed with a snap, and the two men whom it had
concealed sprang to their feet and beat a hasty retreat out of the
village before the staring eyes of the astounded Utes.

But the Utes, getting their wits together, followed, howling like a
crazy mob.

As the baron and Bill Betts leaped into the darkness beyond the
farthest lodge they heard the voices of Buffalo Bill and Jim Betts.

“Right this way,” said the scout.

“Come a-b’ilin’, Brother Bill!” Jim Betts called.

The four men came together, then beat a quick retreat.

Before the camp was reached the Betts brothers were quarreling, each
charging the other with foolish recklessness.

CHAPTER XXX.

THE CAPTURE OF BENSON.

When morning came a considerable force arrived from Blossom Range. It
was composed of the most courageous men of the town, and they were
well armed.

Buffalo Bill, taking command of this force, moved on the village
of the Utes. But there was now no one in the village who sought to
oppose him. The warriors who had howled and danced throughout the
night lay in a stupor and were helpless; several warriors were dead.
The woman and children, with the older men, and such of the braves as
had not been able to get enough of the doctored whisky to hurt them,
were alone able to meet the force of the scout and talk intelligibly.

They were dreadfully frightened by this array of fighting men from
the town, and seemed ready to make any promises demanded. They were
not to blame, they said, for what had happened. The white men who had
brought the whisky should alone be blamed. One of the white men who
did it was dead, the other had fled from the place.

But the body of Gorilla Jake could not be found. This, the Indians
explained, was because it had been burnt on the bonfire the Utes had
built and kept roaring through the greater part of the night.

Old Iron Bow was in a stupor, from which he was aroused with
difficulty. Even then he could give no satisfactory account of what
had happened. But he and some of the worst of the warriors were
placed under arrest by Dugan, and were taken down to the Blossom
Range jail.

Buffalo Bill and his friends searched the Ute village through and
through, but were not able to find Tim Benson.

“He’s a feller yer cain’t never ketch,” said Nomad.

Buffalo Bill did not side with this view.

He sent orders everywhere, which blocked all the trails leading from
Blossom Range and the country surrounding it, and sent messages again
to all the surrounding towns and mining camps.

“I’ll get him yet,” he said in serene confidence. “You see, he is
probably now in the hills, or else has come right back into Blossom
Range. If he is in Blossom Range it must be our work to see that he
don’t get out again. If he is out in the hills he will starve there,
so will have to come in.”

But old Nomad had seen the hopes of the scout baffled so often by the
clever road agent that he had become pessimistic on the subject of
the capture of Tim Benson.

Nevertheless, the old trapper did not relax his efforts. Buffalo Bill
never had better lieutenants than Nomad, Wild Bill, and the baron.
They gave their strength and time night and day to watching and
shadowing. Wild Bill kept a close watch on all the gaming places of
the town, knowing that Benson was a notorious gamester, and would be
found in such places if he felt that he could visit them safely.

Benson’s ability at disguising was not forgotten. So every man and
woman leaving the town was subjected to an examination.

It was bad for the business of the town, but it brought results.

Benson had really fled into Blossom Range, stopping on the way only
long enough to remove his Indian paint and feathers and assume his
ordinary clothing, which he had kept with him in the Ute village and
brought out of it.

For a day or two he hid with a friend, who fed him and kept him
secluded.

But this friend was soon suspected and arrested. Benson had to leave
his house.

The few friends left now in the town became afraid to harbor him.

At last a day came when Benson, grown desperate, hungry, wearied with
hiding like a terrified wolf, came boldly out into the street. Yet
he had taken the care to give himself a change of clothing, which he
stole during the previous night, so that he was not now the dapper
gambler and desperado, but appeared as a miner in rough clothing and
clay-stained boots.

“There are miners going in and out of the town to their work every
day, and I’ll try that trick,” he said to himself. “I can’t get away
during the night, for no man is permitted to go out who is not known,
so I’ve got to make the try in broad daylight. If I fail----”

He walked boldly down the street, passing dozens of men, who gave him
not a second glance.

“They don’t know me! I guess I can work it. But I’ve got to get
farther than just out in the hills. How will I do that? All the
surrounding towns are guarded, with men looking there for me, so I
can’t go into the towns. And if I stay in the hills I’ll starve;
a coyote couldn’t live there. I think I’ll have to try the stage
again.”

Yet he knew that no man whose identity was not clearly proven could
leave now by the stage.

Benson had not proceeded half a mile when he saw the man whom he
feared above all others--Buffalo Bill.

The great scout had been standing at a street corner, as if at ease
with himself and the world, also apparently not watching any one or
looking for any one.

But it was evident that he had seen and spotted Benson as soon as the
latter appeared in sight.

When Buffalo Bill sauntered with seeming carelessness across the
street to intercept Tim Benson old Nomad was in another street, which
hid him from Benson’s sight, though he and the scout could see each
other.

The scout put up his hand in a peculiar way, much as if he were
settling a refractory cuff in place, a sign which Nomad saw at once
and understood.

Benson was still under the impression that Buffalo Bill had not
recognized him, when the scout, after brushing by him, turned
quickly, with handcuffs ready for Benson’s wrists.

“Better surrender without trouble, Benson!” he said in a low tone.
“I’ve got you, you see.”

Benson whitened to the lips; then in desperation he whipped out a
revolver and fired at the scout. The scout ducked and seemed to reel.
At the same instant the trapper came yelling upon the scene.

“Waugh!” old Nomad whooped. “Better drap et, Benson, fer ye’re
shootin’ only blanks!”

The shouted words, telling him his revolver held only blanks,
confused and balked Benson for a moment; it made him uncertain,
and that caused him to hesitate. The scout had not been touched by
Benson’s bullet, and it gave him the time and opportunity needed.

He sprang upon Benson. When the latter’s hand went up again with the
revolver, Buffalo Bill turned the weapon aside and at the same time
snapped the wrist in the handcuff; then, with a swing, he caught and
brought the other wrist round.

“Click!” sounded the manacles.

The revolver fell to the ground, and Benson reeled back against the
wall. That click and the touch of the cold steel on his wrists let
him know that the great scout had him at last.

Not until the thing had been done and the handcuffs held his arms
together did Benson come to a full realization that Nomad had shouted
those words simply to confuse him and cause him to lose time.

He turned upon the old trapper furiously.

Nomad only laughed.

“Thet’s all right, ye reprobate,” said the trapper. “We wanted ter
ketch yer, so I didn’t want ter drap ye with a bullet myself, or hev
ye drap Buffler. Ye’re the star road agent o’ this section and the
king o’ all the desperadoes that’s been workin’ round hyer; but now
we has got ye. Et’s the final scoop.”

Tim Benson, a very few minutes later, was in the jail of Blossom
Range, whither his pals had gone before him.

As for the Utes, old Iron Bow and the others who were jailed, they
were released in a few days and permitted to return to the village.
It was held that, being savages, they were not really responsible
for deeds committed under the influence of desperate white men and
strong drink.

The Betts brothers did not get that reward.

They could not produce the body of Gorilla Jake, dead or alive. Yet
there was no doubt that he had suffered at the hands of the Utes a
terrible punishment for his crime of furnishing them with drugged
whisky.

THE END.

No. 102 of the BUFFALO BILL BORDER STORIES, entitled, “Buffalo
Bill, Peacemaker,” is a rattler that any boy would sit up all night
to read. The great scout’s hunt for peace gets him into all sorts
of trouble, and every page has its thrills.

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
61--Buffalo Bill’s Queer Find By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
62--Buffalo Bill’s Blind Lead By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
63--Buffalo Bill’s Resolution By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
64--Buffalo Bill, the Avenger By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
65--Buffalo Bill’s Pledged Pard By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
66--Buffalo Bill’s Weird Warning By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
67--Buffalo Bill’s Wild Ride By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
68--Buffalo Bill’s Redskin Stampede By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
69--Buffalo Bill’s Mine Mystery By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
70--Buffalo Bill’s Gold Hunt By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
71--Buffalo Bill’s Daring Dash By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
72--Buffalo Bill on Hand By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
73--Buffalo Bill’s Alliance By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
74--Buffalo Bill’s Relentless Foe By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
75--Buffalo Bill’s Midnight Ride By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
76--Buffalo Bill’s Chivalry By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
77--Buffalo Bill’s Girl Pard By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
78--Buffalo Bill’s Private War By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
79--Buffalo Bill’s Diamond Mine By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
80--Buffalo Bill’s Big Contract By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
81--Buffalo Bill’s Woman Foe By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
82--Buffalo Bill’s Ruse By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
83--Buffalo Bill’s Pursuit By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
84--Buffalo Bill’s Hidden Gold By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
85--Buffalo Bill in Mid-air By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
86--Buffalo Bill’s Queer Mission By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
87--Buffalo Bill’s Verdict By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
88--Buffalo Bill’s Ordeal By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
89--Buffalo Bill’s Camp Fires By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
90--Buffalo Bill’s Iron Nerve By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
91--Buffalo Bill’s Rival By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
92--Buffalo Bill’s Lone Hand By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
93--Buffalo Bill’s Sacrifice By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
94--Buffalo Bill’s Thunderbolt By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
95--Buffalo Bill’s Black Fortune By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
96--Buffalo Bill’s Wild Work By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
97--Buffalo Bill’s Yellow Trail By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
98--Buffalo Bill’s Treasure Train By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
99--Buffalo Bill’s Bowie Duel By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
100--Buffalo Bill’s Mystery Man By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
101--Buffalo Bill’s Bold Play By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
102--Buffalo Bill: Peacemaker By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
103--Buffalo Bill’s Big Surprise By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
104--Buffalo Bill’s Barricade By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
105--Buffalo Bill’s Test By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
106--Buffalo Bill’s Powwow By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
107--Buffalo Bill’s Stern Justice By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
108--Buffalo Bill’s Mysterious Friend By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
109--Buffalo Bill and the Boomers By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
110--Buffalo Bill’s Panther Fight By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
111--Buffalo Bill and the Overland Mail By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
112--Buffalo Bill on the Deadwood Trail By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
113--Buffalo Bill in Apache Land By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
114--Buffalo Bill’s Blindfold Duel By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
115--Buffalo Bill and the Lone Camper By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
116--Buffalo Bill’s Merry War By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
117--Buffalo Bill’s Star Play By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
118--Buffalo Bill’s War Cry By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
119--Buffalo Bill on Black Panther’s Trail By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
120--Buffalo Bill’s Slim Chance By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
121--Buffalo Bill Besieged By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
122--Buffalo Bill’s Bandit Round-up By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
123--Buffalo Bill’s Surprise Party By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
124--Buffalo Bill’s Lightning Raid By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
125--Buffalo Bill in Mexico By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
126--Buffalo Bill’s Traitor Foe By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
127--Buffalo Bill’s Tireless Chase By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
128--Buffalo Bill’s Boy Bugler By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
129--Buffalo Bill’s Sure Guess By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
130--Buffalo Bill’s Record Jump By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
131--Buffalo Bill in the Land of Dread By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
132--Buffalo Bill’s Tangled Clue By Col. Prentiss Ingraham
133--Buffalo Bill’s Wolf Skin By Col. Prentiss Ingraham

BOOKS THAT NEVER GROW OLD

ALGER SERIES

Clean Adventure Stories for Boys

Price, Fifteen Cents

_The Most Complete List Published_

The following list does not contain all the books that Horatio Alger
wrote, but it contains most of them, and certainly the best.

Horatio Alger is to boys what Charles Dickens is to grown-ups. His
work is just as popular to-day as it was years ago. The books have a
quality, the value of which is beyond computation.

There are legions of boys of foreign parents who are being helped
along the road to true Americanism by reading these books which
are so peculiarly American in tone that the reader cannot fail to
absorb some of the spirit of fair play and clean living which is so
characteristically American.

In this list are included certain books by Edward Stratemeyer upon
whose shoulders the cloak of Horatio Alger has fallen. They are books
of the Alger type, and to a very large extent vie with Mr. Alger’s
books in interest and wholesomeness.

_ALL TITLES ALWAYS IN PRINT_

1--Driven From Home By Horatio Alger, Jr.
2--A Cousin’s Conspiracy By Horatio Alger, Jr.
3--Ned Newton By Horatio Alger, Jr.
4--Andy Gordon By Horatio Alger, Jr.
5--Tony, the Tramp By Horatio Alger, Jr.
6--The Five Hundred Dollar Check By Horatio Alger, Jr.
7--Helping Himself By Horatio Alger, Jr.
8--Making His Way By Horatio Alger, Jr.
9--Try and Trust By Horatio Alger, Jr.
10--Only an Irish Boy By Horatio Alger, Jr.
11--Jed, the Poorhouse Boy By Horatio Alger, Jr.
12--Chester Rand By Horatio Alger, Jr.
13--Grit, the Young Boatman of Pine Point By Horatio Alger, Jr.
14--Joe’s Luck By Horatio Alger, Jr.
15--From Farm Boy to Senator By Horatio Alger, Jr.
16--The Young Outlaw By Horatio Alger, Jr.
17--Jack’s Ward By Horatio Alger, Jr.
18--Dean Dunham By Horatio Alger, Jr.
19--In a New World By Horatio Alger, Jr.
20--Both Sides of the Continent By Horatio Alger, Jr.
21--The Store Boy By Horatio Alger, Jr.
22--Brave and Bold By Horatio Alger, Jr.
23--A New York Boy By Horatio Alger, Jr.
24--Bob Burton By Horatio Alger, Jr.
25--The Young Adventurer By Horatio Alger, Jr.
26--Julius, the Street Boy By Horatio Alger, Jr.
27--Adrift in New York By Horatio Alger, Jr.
28--Tom Brace By Horatio Alger, Jr.
29--Struggling Upward By Horatio Alger, Jr.
30--The Adventures of a New York Telegraph Boy By Horatio Alger, Jr.
31--Tom Tracy By Horatio Alger, Jr.
32--The Young Acrobat By Horatio Alger, Jr.
33--Bound to Rise By Horatio Alger, Jr.
34--Hector’s Inheritance By Horatio Alger, Jr.
35--Do and Dare By Horatio Alger, Jr.
36--The Tin Box By Horatio Alger, Jr.
37--Tom, the Bootblack By Horatio Alger, Jr.
38--Risen from the Ranks By Horatio Alger, Jr.
39--Shifting for Himself By Horatio Alger, Jr.
40--Wait and Hope By Horatio Alger, Jr.
41--Sam’s Chance By Horatio Alger, Jr.
42--Striving for Fortune By Horatio Alger, Jr.
43--Phil, the Fiddler By Horatio Alger, Jr.
44--Slow and Sure By Horatio Alger, Jr.
45--Walter Sherwood’s Probation By Horatio Alger, Jr.
46--The Trials and Triumphs of Mark Mason By Horatio Alger, Jr.
47--The Young Salesman By Horatio Alger, Jr.
48--Andy Grant’s Pluck By Horatio Alger, Jr.
49--Facing the World By Horatio Alger, Jr.
50--Luke Walton By Horatio Alger, Jr.
51--Strive and Succeed By Horatio Alger, Jr.
52--From Canal Boy to President By Horatio Alger, Jr.
53--The Erie Train Boy By Horatio Alger, Jr.
54--Paul, the Peddler By Horatio Alger, Jr.
55--The Young Miner By Horatio Alger, Jr.
56--Charlie Codman’s Cruise By Horatio Alger, Jr.
57--A Debt of Honor By Horatio Alger, Jr.
58--The Young Explorer By Horatio Alger, Jr.
59--Ben’s Nugget By Horatio Alger, Jr.
60--The Errand Boy By Horatio Alger, Jr.
61--Frank and Fearless By Horatio Alger, Jr.
62--Frank Hunter’s Peril By Horatio Alger, Jr.
63--Adrift in the City By Horatio Alger, Jr.
64--Tom Thatcher’s Fortune By Horatio Alger, Jr.
65--Tom Turner’s Legacy By Horatio Alger, Jr.
66--Dan, the Newsboy By Horatio Alger, Jr.
67--Digging for Gold By Horatio Alger, Jr.
68--Lester’s Luck By Horatio Alger, Jr.
69--In Search of Treasure By Horatio Alger, Jr.
70--Frank’s Campaign By Horatio Alger, Jr.
71--Bernard Brook’s Adventures By Horatio Alger, Jr.
72--Robert Coverdale’s Struggles By Horatio Alger, Jr.
73--Paul Prescott’s Charge By Horatio Alger, Jr.
74--Mark Manning’s Mission By Horatio Alger, Jr.
75--Rupert’s Ambition By Horatio Alger, Jr.
76--Sink or Swim By Horatio Alger, Jr.
77--The Backwood’s Boy By Horatio Alger, Jr.
78--Tom Temple’s Career By Horatio Alger, Jr.
79--Ben Bruce By Horatio Alger, Jr.
80--The Young Musician By Horatio Alger, Jr.
81--The Telegraph Boy By Horatio Alger, Jr.
82--Work and Win By Horatio Alger, Jr.
83--The Train Boy By Horatio Alger, Jr.
84--The Cash Boy By Horatio Alger, Jr.
85--Herbert Carter’s Legacy By Horatio Alger, Jr.
86--Strong and Steady By Horatio Alger, Jr.
87--Lost at Sea By Horatio Alger, Jr.
88--From Farm to Fortune By Horatio Alger, Jr.
89--Young Captain Jack By Horatio Alger, Jr.
90--Joe, the Hotel Boy By Horatio Alger, Jr.
91--Out for Business By Horatio Alger, Jr.
92--Falling in With Fortune By Horatio Alger, Jr.
93--Nelson, the Newsboy By Horatio Alger, Jr.
94--Randy of the River By Horatio Alger, Jr.
95--Jerry, the Backwoods Boy By Horatio Alger, Jr.
96--Ben Logan’s Triumph By Horatio Alger, Jr.
97--The Young Book Agent By Horatio Alger, Jr.
98--The Last Cruise of _The Spitfire_ By Edward Stratemeyer
99--Reuben Stone’s Discovery By Edward Stratemeyer
100--True to Himself By Edward Stratemeyer
101--Richard Dare’s Venture By Edward Stratemeyer
102--Oliver Bright’s Search By Edward Stratemeyer
103--To Alaska for Gold By Edward Stratemeyer
104--The Young Auctioneer By Edward Stratemeyer
105--Bound to Be an Electrician By Edward Stratemeyer
106--Shorthand Tom By Edward Stratemeyer
107--Fighting for His Own By Edward Stratemeyer
108--Joe, the Surveyor By Edward Stratemeyer
109--Larry, the Wanderer By Edward Stratemeyer
110--The Young Ranchman By Edward Stratemeyer
111--The Young Lumbermen By Edward Stratemeyer
112--The Young Explorers By Edward Stratemeyer
113--Boys of the Wilderness By Edward Stratemeyer
114--Boys of the Great Northwest By Edward Stratemeyer
115--Boys of the Gold Fields By Edward Stratemeyer
116--For His Country By Edward Stratemeyer
117--Comrades in Peril By Edward Stratemeyer
118--The Young Pearl Hunters By Edward Stratemeyer
119--The Young Bandmaster By Edward Stratemeyer
120--Boys of the Fort By Edward Stratemeyer
121--On Fortune’s Trail By Edward Stratemeyer
122--Lost in the Land of Ice By Edward Stratemeyer
123--Bob, the Photographer By Edward Stratemeyer

+--------------------------------------------------------------------+
| Say, Boys! |
| |
| |
| How’d you like to own your own bronc’? How’d you like to be an |
| expert at lassoing and branding? How’d you like to ride the rolling|
| prairies in search of lost stock, and perhaps have an adventure or |
| two with certain bad men who did not like you because you were on |
| the side of law and order? How would you like it? |
| |
| Well, we all cannot go west and be cowboys, but we sure can pay 15 |
| cents for the stories in the _Western Story Library_, and find a |
| good, comfortable spot, and immediately imagine ourselves riding |
| with Ted Strong and his broncho boys, sharing their adventures, |
| their hardships and pleasures. |
| |
| Ted Strong and his pals are lovable fellows--every one of them, |
| and you will do well to make comrades of them. |
| |
| Ask your dealer to show you a copy of the _Western Story Library_. |
| |
| |
| STREET & SMITH CORPORATION |
| 79 Seventh Avenue New York City |
| |
+--------------------------------------------------------------------+

RATTLING GOOD ADVENTURE

SPORT STORIES

Price, Fifteen Cents

_Stories of the Big Outdoors_

There has been a big demand for outdoor stories, and a very
considerable portion of it has been for the Maxwell Stevens stories
about Jack Lightfoot, the athlete.

These stories are of interest to old and young. They are not,
strictly speaking, stories for boys, but boys everywhere will find
a great deal in them to engage their interest.

The Jack Lightfoot stories deal with every branch of
sport--baseball, football, rowing, swimming, racing, tennis,
and every sort of occupation, both indoor and out, that the
healthy-minded man turns to.

_ALL TITLES ALWAYS IN PRINT_

1--Jack Lightfoot, the Athlete By Maxwell Stevens
2--Jack Lightfoot’s Crack Nine By Maxwell Stevens
3--Jack Lightfoot Trapped By Maxwell Stevens
4--Jack Lightfoot’s Rival By Maxwell Stevens
5--Jack Lightfoot in Camp By Maxwell Stevens
6--Jack Lightfoot’s Canoe Trip By Maxwell Stevens
7--Jack Lightfoot’s Iron Arm By Maxwell Stevens
8--Jack Lightfoot’s Hoodoo By Maxwell Stevens
9--Jack Lightfoot’s Decision By Maxwell Stevens
10--Jack Lightfoot’s Gun Club By Maxwell Stevens
11--Jack Lightfoot’s Blind By Maxwell Stevens
12--Jack Lightfoot’s Capture By Maxwell Stevens
13--Jack Lightfoot’s Head Work By Maxwell Stevens
14--Jack Lightfoot’s Wisdom By Maxwell Stevens

_Adventure Stories_
_Detective Stories_
_Western Stories_
_Love Stories_
_Sea Stories_

All classes of fiction are to be found among the Street &
Smith novels. Our line contains reading matter for every one,
irrespective of age or preference.

The person who has only a moderate sum to spend on reading matter
will find this line a veritable gold mine.

STREET & SMITH CORPORATION,
79 Seventh Avenue,
New York, N. Y.

Transcriber’s Notes

The Table of Contents at the beginning of the book was created by the
transcriber.

Minor punctuation errors have been silently corrected and, except
for those changes noted below, all misspellings in the text, and
inconsistent or archaic usage, have been retained.

Inconsistencies in spelling and hyphenation such as
“fang-like/fanglike” and “clean-shaven/clean shaven” have been
maintained.

Extraneous commas in advertising pages deleted to properly align
table columns in electronic versions.

Page 2: “Rough-riders” changed to “Rough Riders”.

Page 49: “yieded” changed to “yielded”.

Page 84: “reachel” changed to “reached”.

Page 98: “riples” changed to “ripples”.

Page 211: “Calamut” changed to “Calumet”.

Page 278: “neverthless” changed to “nevertheless”.

Page 311: “Hicock” changed to “Hickok”.

*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Buffalo Bill's Bold Play - The Tiger of the Hills" ***

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