“How should I know anything about it?” asked the intruder quickly. “The Death Riders? There are no such people. It is an old story that they tell around here to scare tenderfeet.”
“It’s hard to prove, isn’t it?” said the king of the scouts, giving the man a significant look. “Dead men tell no tales.”
“You seem to be quite nervous about these imaginary Death Riders,” sneered Ketchum. “I should not have thought that a man with Buffalo Bill’s great reputation feared anything.”
Buffalo Bill did not reply, for he did not care to assert his courage in words. But his companion faced the swaggering stranger and said hotly:
“Cody and one of his friends managed to account for a gang of your rascally assassins between them. You had better send ten times the number next time if you want to make sure of your bloody work!
“But you had better be careful. You are suspected, and if we can only get some good evidence against you, you will find that there is some law and justice in the West, after all!”
The swaggerer’s red face grew as black as night with rage, and he seemed about to spring at the throat of his bold challenger, but Cody stepped in between them and eyed him calmly and steadily.
Ketchum tried to meet his gaze, but he could not do so. He read the menace of death there, and his cheeks turned pale.
“Get out of here!” said the border king. “We understand one another perfectly, I think. You can do your worst, and we will be ready to defend ourselves—and to strike back!”
Frightened by these words, Ketchum turned on his heel and left the veranda. He knew Buffalo Bill well by reputation, and thoroughly understood that he was not the kind of man to speak at random.