Buffalo Bill saluted the chief gravely, after the Sioux fashion, and then turned to Kennelly, who sat smoking and glowering at him, and asked:
“What weapons?”
“Tomahawks,” growled the renegade, as he rose to his feet and fronted the border king.
Nick Wharton had followed Buffalo Bill, after a moment’s pause, due to his absolute amazement at the bold course Cody had taken. His appearance did not alarm or surprise the Indians. Too many startling events had happened that evening for one more to have any effect on them.
“Durn my cats, Buffler!” said old Nick, after he had glanced defiantly round the circle of Indians. “You are the queerest duck I ever struck in my galumpin’ existence. What in thunder d’ye want to butt into this yere controversy for? Let me tackle thet thar Irish mountain o’ flesh! I guess I kin manage to settle his hash for him.”
The border king waved his friend aside, and whispered:
“Be on the watch, Nick, in case any of the Indians tries to get me in the back while I am fighting him.”
Wharton nodded, and promptly rested his hand upon his six-shooter in his belt, ready to whip it out and fire at a moment’s notice.
The Indians formed a ring, which was speedily added to by hundreds of other braves who flocked to the scene from the camp fires near by.
Buffalo Bill and the renegade stood in the center.