“The situation?”
“Yes. Sort of puzzling, isn’t it?”
The voice was muffled, but Buffalo Bill was sure that he had heard it before.
“Take off that wolf mask and let me see your face,” he said persuasively. “You have got me in a hole, so that there need be no further use for a disguise.”
“Think so?” was the imperturbable response.
“Yes. You know me, and I’ll bet a hat I know you. The question is, are you an enemy or are you a friend?”
“Yes, that’s the question.” A pause, and then the quick inquiry: “Have you ever heard of my outfit?”
“No.”
“We are the remnants of the bravest and most fearless nation of redskins that ever made Uncle Sam sit up and take notice. The disguise was adopted at the suggestion of the leader who preceded me, and who was killed by a fall about a month ago. We are the natural enemies of the Apaches, and Silver Moon, the dead one, thought the Comanches could better work in wolfskin than in their ordinary raiment.”
“What do you call yourselves?”