“I shore hope he ar’n’t aimin’ to murder her,” said Angell, with a white face.
“It is not likely,” was the confident response. “He has other designs. She is too pretty to kill.” As he spoke a frown came to his brow, and he bit his lip viciously. “Confound this wound of mine. I won’t be able to get about and do business for hours.”
“But yer humble sarvint ain’t in ther same fix,” responded Angell quickly. “I am shore on deck, an’, what’s more, I’m pinin’ ter git on ther trail of ther pizen hounds that’s moseyed off with ther gal.”
“Good!” said the king of scouts, his face clearing instantly. “Start as soon as you like. I am able to look out for myself.”
Ten minutes later Bart Angell was on the flat with pick and shovel. The duty of burial performed, he set out up the ravine which had brought Buffalo Bill and Myra Wilton to the flat.
He had been gone an hour when a tall man, with face covered by a black mask, stole up to the cabin that held the king of scouts.
Through the small window on the side, he peered in and saw Buffalo Bill propped up on the bunk and calmly smoking a pipe.
The door was open, and a few minutes later the man appeared in front of it. In his hand was a revolver, and the king of scouts looked up to gaze into the muzzle of the weapon.
A moment of silence followed:
Then Buffalo Bill spoke coolly: “Looks as if you had the drop.”