He stood on the stool staring at them until they came up to the Mexican huts and on into the street which led to the center of the town.
The horsemen broke into a canter.
“Injuns,” he said, “and three white men.”
He strained his eyes to make them out.
Suddenly a low whoop broke from his lips.
“Buffalo Bill, or I’m a sand hog!” he exclaimed, striking a palm against the bars of the window.
He rubbed his eyes, and looked again.
“And the two white men with him are Wild Bill and that old trapper they call Nick Nomad. Whoop! I reckon the Injuns aire some o’ Buffalo Bill’s scouts.”
A change passed over his face.
“But mebbe they won’t help me. When Fate kicks a man she kicks him hard. Yet there was a time when Buffalo Bill and me were pards. But that’s long ago, long ago.”