“For Buffalo Bill,” he announced.
The letter was a note scrawled with a pencil on a page that appeared to have been torn from a notebook.
When Buffalo Bill opened it, he saw by the signature that it was from the jail prisoner, Toltec Tom.
It was brief, and ran as follows:
“Buffalo Bill: You may remember me, old pard, but perhaps you won’t, as we rawhided around together a good many years ago and our trails haven’t crossed much lately, if any. What all I’ve been doing since then doesn’t matter. But I hear you’re in town—saw you, in fact, as you and your friends came into the place. I’m putting up at the Town Hotel, and can’t say that I like the accommodations. I want to get out, and that’s why I write you. The marshal will tell you why I’m here, if you haven’t already heard about it. Come over and see me as soon as you can, and we’ll have a talk. I want to get out of this hole mighty bad.
“Your one-time pard and present well-wisher,
“Tom Conover.”
“From Tom Conover,” said the scout, looking up and addressing Woods, the town marshal. “He wants to see me, and I’d like you to go over to the jail with me!”
Woods got on his feet.
“All right,” he said; “that can be arranged easy.”