Conover rose a bit wearily.
“This gold here is heavily alloyed,” he said; “yet it is valuable, for there is a lot of it. Those window bars are more than three-fourths copper.”
He had said much more than he had meant to say about himself, but the hopelessness, even the apparent uselessness, of trying to make this German understand him and his viewpoint was impressed on him deeply.
The German was staring at the shining window bars.
Wearily Conover turned toward the door, which had been locked from the outside after his entrance. On the door he tapped, and the key was turned in the lock.
“Good-by for the present,” he said, squeezing the hand of the German. “These fellows out here don’t understand English, so you needn’t be afraid on that score; I know them well. And be ready for to-night. I don’t know just how it’s to be done. But I heartily hope Buffalo Bill can keep out of the hands of the Indians here until after to-night.”
For an instant it looked as if the baron meant to flounce out behind him and fight a way through the Indians there, but the heavy door banged in his face and he clattered backward, almost falling to the floor.
“Ach!” he gasped. “Vat a mans! Unt Puffalo Pill is dis town py! Der baron ain’d dead yid! But der golt is pooty much cobber, eh?”
Outside, Conover had shaken off the Indians who thronged about him, and took his way unmolested thereafter into another part of the Indian town.
Neither he nor Schnitzenhauser had heard rifle shots and Indian yells far beyond the town; they were too far off.