“No, I got a rap on the coconut when I drapped down ther hole, but I’m feelin’ now in condition ter tackle ther hull murderin’ outfit.”
“Did you trail the three Navahos to the cave?”
“It ermounts ter ther same thing, Cody. I follered ther trail to ther bottom of ther ravine, and while I war down thar I seen an Injun poke his head out of a hole up ther bank, on ther far side of a big flat rock.”
“I have a hunch that our experiences were identical, Bart.”
“Then they shore ain’t anything ter brag erbout. We war two innercent, mush-headed flies, an’ that thar Injun, who insinivated his pesky cabesa outer ther hole, war ther foxy spider. Waugh! Gimme a smoke, Cody. I wanter to take ther taste outer my mouth.”
Buffalo Bill laughed. It was not a mirthful laugh. “As my hands are tied, and as you are in the same fix, Bart, I don’t see how I can accommodate you.”
“Ye’ve got ter,” persisted Angell. “Ef ye refuse ter whack up with ther terback—ther measly Injun who worked ther spider game swiped mine—I’ll shore hev ter take it away from yer by main force an’ awkwardness.”
The king of scouts looked queerly at his friend. The big backwoodsman was more than half in earnest. As his eyes met those of Buffalo Bill, a big grin overspread his homely face.
“It’s your play,” quietly remarked the king of scouts. “Bring out your cold deck and proceed to do me up.”
For answer, Bart Angell spread his legs. The cords that had secured his ankles had been cut, and there between them lay the knife which had performed the operation.