“Great Cæsar’s ghost!” ejaculated Angell, as his eyes rested on the face of the prostrate man in buckskin. “Buffalo Bill!”
The king of scouts tried to rise, but the effort was a failure. “I—I am all right, Bart,” he said, with an attempt at a smile. “Lost blood that I need in my business, that’s all.”
Angell quickly made an examination of Buffalo Bill’s hurt. He had been shot in the side, and it was impossible then to tell how serious was the injury. But after the wound had been washed and bandaged and a generous stimulant had been administered, the king of scouts diagnosed his case, and, as it proved, correctly.
“The bullet did not go straight into my anatomy, Bart. That’s a cinch.” He felt along his side. “It struck a rib, glanced and shot upward. I can feel it under the skin near the armpit.”
“Then I’ll purceed ter seperate it from yer person, old son,” remarked Angell, and with his hunting knife he deftly performed this bit of surgery.
The operation over, he said: “I’ve shore got ter ask yer ter excuse me fer a few minutes. Thar’s a measly rickaroon at the edge of ther flat that is claimin’ my attention.”
“Come to remember, I did hear your Peter Erastus speak just before I called to you, Bart. Did you bring down your man?”
The homely scout snorted. “Do I know how ter shoot? Buffalo, I’m ashamed on ye.”
With these words he walked away, and was soon bending over the form of his victim. The man was not dead, but the end was not far off.
Angell raised the victim’s head and gazed sharply into the pale face. The man was an utter stranger. He had a large mouth, a retreating chin, and little eyes set close together. Upon his face was a stubby, reddish growth of hair.