“Drat my skin,” he exclaimed, after he wrung Buffalo Bill’s hand and pulled him roughly but affectionately about, “if I ain’t feeling too good for any use. I expected to assist in a funeral, though I ought to have known that you are too big a man to allow a measly mob of Indians to down you.”
“What did you hear? And how did you happen to come here?”
“Let me introduce my friend, and then I’ll saddle the explaining racket onto him. This is Carl Henson, only half a tenderfoot and wholly a thoroughbred. He came from Denver to find you and somebody else.”
Wild Bill, with these words, moved toward the cabin.
“Hold on a bit,” said the king of scouts, his right hand in that of the young man. “Before we go inside, I want some information. What did that shooting down the flat mean?”
“Oh,” replied Wild Bill indifferently, “we just stopped a little spying. A couple of Navahos were sneaking toward this cabin when we spotted them.” He said no more, and his head disappeared in the cabin.
The king of scouts winked at Bart Angell. Carl Henson saw the wink, and said, with a smile: “Our mutual friend Mr. Hickok is too modest. I had no hand in the killing of the two Indians. But two shots were fired, and both came from Mr. Hickok’s rifle.”
“Wild Bill shore shoots ter kill,” was Bart Angell’s emphatic comment. “I’m a fair hand at their trigger myself, but I lays down ter Wild Bill an’ Cody.”
In the cabin, Carl Henson told the story of his coming to the flat.
“My home is in Pennsylvania,” he began, “and I am engaged to be married to the nicest girl in America.” He sighed deeply, but went on before Buffalo Bill could speak. “You have probably guessed her name, Mr. Cody. It is Myra Wilton.”