The eyes opened after some whisky had been poured down the man’s throat.
“Got me fer keeps,” was the hoarse remark, the little eyes blinking furiously.
“Yer shore goin’ ter peter,” replied Angell gravely; “an’, bein’ ez that aire so, it’s up ter you ter tell ther truth. Why d’ye fire ther cabin an’ shoot Buffalo Bill, an’ whatever hev become of Matt Holmes, who lived in ther cabin?”
“I never shot no one,” said the dying man. “I sot ther cabin on fire, an’ that’s all I did. I aimed ter do ther killin’, but it war done—war done—by——” The voice ceased, and a few seconds later Bart Angell was looking at the face of a dead man.
With a sour face, the slayer left the body and returned to the king of scouts.
“I didn’t git thar in time fer a satisfactory auntymottim, as them aire crowner fellers would say,” he announced. “Ther skunk went up ther flume without tellin’ all he knowed about ther fire an’ ther shootin’. But”—his countenance lighting up—“mebbe you kin fill in ther blanks.”
“Who was the man you killed?” inquired Buffalo Bill eagerly.
“Hanged ef I know. Some ornery cuss that looks as ef he war three parts idjut.”
“Is he well dressed and a good looker in the face?”
“Not by a jugful. He aire as homely as a hedge fence, and he wears the clothes of a scarecrow.”