“Want me ter sing it?” yelped Wild Bill. “Ain’t I follered Buffler Bill from Arizony jest ter git even with him? Ain’t I hyer on the Brazos jest a-campin’ on his trail?”
“What’re ye wantin’ ter do ter that feller as is called the king o’ scouts?”
“The wust I kin.”
“Supposin’ he was staked out on the perary, an’ a thousand head o’ stampedin’ steers run over him?”
Wild Bill’s blood began to boil. For a moment—just a moment—it seemed as though he would throw off his rôle of avenger for fictitious wrongs and tell Red Steve, Lige and Jerry just what he thought of their murderous, cold-blooded schemes. But he got a grip on himself at the right instant, and went on with the part he was playing.
“Kin ye do it, Red Steve?” he demanded. “Tork’s cheap, but it takes somethin’ besides tork ter git Buffler Bill in a fix like that.”
“Nigh ter Crowder’s ole c’ral, clost ter the Brazos, thar’s a thousand head o’ Circle-B cattle rounded up. The White Caps’ll hev charge o’ them cattle, an’ the longhorns aire goin’ ter git away. The stampede’ll head over ther place whar Buffler Bill an’ Dick Perry aire staked out. Arter it’s over, an’ them stakes aire pulled, the hull play’ll look like er happenchance. The scout an’ Perry got in the way o’ ther herd; they was on foot, an’ they couldn’t save theirselves, not noways.” A savage grin crossed Red Steve’s villainous face. “What d’ye think, Gringo Pete?” he asked.
“I think ye’re some hard ter beat if ye kin pull off a game like that. How’re ye figgerin’ ter do it?”
Wild Bill’s “pay streak” was developing undreamed-of possibilities. Used though he was to the merciless tactics of the frontier, his blood was running cold at these desperate schemes, so calmly broached.
To Lige Benner and his inner circle of helpers, a man’s good name or even his life weighed little against an overmastering desire for vengeance.