“Sufferin’ catermounts!” mourned the old trapper. “An’ all this hyer happens while I’m chasin’ up Dutchmen with ther baron. Cayuse, ain’t ye plumb mad at yerself fer bein’ sidetracked when thar was somethin’ excitin’ goin’ on?”
Little Cayuse had never very much to say on any subject. He merely grunted in answer to the trapper’s query.
The baron looked very much distressed.
“I peen so sorry as plazes,” said he, “dot I vasn’t here meinseluf when Vild Pill vent avay. Meppy he vould haf took me mit him. I peen some fine fellers in a disguise!”
“Hyer thet!” whooped the trapper. “Et don’t make no diff’rence how the baron’s got up, the lingo he uses is a dead give-away on him. Wild Bill, I reckon, kin kerry ther game through. I’m hopin’ he runs inter somethin’ lively—an’ thet he passes et eround. Ranchin’ et is purty tame bizness, seems ter me.”
The scout and his pards talked until supper time, and after supper they smoked out under the trees and watched and waited for Wild Bill. As the hours passed without bringing him, the scout’s uneasiness increased.
Perry and his daughter were in the house. The girl was reading aloud, and her father sat in a near-by chair, listening.
It must have been nearly nine o’clock when a beat of hoofs in the trail brought the pards off the bench.
“Thar he comes!” declared old Nomad, with intense satisfaction. “Now we’ll know what kind of er b’ar he’s ketched by ther tail.”
A call from the scout brought the horseman to a halt some distance away from the house.