“Don’t forget what I told you to tell Benner, Steve,” cautioned the scout as he followed Dunbar. “If this outfit of cattle barons gets in my way, we’re liable to juggle the hatchet somewhat before we bury it.”
As the scout stepped through the slanting door in the roof, a husky laugh floated upward from Red Steve.
“What do you suppose that means?” asked Buffalo Bill of Dunbar.
“Why,” was the answer, “you had Steve going, down there, an’ I reckon he feels good to see the last of you.”
“You’re wide of the mark, Nate. That scoundrel knows something that he thinks will give our work the double cross. But,” the scout added grimly, “that’s a bridge we’ll cross when we get to it.”
Pointing to a jagged break in the roof of the dugout, he went on:
“That’s where Bear Paw broke through with his hind hoofs, rolled me out of the saddle and dropped me below. I hope the horse wasn’t hurt.”
He whistled sharply. The shrill signal was answered by a loud neigh and a thump of approaching hoofs. Another moment and the gallant black was rubbing his nose against the scout’s shoulder.
“I suppose, old sport,” laughed the scout, slapping Bear Paw’s neck, “that you hadn’t a notion what had become of me. That’s the queerest adventure we’ve had in some sort of a while, eh? How did you come through it, boy?”
As well as he could the scout examined the horse. An exclamation of relief escaped his lips.