The sheriff snapped his jaws together, whirled on his heel and unlocked the door of the jail. When he had stepped inside, the scout and the sky pilot crossed the threshold after him.
“Strike a light, Bloom,” ordered the scout.
A match was scratched and a lamp lighted. In the middle of the shanty’s one room stood a bench; and on the bench, wrists and ankles manacled, sat Dunbar.
His face was haggard, but a light of hope shone in his eyes as they rested on the scout.
“Buffalo Bill!” he exclaimed joyfully. “I thought you’d come as soon as you found out what had happened to me. Does Hattie know? Or Dick?”
“Neither of them has been told, Nate,” answered the scout, stepping to the young rancher’s side and dropping a kindly hand on his shoulder. “Nor will they know,” he added, “until we get you out of this and you tell them yourself.”
The handcuffs rattled as Dunbar gripped the scout’s hand.
“You’re a friend worth having, amigo,” he murmured, “same as Jordan, there.”
“This foul injustice, Nate,” said the sky pilot, “will not be allowed to continue long. Truth will prevail, and those who have caused this trouble will be made to suffer for it.”
“What do you know about those diamonds they say you stole, Nate?” inquired the scout. “Anything?”