“Yes. You didn’t follow Jake Phelps, did you?”
Protest flashed in Nate’s eyes.
“What’s the use of asking me such a question, amigo?” he demanded. “A promise to you is a promise. I haven’t seen Jake Phelps since he rode away from the front of the hotel.”
“I could have made affidavit to that!” exclaimed the scout, with a feeling of relief.
“But what’s this all about?” put in Perry.
“Well, Jake Phelps was badly hurt on the way from Hackamore to the H-P ranch. Two cowboys, coming into town from the ranch, found his horse, racing for home without a saddle. A little farther along the trail they found Nate, saddle and money gone, sprawled out on the ground.”
Perturbation was written large in the faces of Dunbar and Perry. They stared at the scout and then at each other. For a moment no one spoke.
“Was—was he killed?” asked Nate finally, moistening his dry lips with his tongue.
“No,” said the scout, “but he was in pretty bad shape. The doctor doesn’t know whether he’ll pull through or not. The worst part of it is, he’s unconscious and can’t tell what happened to him. The longer he remains unconscious, Nate,” the scout answered kindly, “the worse it becomes for you. Of course, none of us believes you had anything to do with what happened, but Bloom is no friend of yours, and Bloom is with the H-P outfit now.”
Again was there a silence. Nate threw a look toward the house where his bride of a few days was busy with her household work. His lips twitched. Presently he pulled his revolver from its holster and handed it out to Buffalo Bill.