“Not a shot is to be fired,” said Buffalo Bill to the silent little group in the cabin, “until I give the word. We will use our weapons only as a last resort and not until every other expedient is exhausted.”
From his loophole the scout saw one of the cowboys throw himself from the saddle and advance upon the front door. The plans of the H-P men must have been well considered, for each of the party moved at once to his post in the cordon that surrounded the cabin. There was no talking, no confusion. A fist pounded on the door.
“Who’s there?” called the scout.
“A crowd of fellers from the H-P ranch,” answered a hoarse voice, “and we mean business right from the drop o’ the hat.”
“What do you want?”
“We want the murderin’ hound that done fer Jake Phelps!”
A stifled cry escaped Mrs. Dunbar. Nate stepped over and put his arm around her waist, at the same time whispering to her encouragingly.
“Is Jake Phelps done for?” asked the scout, intent on securing a little information.
“Purty nigh,” was the answer. “He ain’t never spoke a word since he was found on the trail, where Dunbar knocked him out o’ the saddle.”
Here was something, at all events. Phelps was still alive, and while there was life there was hope that he would recover.