“The same,” said Wild Bill. “Red Thunderbolt, the man-killing maverick. He has Dusenberry’s life and Red Steve’s charged up against him.”
“Who killed Red Thunderbolt?” queried Perry. “Was it you, Wild Bill, or the baron?”
“Neither of us,” answered Hickok. “Red Thunderbolt wasn’t made to bite the dust by means of a bullet. Can’t you see what happened? He rushed through between those trees, trailing two ropes, one with a saddle attached; the saddle wedged against the tree trunks, and the other rope twisted around one of the sycamores. Red Thunderbolt charged down the slope. He was brought up short and thrown, with the result that he broke his neck.”
Exclamations of wonder came from those who had just reached the scene. Even Bloom had something to say about the queerness of it all.
“It don’t seem possible, not at all possible,” said the doctor, “and yet, friends, we have the proof plainly before our eyes. Truth, they say, is stranger than fiction. I’m beginning to believe it.”
“There’s also a saying, doctor,” said the scout, “that truth, crushed to earth, will rise again. By this accident to Red Thunderbolt, several things are proved. That loose rope—the one whose end is wrapped around the sycamore—belongs to me. I dropped it over Red Thunderbolt’s horns yesterday on the trail. When the steer got to the end of the rope, he jerked it away from my saddle and went on.”
“But where did the other rope come from?” asked Perry.
“Phelps,” said the scout, turning on the cattleman, “I wish you’d examine that smashed saddle wedged between the trees.”
“No need for me to examine it,” answered Phelps. “I’ve already recognized it, Buffalo Bill—not only the saddle, but the saddlebags, as well. They’re Jake’s.”
“The saddle and saddlebags he took with him when he went to Hackamore after the pay-roll money?”