“Then stand right hyer an’ hold yer bronks a spell,” whispered Sim Pierce.
He vanished toward the front of the hotel. In less than five minutes he came back, bringing with him a slightly built, boyish-looking chap in a long, black coat.
“Gents,” said Sim Pierce, flourishing one of his long arms, “this here’s the Reverend Ben Jordan. He’s a gospel sharp, but it ain’t struck in enough so’t it hurts. He’s one o’ the boys, Ben Jordan is. He’s done more ter chase the devil off this range than ary other man in Texas.”
The Reverend Ben Jordan laughed. It was a whole-souled, hearty laugh that made Nomad and Wild Bill his friends right from the jump.
“There’s a good deal of the devil still left on the range, Sim,” said the sky pilot, “in spite of my efforts. These gentlemen are Wild Bill and old Nomad, I believe you said, pards of Buffalo Bill’s?”
“Kerect,” answered Pierce.
Jordan grabbed Wild Bill’s hand, and then Nomad’s.
“I’m mighty glad to meet up with you,” said the sky pilot. “I’m an admirer of Buffalo Bill’s—an unknown admirer—and to meet his compadres is a pleasure I shall long remember. Sim says you gentlemen are also friends of Dick Perry’s. I’m glad of that, too. Perry, just now, needs all his friends. If——”
At that moment, Lige Benner and Hank Phelps came hurrying around the end of the hotel.
“There he is!” cried Benner, pointing to Wild Bill.