“Why don’t you count ‘two?’” inquired the scout pleasantly.
But the Texan had lost the count. Instead of trying to find it, and go on with it, he began to swear.
“Sit down,” ordered Buffalo Bill. “I’ve caught my breath, all right, but I want to read you a lesson in common civility, and show you how to treat a traveler who accidentally drops in on you through the roof of your dugout.”
Some one laughed. It was not the red-haired man, of course, for he was in anything but a merry mood. The laughter came from behind the scout, and was the first intimation that there was any one else in the place.
The scout could not very well turn from the red-haired man and investigate.
“Who’s doing that?” he demanded.
“You git right out o’ here!” flamed the red-haired man. “This ain’t none o’ yore put-in, or——”
“I wasn’t talking to you,” cut in the scout sharply. “Who are you, behind there?”
“Nate Dunbar,” came the answer.
“If you’re a friend of this red-headed rawhide, Dunbar,” proceeded the scout, “why don’t you step up behind me and help him put me out?”