“How many are there in that party, baron?” asked the girl.
“More as I like to see,” said the baron. “I should say dere iss t’irty or fordy. Dere iss a greaser und a feller in plack clothes at der head oof der gang. Who vas dose din horns?”
“The man in the Mexican clothes is Phelps,” replied the girl, “and the other man is—Benner!” The last word came with bitter emphasis. “If they capture us, baron, I wish you would shoot that man in black.”
“Anyt’ing to oblige a laty,” returned the baron promptly, “aber I pedder do dot pefore ve ged gaptured, nicht wahr? Meppyso I don’d ged no chance afder dot, or——”
The baron, at that moment, received the start of his life. He gulped on his words, and nearly dropped from his saddle.
“Look vonce!” he gasped. “See who iss dot, Miss Berry!”
The baron pointed across the level to a spot where one horseman after another was swinging over the crest of a coulee—appearing as if by magic out of the earth, and pointing straight for the baron and the girl.
“Vone iss—meppy I vas treaming—vone iss Puffalo Pill,” mumbled the baron; “und anodder iss Vild Pill, und dere iss olt Nomat, und Leedle Cayuse, und some odder fellers vat I don’d know.”
“The other two,” cried the girl joyfully, “are my father and Nate.”
“From vere dit dose fellers come?”