“There ain’t a red within forty miles,” declared Buffalo Bill, for he it was.
“Then what’s the matter?” sputtered the captain of the freight crew. “I’ve set guards over the camp. We’re all right.”
“Your guards are a lot of use, ain’t they?” sneered the scout. “They’re out there walking up and down like two wooden men; but they didn’t see me get by.”
“But, for Heaven’s sake what is the matter?”
“You’ve got worse than Injuns after you.”
“What can that be?”
“Boyd Bennett’s gang of hold-up men.”
“Git out! Bennett’s left the country.”
“He’s j’ined an Injun tribe,” added the cook. “Become a squaw man.”
“Well, he’s out yonder with about a dozen of the p’izenest ruffians that it’s ever been my fate to run up against,” declared Buffalo Bill. “And from what I could overhear lying out there on my belly in the grass, they’re pretty near ready to stampede you!”