It was Buffalo Bill’s choice to live just then, so he drew rein. He knew from whom the command came, too, just as well as he knew that resistance would be useless.
“Up with your hands, or die! Come, take your choice, Buffalo Bill!”
The threatening words were repeated, as Buffalo Bill had simply reined the horses to a halt and still grasped the lines. He saw at a glance that bandits had sprung to the heads of his leaders, while he was covered by the revolver in the hand of Boyd Bennett himself. With no change of expression the scout said:
“As you seem to hold trumps in this game, Bennett, up go my hands.”
He gave the reins a turn around the lantern, and Buffalo Bill coolly raised his hands above his head to the apparent relief of the outlaws at the horses’ heads, for they seemed to have feared that, after all, he might resist. They knew that, if he had chosen to die fighting, some of them would have bitten the dust first.
“You have acted wisely, Buffalo Bill, and I am glad to see that even you can be cowed when you’re in a tight place,” laughed Boyd Bennett.
“We won’t discuss that part of the proposition,” said Cody coolly. “I’m anxious to get on, so don’t detain me with philosophical remarks.”
“Ah—indeed! In a hurry, are you?”
“I am, Bennett; in a mighty hurry.”
“Well, wait a bit. Go slowly. You’ve got something on that stage I want—though I didn’t expect to see you driving it.”