He was a good shot, yet both the shots he had fired at long range were fruitless, and he noticed that those of Kent King and his comrades also failed to bring down the human game they had flushed.
At once, when the eye of Kent King was not upon him, he turned and darted into the hall. An open door attracted his attention, and he glided into a large room, rudely furnished, yet comfortable.
It was what was called the parlor of the Cody Hotel, and was devoted wholly to distinguished guests and ladies.
It was no place for the deserting stranger, but it was, he observed, apparently unoccupied, and it afforded a delightful haven of refuge for him just then. He halted in an uncertain manner for an instant, while the rattle of revolvers without proved to him that he had been wise in decamping when he did.
The tremendous racket of Midnight’s iron-shod hoofs upon the piazza coming to his ears, a sudden thought seemed to seize him. He darted to the window, which was open, and looked out upon the piazza.
There was his game, mounted still and boldly forcing his matchless horse upon the piazza. Kent King, sheltering himself behind the furniture and creeping toward the opposite door by which he managed to make his escape, also caught the eye of the desperado.
“Ha! Now is my chance, Buffalo Bill. I never miss at close quarters!” hoarsely hissed the villain; and, with the side of the window for a rest, he ran his eye along the barrel of his revolver.
Buffalo Bill was not six feet from him, and the curtain concealing his foe, he did not see him, and it looked as though death must certainly follow the shot.
But before the finger drew on the trigger a form glided from the shelter of the curtain at the other window, and a revolver muzzle was pressed hard against the head of the desperado, whose startled ears were greeted with the words:
“Drop that weapon, sir, or die!”