Buffalo Bill was certainly caught off his guard by the appearance of the stranger upon the scene where he least expected to see a human being, unless a stray Indian.
Yet it was a white man, and certainly an odd-looking one. He was dressed in rudely tanned buckskin from head to foot, for he wore a cap of that material, ornamented with the tail of a fox for a tassel. He was a man of large size, muscular build, and looked hard as a pine knot, while his hair was long, unkempt, and iron-gray, and his beard short and grizzly, half hiding a face by no means prepossessing in the features that were visible.
The stranger was armed with an old rifle, a muzzle-loader, a revolver of rather ancient manufacture, a couple of single-barrel pistols, and a large bowie knife, while at his back hung a long bow and two quivers of arrows.
The eyes that gazed upon Buffalo Bill with a triumphant leer were vicious, small, and glittering with hate, that seemed their natural expression.
He held his revolver upon Buffalo Bill to cover his heart, and seemed to feel that he was wholly master of the situation.
“Well, who in thunder are you, you old sinner?” demanded Buffalo Bill, seemingly not in the slightest degree taken aback by the sudden appearance of one that seemed to be a foe.
“I are ther Bad Man o’ ther Big Horn,” was the cool reply.
“The what?” and Bill smiled.
“Ther Bad Man o’ ther Big Horn.”
“You don’t mean it?”