“Come, Tom; for I told you I was right. It’s ther giant nigger of the valley.”
Buffalo Bill heard the voice answer afar off, but did not catch what was said; yet he heard the reply of the man in full view of him, for he replied to the other:
“Yes, dead as ther devil. I chipped him atween ther eyes. Come along.”
The scout remained behind the bowlder. He could afford to wait; for he knew that another enemy was near, and would soon be in sight. The one in sight had fired on the negro, knowing who he was, and being anxious to kill him. He had spoken, too, of the valley; so he must know where that was.
His words told Buffalo Bill that Black Bill was dead, and, in the very moment of his success in bringing him to the rescue of people who, if these two were a specimen of them, did not deserve rescue.
“I think I’ve got the best of this,” muttered Buffalo Bill, and, slinging his rifle at his back, he drew a revolver in each hand.
“Ho, Rocks, yer got him,” Buffalo Bill heard, for he dared not look toward the speaker for fear of being seen.
“It’s ther nigger, ain’t it?” asked the man who had fired the shot.
“Sure.”
“How’d he get out?”