Shepard smote himself on the forehead, sank weakly on a bench, and called loudly for a drink, to steady his shaking nerves.
“I’m a fool!” he howled. “I’m a blithering idiot!”
A crowd was gathering round him.
Gopher Gabe brought the drink himself.
“I’ve got to send out an alarm,” said Shepard, when he had swallowed the whisky. “It ain’t too late to round them fellers up, maybe. Where’s Buffalo Bill? Somebody jump down to the Eagle House and let him know. And git word to the mayor, somebody; thar’s got to be a reward offered. The Wells Fargo will want to give a reward, anyhow. Gee whittaker! Juniper Joe out of jail ag’in, and I done it! Gabe, give me another drink; this knocks me all out.”
When Buffalo Bill came down to see the perspiring jailer, he asked a number of questions.
“You were fooled neatly,” was his comment, when he had heard the story.
“But—but,” stammered the jailer, “who was the brass-plated high brow that carried the job through?”
“Tim Benson,” said the great scout quietly.