“Er, waugh!” Nomad snorted.
The sheriff gave him a sharp look.
“Jest got a frog in my throat,” the trapper explained. “I’m tuck thet way et times.”
The baron sucked silently at his long-stemmed pipe, and the expression of his face was as cast iron as he could make it.
“It come to me,” the sheriff went on, “after I’d started fer this place, that maybe this fool on the mountain was into that game last night, instead of Juniper and Benson. Though at first I was sure it was them; and that they had done it more as a exhibition of clear sand than to git the money.”
He studied the face of Buffalo Bill.
“What’s your idea?”
“That it was the work of Juniper Joe and Benson.”
“Then you don’t credit the idea that the Fool o’ Folly Mountain may have turned the trick?”