Nomad dived with a whoop under the table, crawled out on the other side, and with revolver in hand ran to the window through which the bullet had come.
But he saw no one.
That night Buffalo Bill spent several hours in quiet work around Gopher Gabe’s and the Casino, with Nomad doing business on the “side lines.” They returned to the hotel together, at a late hour, having accomplished nothing.
Hardly were they closeted in the scout’s room, talking over their work, when a man passed rapidly through the hall before the scout’s door. He stopped just the fraction of a second, as if to make sure, by the sounds of the voices within, where Buffalo Bill was sitting; then he fired his revolver through the door, and went jumping in wild leaps down the back stairs.
It was useless to follow him.
Five minutes later a bullet came through the window, struck and caromed from the top of the table at which the scout was sitting, then imbedded itself in the wall behind him.
Nomad promptly turned out the lamp.
“Waugh!” he growled. “I reckons we’ve got to set round hyer in ther dark, ef we don’t want ter git lead under our hides! This thing is gittin’ plum serious.”
The scout went to the window, drew down the curtain, then turned up the lamp; but he did not sit down again by the table.