But when, in answer to a rap; the scout opened the door, they saw the white face of the night clerk; he seemed scared.
“Was that shooting in here?” he asked.
Nomad pointed to the bullet hole in the wall.
“Ther eending of et war hyer, though ther beginnin’ wasn’t. Somebody has got inter ther pesky bad habit o’ poppin’ at Buffler; et’s likely ther same cuss what tried ter pot him at the supper table.”
“This has got to stop,” said the exasperated clerk; “we won’t have a guest in the house if it keeps up. To-night, after that shooting at the dining table, four of our guests left; the ones who were sitting at the table with you. They said they didn’t care to run such risks; and that if some one was trying to shoot you, they preferred to absent themselves from your company.”
“Who do you think’s doin’ et?” Nomad demanded.
“I haven’t the ghost of an idea.”
“Yer might guess.”
“If I did, my guess would be that it’s a friend of Benson and Juniper Joe. It’s known that the scout is hunting for them two.”
“Also, et’s known, ter me, at least, thet he’s shore goin’ ter git ’em. Yer ain’t heard any news down at your desk?”