“I was trapped in the cellar there, Shepard,” the scout explained, “by some men who tried to shoot me. I want you to go in there with me, and we will make a search.”
“Under Gopher Gabe’s?” cried Shepard, staring.
“Yes, the cellar under Gopher Gabe’s; though it seems to extend, also, under some of the wine rooms.”
“You bet, we’ll look into it!” declared the sheriff. “You jest foller me; we’ll interview Gabe about this.”
The men who had leaped into the street were returning. Some of them had heard the scout’s declaration to the sheriff. They followed into the saloon, hard on the heels of Shepard, Buffalo Bill, and Nomad.
The barroom was filled with a talking, excited crowd. A few men were still in the gaming room back of it. Gopher Gabe came out of the latter place into the barroom, as the scout and his companions entered.
“What’s up?” he demanded. “Was that you shootin’ round hyer, Cody?”
“I was being shot at,” Buffalo Bill told him.
“’Tain’t ther fust time, neither,” Nomad whooped. “Bullets has been chasin’ him hard fer ther better part o’ two days. We’re gittin’ so anxious erbout et thet ef we don’t find sompin soon we’re plum li’ble ter throw fits.”
Buffalo Bill gave Gopher Gabe a keen look, and passed on; the fat, flushed face of the saloon keeper revealed nothing.