That was about all that the scout knew, and it was little enough. Five years before, Tim Benson had been a miner, in a little place near Virginia City; it was there he had this picture taken, by a traveling tintype artist, leaning on his miner’s pick.
“Vale,” said the baron, “I am sduck! Vot ar-re ye going to do?”
“I think I shall try for a talk with Juniper Joe,” said the scout.
“Et might jump suthin’ outer ther bresh,” Nomad agreed.
“Eenyhow,” the baron added, “I am hobing dot soon ve vill pe scaring oop some adwentures dot haf a liddle excidemendts in ’em.”
They were still talking the thing over, the little man not having been gone ten minutes, when the scout had another visitor, who came to the door of his room at the Eagle House, and knocked.
Again Nomad drew open the door.
All were surprised to see the object of their talk—Juniper Joe, tall and thin, dressed in his black broadcloth, the tails of his coat suspiciously lifted by the big revolvers that rested against his hips. He looked carefully at the scout’s companions; then came on in, when invited.
“I don’t keer if I do,” he said, when the scout asked him to take a chair.