An’ I am sore—I’m mighty sore!”
The stage came in sight, lurching down into the cañon. Elmore swung his whip, making it crack like a pistol.
“G’lang!” they heard him yell. “Git through this hyar brimstone hole, fast as ye can. Whoop! Wow! Go on, there!”
Hank Elmore, thinking he was through, or nearly so, and safe, broke out in song again.
But suddenly his singing changed to a howl, his foot was jammed automatically against the heavy brake, and he pulled back on the lines.
“Whoa!” he yelled.
Out of the bushes on each side weapons had appeared, making him think that it was another road-agent hold-up; though in an instant he saw that the men were Wild Bill, Buffalo Bill, old Nomad, and Baron von Schnitzenhauser.
“What in the name o’ Sam Hill!” he yelled, in his amazement, as he recognized them. “Gents, this is——”
“Just keep your seat and steady your horse,” Buffalo Bill shot at him. “We won’t trouble you. The man we are after is in the stage.”
“Wow!” said Elmore. “Is that so? What’s he been up to?”