The disguised man was out of sight, amid the rocks that lined the cañon, by the time the scout and the trapper reached the spot where last they had seen him.
“Waugh!” Nomad roared, staring around. “Was et a man, er a woman? Anyway, ther critter hes kited.”
The scout ran on, looking about, hand on ready revolver, prepared to shoot, and expecting to be shot at. The rocky sides of the cañon were bush-grown, and there were little crevices and cracks making off from it on the right and left. These were dark, and made darker by the bushes. The outlaw had all the advantage. He could lie hidden; and when he felt safe, he could climb softly up the broken and ragged cañon wall, or sneak away along the rifts. Twenty men would hardly have been enough to make a prompt and thorough exploration of the many hiding places.
Buffalo Bill turned back, meeting Nomad, who had been following.
“Er clean giterway!” the trapper howled.
“It looks it, Nomad. But we’ll go back to the stage and see what we have there.”
Instead of answering, Nomad whirled as if on a pivot, swinging his revolver round, and sent a shot plunging and roaring into one of the side gorges. At the same time he followed the shot by rushing into the place.
“Did you see him?” Buffalo Bill called, following the trapper.
“I heared him—er her!”
But the sound did not come again.