“I am guessing,” said the baron, “dot she iss inkinscious ag’in.”
“Repetition of a thing creates a habit,” said the man from Laramie, with a laugh on his lips. “I’m hoping it won’t be so in her case; as unconsciousness would be a bad habit to cultivate.”
They galloped up to the stage and the tangled horses. But when they had done so and looked into the vehicle, they were struck with amazement.
The woman was not in the stage!
“Wow! What’s ther meanin’ of et?” Nomad whooped.
“Uff she had peen sbilt oudt alongk der vay ve musdt haf seen her,” said the German.
“That cushion has fallen, and maybe she is crumpled up under it,” Buffalo Bill suggested.
But she was not under the cushion; nor was she in the stage at all.
Hank Elmore, fuming and growling, was trying to get his horses untangled.
“This trip puts ther kibosh on any I ever took,” he growled. “I have been through hold-ups a-plenty, but this is wuss than any of ’em, fer me. One o’ you fellers that’s got a sharp knife lend a hand yere; this hawse has twisted ’leventeen bowknots o’ leather round his forrud laigs, and I cain’t untie none of ’em; we’ve got ter do some knife work, I reckon.”