“Not now; it would be foolish to charge now!” the scout whispered.
“Waugh!” Nomad growled. “Yer had ought to done et a while ago!”
“That’s what I said,” avowed Bill Betts, fingering his umbrella gun.
He lifted and sighted it. The handle of the umbrella was the gun, the umbrella frame and cloth being mere deceptions.
“Give the word, Cody, and I can sure sting ’em up some, and they won’t know who’s doin’ it.”
But Buffalo Bill did not give the word. Twoscore or more wildly excited Utes too much resembled a hornets’ nest for him to want to poke them up in that way. Buffalo Bill was noted for his courage, but that does not mean that he was noted for recklessness. A good many people mistake the one for the other. Nor was he inhuman.
The Ute recruits were soon yelling quite as much as those who had arrived at the cache with the white men. What was being said could not be made out, but it was apparent that warm remarks were being directed to Benson and Gorilla Jake. Benson could be seen, surrounded by Utes, waving his arms as if trying to explain the thing.
Conditions changed with startling suddenness. Benson’s words seemed to take effect. The Utes swung out from that centre of turmoil, and began to make a search about the deceptive cache in quickly widening circles.
It was plain to the scout and those with him that they would have to get back to avoid trouble. The Indians were in a murderous mood. And to try results with more than forty Utes who were in that ugly mood would be not merely foolhardy, but an invitation to hasty death.