CHAPTER XXIX.
THE DARING OF BILL BETTS.
“Vot iss?”
Nomad and his pards were guarding the camp, Baron von Schnitzenhauser being on the side toward the town. Hearing something, he dropped down, the characteristic question whispering from his lips, and stared hard into the darkness.
The sound, which had been like that of crashing feet, had stopped. The baron did not know but that an Indian had tried to come upon him, though an Indian, unless intoxicated, would hardly have made so much noise.
“Der Inchuns haf peen howling so mooch dot maype I am hearing t’ings vhen dare aind’t notting to seen,” he muttered.
Then he heard the sounds again, unmistakable footsteps coming toward him.
The baron lifted his forty-five revolver and poked it at the sounds.
“Uff you tond’t vant to gidt shodt you vill sbeak so quickness like I dell you,” he commanded. “Who iss idt?”
“It’s me.”
“Yaw! Budt I tond’t know ‘me.’ Who iss ‘me’?”