“Waugh!” old Nomad whooped. “Better drap et, Benson, fer ye’re shootin’ only blanks!”
The shouted words, telling him his revolver held only blanks, confused and balked Benson for a moment; it made him uncertain, and that caused him to hesitate. The scout had not been touched by Benson’s bullet, and it gave him the time and opportunity needed.
He sprang upon Benson. When the latter’s hand went up again with the revolver, Buffalo Bill turned the weapon aside and at the same time snapped the wrist in the handcuff; then, with a swing, he caught and brought the other wrist round.
“Click!” sounded the manacles.
The revolver fell to the ground, and Benson reeled back against the wall. That click and the touch of the cold steel on his wrists let him know that the great scout had him at last.
Not until the thing had been done and the handcuffs held his arms together did Benson come to a full realization that Nomad had shouted those words simply to confuse him and cause him to lose time.
He turned upon the old trapper furiously.
Nomad only laughed.
“Thet’s all right, ye reprobate,” said the trapper. “We wanted ter ketch yer, so I didn’t want ter drap ye with a bullet myself, or hev ye drap Buffler. Ye’re the star road agent o’ this section and the king o’ all the desperadoes that’s been workin’ round hyer; but now we has got ye. Et’s the final scoop.”
Tim Benson, a very few minutes later, was in the jail of Blossom Range, whither his pals had gone before him.