“I reckon et’s a shore thing that Dane went to Juniper’s an’ got his goldt,” averred Nomad. “Thet don’t prove that Juniper Joe was right in claimin’ thet Dane is this pizen tarantler, Tim Benson; but et goes a long ways toward it.”
“Dot iss so,” the baron admitted.
Buffalo Bill could but agree to the same thing.
“Now,” said the baron, putting away the pipe he had dropped, and had not smoked, “I am readty to leadt you to der sbot vhere I am shoodted, unt vhere vos der gache. Uff ve sdrike a drail dhere, ve gan voller idt, unt maype findt oudt somet’ing’s vort’ vhiles. I t’ink, py yiminy, dot ve ar-re on der righdt dracks, unt dot Shackson Dane iss Dim Penson.”
“Do you think you’re equal to it?” Buffalo Bill asked.
“Ach! Dot pullet voundt iss only a sgratch! Uff I sday me pehint now, I am going to vorry me indo some sicknesses. Ve ar-re going to haf some excidemendt now, I pet you.”
“Allus huntin’ excitement, baron!” said Nomad, with a smile. “Et’s goin’ ter be ther death o’ ye yit.”
“Uff so-o, I vill die habby.”