Buffalo Bill gave the German a sharp look, observing that his florid face was a bit less highly colored than usual.
“I don’t know but you ought to be at the hotel in bed, baron,” he suggested.
“Neffer!” cried the undaunted German. “I aind’t gifing oop undil ve findt dhis veller. Cody, you unt Nomad ar-re as goodt as Inchuns vor drailing; see uff you gan findt der willain’s dracks.”
They began the search; but the ground was like flint, and they accomplished nothing near the cache.
When they picked up footprints, they were at some distance, but in the direction of the flight of the man who had shot the baron.
“Ah!” said the scout. “Here he goes!”
“Waugh! K’rect ye air, Buffler. Now we’ll hang to ’em. Seems thet he was p’inted out into the hills.”
“I pedt you,” whispered the baron, staring round as if he expected to see Jackson Dane start up out of the brush, “he vos going furdher on, to pury dose puckskin pags ag’in. You see, he iss disdurped py me, unt gan’t hidt dhem here no more; so he iss loogking vor anodder blace.”
It was a very reasonable supposition.
In this opinion, they began to follow the tracks; though even there the trailing was far from easy. The baron acknowledged that he was not enough of a “hoondting tog” to do anything with a trail so dim; but the scout and trapper were as keen-eyed and experienced as Indians, and they went along fast enough.