“Somebody might ’a’ seen him, though, when he went inter the town,” Nomad suggested. “You stay right hyar with ther baron, by ther body. I’ll foller these tracks, on my way ter town, and see ef I kin make anything of ’em. You’ll find me back hyar ’fore ye know et.”
The wiry old trapper set off at a sharp jog trot, following the trail of the supposed murderer; and was soon out of sight.
The German, still weak from his wound, though excitement now flushed his face, dropped down on the sand a few yards from the body. Buffalo Bill placed his handkerchief over the face of the dead man; then took a seat beside the baron.
“Vale, vot do you make uff idt?” the baron asked.
“What do you make of it?”
“Noddings. I am as mixed oop as a cotton pall vot der pussy cats haf peen blaying mit.”
He breathed heavily.
“You see how idt iss. Ve manufacdure der t’eory dot Shackson Dane he has gone to der capin uff Yuniper Yoe unt ropped him, unt dot he vos oudt here drying to hide der goldt he got py doing so-o. Dot may sdill pe der troot’. Yidt der t’ought vot game py me, vhen I seen der poty, iss dot Yuniper Yoe haf follered him unt kilt him; budt idt tond’t holdt vater. Vor you see, Yuniper Yoe he gand’t pe here unt at der same dime at der capin daking care uff his voundedt vifes. So-o.”
He puffed out his cheeks, and his eyes stared, as he struggled with this knotty problem.
“Unt uff Shackson Dane he iss Dim Penson, unt—Ach! I gif idt oop! You say somedings.”