In his story of riding down and disposing of the Indians, the younger Avery mentioned the two white men he had passed on the plain. He said he didn’t like the looks of them.
Old Nomad was instantly interested, and demanded a description. Within five minutes he was convinced that Avery had held conversation with the escaped Price and the supposed-to-be-dead Bloody Ike.
“I’d bet Hide-rack ergin er grasshopper them’s ther fellers!” he declared. “An’ by ther harnsome whiskers o’ my Aunt Hannah’s billy goat I wish Buffler was here.”
“Who’s ‘Buffler’?” demanded Avery.
“Why, Buffler Bill, ther king o’ ther plainsmen’ an’ ther whitest man thet ever threw er leg over a saddle. He’s my pard, Buffler is, an’ he’s actin’ fer ther gov’ment out here ermong ther redskins. I’m on ’is trail sence day ’fore yistidy f’m Bozeman. ’Twas thar they tol’ me Price hed ’scaped. I c’n see er hole in er ladder, an’ thet same is as how Bloody Ike warn’t blowed up, nohow, an’ he worked some scheme ter git Price out o’ ther hole.”
“Who is ‘Bloody Ike’?” asked Avery.
“He’s ther onerariest polecat south o’ Canady, an’ he travels with er bag o’ blarstin’ powder, an’ is allers ready ter touch et off when ennybuddy runs up ergin ’im permiscous.”
“What’s his last name?”
“I hain’t never hearn tell—et’s jes’ ‘Bloody Ike’ over in ther Gallatin country, an’ et fits.”
“I’d like to know if it’s Ike Peltier, who used to do ther blastin’ in the Ten-nugget Mine. If ’tis I’d give ten o’ my best hosses to be alone with ’im about a minute.”