“Ah specs Nomad’s been usin’ ’is dreamer some mo’,” observed Skibo.
“Looky hyar, Skibo, this ’ere haint none o’ yore funeral, so yer better stay out. What yer gittin’ at, anyways?”
“Nuffin much, Nomad, on’y yo’ wa’n’t present, nohow, w’en de ossifer fotch de cumflaboration f’m yo’ Uncle Samwell.”
Old Nomad looked foolish for a moment and then he said:
“By the picked-tailed honey bees I warn’t, wor I? Must er been thet measly red hoss thief thet gut erway ’th Hide-rack I’s thinkin’ ’bout.”
“Mebbeso Nomad thinkum ’bout ‘ketchumnappin’,’” suggested Cayuse.
The scout laughed and Hickok and Skibo asked for information. They hadn’t heard the joke. Nomad galloped on ahead and the scout told of the trapper’s attempt to fool Price and Bloody Ike in the cañon, by tearing out a shirt sleeve and filling it with sand to throw in the darkness for them to shoot at.
“Did they shoot at it?” asked Hickok.
“No, they threw some sort of a torch that Ike fixed up, and which lighted up the whole place so that Nomad had to skedaddle.”
The pards laughed so heartily that Nomad looked around and shook his fist at them, and then put spurs to Hide-rack and came up with the boy.