The answer came and the pards stared at each other in amazement—the voice was that of a white man, and an American.
As the pards approached, the voices became more distinct, and at last they could distinguish words exchanged between two men who were some distance apart and carrying on a conversation. The men were busy at some labor, and presently the scouts made out that the strangers were picking boughs, probably for a bunk.
Buffalo Bill was surprised again that whites should be here and apparently so free from fear of interruption by red men.
“Who could they be?”
They might be miners, but this location must be at least two miles from the seams and gashes of the mountain rock, in any direction. They could not be mining in the centre of this deep, mucky soil that furnished food for a great forest.
The pards crept nearer, and at last, secreted behind evergreen shrubs, could see the men plainly.
Buffalo Bill rubbed his eyes, looked again, and then turned to glance questioningly at Hickok.
The Laramie man stared at the strangers, scratched his head, pulled out his field glass and tried to see them through it, and then turned to the scout.
Both looked again at the men who were bundling up their boughs to carry away. Buffalo Bill stole over toward his pard and Hickok hitched nearer the scout.
“Are my eyes on duty?” whispered the scout.