“What yer say, red, do ut? Aw! Ye wooden head, why don’t ye grunt?”
Nomad subsided again. He was disgusted with himself and everybody else. He had started out to hunt excitement, and here he was with nothing to do and no prospect of anything happening right away. It was worse than watching over Hickok and the prisoner—then he could smoke.
But early in the evening the Indians returned and with them a white man. The latter kept beyond the range of Nomad’s vision in the bushes, except for occasional glimpses as the party moved about.
After a long confab with the Indians, the white man, with a handkerchief tied over the lower part of his face, came for a look at the prisoner.
“Uv all ther white-faced heifercats! I’d give er nine-dollar bill ter git er paw on ye, ye white-livered coyote. Yer too low ter ’sociate with ther meanest redskin this side ther river Styx. Say, if you’ll cut this hyar rope I’ll fix yer in er minyit so’s you wouldn’t know yerself—’thout any rag tied over yer face.”
The fellow made no reply, but said loud enough so that Nomad could hear:
“No, it isn’t Buffalo Bill, but he’s one of the gang; dispose of him.”
Nomad laughed uproariously.
“Haw! haw! haw! Ther reds took me fer Buffler! Waal, thet sets me up some ’f not more. Guess Buffler’d feel complermented. I suttinly hopes I live long ernough ter tell that to ’im.”