“Villingly, Misder McGowan!” cried the baron. “You make me so habby dot I can’t see shdraight. Kiss der chentleman, Frieda.”
Frieda did so, much to the “chentleman’s” discomfort. And she did not stop with McGowan, but, in her excitement, kissed Buffalo Bill and Nomad, as well.
“Dere, now, dere, now,” cried the baron; “you vas going too far for my biece oof mindt, Frieda. I don’d like dot. Gif me dree to efen oop.”
Frieda gave the baron the “three,” and they were hearty ones; then the scout and the trapper shook the baron by the hand, wished him luck, and left him—happy.
“Thar goes one o’ yer stand-bys, Buffler,” said Nomad. “Ye’ll never hev ther blunderin’ baron around ye any more.”
“He was a good fellow,” said the scout, “and he was always loyal.”
“How could a pard be anythin’ else but loyal ter Buffler Bill?” demanded Nomad.
Down by the laboratory the sheriff’s buckboard was drawn up, ready to make a start for Phœnix. Hawkins was on the rear seat with Jacobs, and the doctor was on the front seat. Rising was just gathering up the lines, and had one foot on the hub of a forward wheel.
“Off for town?” asked the scout.
“On the jump, Buffalo Bill,” returned Rising.