“Glory be, Dell,” said Golightly, “yez hadn’t ought t’ talk like that. This gint is Buffalo Bill’s pard, ould Nomad.”
A smile still twitched at the girl’s lips, but there was interest and gratification in her blue eyes as she held out one gauntleted hand to the trapper.
“Shake, old Nomad,” said she. “I’m Dell—Dell Dauntless of the Double D Ranch. Any fellow who trains with Buffalo Bill must be in the list of big high boys. You didn’t understand what I was trying to do, that’s all. But I’ll forgive you. Your intentions were all right, I reckon.”
Nomad took the small hand gingerly.
“What in blazes was ye doin’, miss, ef ye warn’t tryin’ ter git erway from them thar masked riders?”
“Well, I was plugging along for the gulch,” said Dell; “the gulch is rocky and crooked. I was intending to round in under the lee of a boulder, draw a bead on the two masked men”—she slapped at a brace of holsters as she spoke, such small holsters that they had, up till then, escaped the trapper’s eye—“and make them tell me what their game was.”
“Their game was ter ketch ye,” averred Nomad.
“But why? So far as I can tell, I never met the men before.”
“Them leetle poppers look ter be rale cute,” hazarded Nomad, “but them fellers is so hardened, I’m afeared yer toy bullets wouldn’t hev punctured ’em.”