As the quickest way to terminate the situation, the scout hurried on around the rock. Rising to his feet the moment he had the man squarely in front of him, Buffalo Bill leveled his six-shooter.
“Hands up, you!” he shouted.
The ruffian shot into the air as though propelled by some powerful spring. His pipe went one way and his hat another. Also, his hand darted at his hip, but a warning bullet from the scout’s forty-four buzzed past his ear.
“Hands up, I said!” shouted the scout. “The next bullet I send at you won’t go so wide.”
The man turned, at that, and lifted his arms.
“Who the blazes are you, anyhow?” he snarled.
“Buffalo Bill is the label I tote. What’s your own mark?”
“Banks.”
“Well, Banks, you’re mine. Come this way till I strip off your guns.”