The king of scouts laughed. Dreams and omens, when taken seriously, always struck at the comical side of his matter-of-fact mind.
He and his trapper pard were lounging out the afternoon on the veranda of their hotel, in Phœnix. They were just in from a trying piece of work at Gray Buzzard’s Gulch, and were taking the two or three days of rest which they felt themselves entitled to.
The scout had had his interview with McGowan in the early morning, and immediately afterward the disappointed mine-owner had left for his home camp.
When Buffalo Bill mentioned “dreams,” old Nomad proceeded to take a consuming interest in McGowan’s business. The trapper believed in dreams, and in evil spirits which he called “whiskizoos,” and he was ready to bet his scalp that there were such things as spooks.
The scout’s reference to dreams likewise aroused the deep interest of another of his pards, who had been squatting on the veranda floor at a little distance, nodding in the warm sun.
This was the Piute boy, Little Cayuse.
Getting up from his sitting posture, Cayuse crossed the veranda and settled down nearer the scout’s chair, where he would not miss a word of whatever else might be said.
Buffalo Bill passed his eyes from Cayuse to Nomad and gave a grim smile.
“It’s a queer case,” said he.