“What have you got me over here for, Rising?” queried Buffalo Bill. “You haven’t any idea that I’m on intimate terms with a bullion thief, have you?”
“I’m the one that bothered you, Buffalo Bill,” put in McGowan. “It’s the thief himself that asked us to send for you. He says he’s one of your pards. What we want to do now is to prove him a liar as well as a thief.”
“Puffalo Pill!” came a wail of distress from a corner chair. “Look at here, vonce!”
At the sound of this familiar voice, Buffalo muttered an exclamation and whirled around.
The baron was sitting in the corner chair, a picture of rage and injured innocence. As he spoke, he had lifted up his hands, showing the ugly manacles about his wrists.
“Schnitzenhauser!” cried the scout.
“Ole Weenerwurst hisself!” exclaimed Nomad; “ther ’riginal Hot Termale hisself, decorated with er pair o’ come-erlongs! Waugh!”
“Ugh!” growled Little Cayuse; “heap shame!”
Without another word, Buffalo Bill walked over to the baron and caught his manacled hands in a cordial and reassuring grip.
“What does this mean?” the scout demanded, turning and looking at Rising and McGowan with a glittering eye. “This man is my pard. He has told you the truth.”