“Yes, nearly.”
“It filled up again in time for the Apaches, and after they left it has filled up and been running over. Probably there’s enough of the drug in there now to put us out of balance if we took a drink. If I didn’t have all these cayuses to look after, I’d be tempted to take a swig.”
“You’d be a mighty foolish man if you did,” admonished the scout. “Better leave such things as this alone.”
“I guess that’s right,” agreed Doyle, returning to his horse and mounting.
As he rode off, Buffalo Bill saw him cast a half-regretful look over his shoulder at the pool.
Late that afternoon, the scout and his pards, and the detachment, rode into Bonita with the horses of the Apaches, and all hands were able to take their fill of comfort and congratulate themselves on their success in the work they had set out to accomplish.
But little more remains to be told, so far as the wind-up of the scout’s work, in connection with the deserter, Bascomb, is concerned.
The man was dead, and was no more to be reckoned with.