But the baron was wrong in this conclusion. While he and the scout stood there, trying to puzzle out the cause of that whistle, a voice came to their ears.
“Buffler! Aire ye thar, ole pard?”
“Nomad!” cried the scout, starting for the shaft.
“Py shinks oof id ain’d!” added the baron, with a whoop of joy.
“Thet’s yerself, is et, Buffler?” called the old trapper, from the top of the shaft.
“Sure, Nick,” replied the scout, looking upward to where two heads were framed darkly against the background of sky. “Who’s that with you?”
“Cayuse.”
“Great Scott! I can’t understand this at all.”
“Jest wait till we git ye out o’ thar an’ we’ll spring a shore enough surprise-party on ye. Aire ye all right?”