“Yes; just back here in ther trees.”
“Then, fer Heaven’s sake, muffle him, and git out with me, ’fore ther reds finds this spot,” the old trapper urged. “I’m huntin’ fer a hole ter hide in, till Crazy Snake and his Blackfeet villyuns leave this kentry; and it’ll be healthy fer you ter do ther same quick’s ye kin.”
Buffalo Bill did not know until then that Crazy Snake had actually taken to the warpath, though he had known there were rumors of war trouble, and that a number of whites had been murdered. He shook hands with old Nomad, and asked him some more questions. This time Nomad answered:
“I’ve give ’em a good start, and balled ’em some, Buffler, but they ain’t easy ter fool.”
“I know that, Nomad,” the scout answered; “but I think we can fool them.”
He retreated to where his horse was tied to an aspen; and then, taking a blanket from his roll, he made mufflers like those used by Nomad. He looked anxiously at the trail his horse had made in coming to this little grove—some of the hoofmarks deeply scored the soil. But there was no help for that now.
In a few minutes he joined Nomad, mounted, and asked:
“Were you making for the cañon down there?”
“Anywhar, Buffler, ter fool ther Blackfeet. If yer knows this kentry some I’ll let you p’int ther way, fer bur durned ef I’m any too well acquainted with it.”
Buffalo Bill took the lead.