“Too bad, leetle gal,” he said; “but I’ve allus noticed thet storms never last, and thet bright weather allus comes after they’re over. It’s hard lines fer ye now, but better times is comin’.”
“Shut up!” commanded Black John, who was still hearkening for some sound of the approach of Buffalo Bill, and of Pawnee Bill, whom he thought with him.
Old Nebuchadnezzar, his bridle held by one of the masked men, was dancing in uneasiness and anger.
“Whoa, Nebuchadnezzar!” said Nomad. The uneasy horse gave him an idea. Nebby was within a yard of him, and on Nebby’s back was his old, high-horned saddle. Nomad’s feet were not yet bound, though that would come soon, he knew.
The shrill whistle, in a different key, rose from his lips. He jumped to the horse and threw his bound hands up, so that the cords which held his wrists together hooked over the saddle horn.
Nebuchadnezzar gave so shrill a squeal that it was almost a scream, and at the same time gave a jump and lunge which hurled to the ground the man who was holding the bridle.
The man tried to cling to the rein and stop the furious old horse, but Nebuchadnezzar trod him under foot; and the next moment he was “running away,” with old Nomad swinging along, supported by the saddle horn.
The old man had not taken time to get into the saddle—had feared to try that—but was hoping the horse would bear him beyond the outlaws, and that he could in some manner escape.
Black John and some of the other outlaws pitched up their revolvers; but instantly Black John lowered his.
“Don’t shoot!” he said, for he did not want to send such an alarm to Buffalo Bill. He had the girl, whom he had desired, and as for old Nomad, he did not care much about him, one way or another. Buffalo Bill and Pawnee Bill he desired to capture, or to kill. Hence his caution.