The man drew rein, and some of those behind him snickered at Nomad’s words.
“Who aire ye?”
“Waugh! I’m a better man than ther critter that asks ther question!”
“No foolishness! Hands up! And give your name!”
One of the man’s followers, who had ridden near enough to see Nomad, now announced the old trapper’s name.
“Nick Nomad,” he said; “ther friend of Buffler Bill! And may the devil roast him!”
“Put down yer gun!” the leader commanded.
The tone was so menacing that Nomad saw he must comply, if he didn’t want to feel the lead of the outlaw’s revolver. So he laid the old rifle on the ground, though he did it with a sigh. Then he folded his arms on his breast, and stood erect before the outlaws, an impressive figure, in spite of his small stature, wizened face, and his eccentric dress.
He was a typical trapper of the old time in appearance, with his fringed and greasy leggings, and hunting shirt of cloth and deerskin, and the round beaver-skin cap on his head, the cap being as greasy and soiled as his clothing.
“Now, what is it ye want of me?” he said; though the manner in which the announcement of his name had been received told him that these men were his enemies; and he was sure they were road agents, the very desperadoes he had come there to seek with his old pard, Buffalo Bill.