Buffalo Bill’s choking fingers reduced him to unconsciousness, and then flung him aside. The scout still lay where he had been lying; but now his revolvers were out.
“That aroused the whole camp,” he said to himself, “and I’ll have to get out of here quick.”
It occurred to him that in arousing the outlaws he had probably aroused the old trapper, also, if he lived; so he sent forth again, with that varying quaver, the call of the little dog owl.
Old Nomad, who had been awakened by the rifle shot and the clamor, heard it, and recognized it at once. He sat bolt upright, listening for its repetition.
It came again, clear and unmistakable.
“Buffler!” he said, with a thrill of recognition. Then he rolled to the door of the hut, for he was bound; and from the open doorway sounded a cry similar to that which had come from the hillside.
When Buffalo Bill heard it, a great load of dread rolled from his heart.
“Nomad!” he said. “Thank Heaven he is alive!”
Pizen Jane had been standing close by the door, on the outside, when Nick Nomad uttered that cry of the dog owl.
“That’s queer,” she said, looking at him, seeing him faintly outlined. “Have you got a dog owl hid about ye?”