“Well, take my horse, Nomad,” he said. “By the way, Nick, where is old Nebuchadnezzar.”
A whinny came from the nearest stable; and old Nomad, hearing it, bent double with cackling laughter, so pleased was he.
“Thar he is, Buffler, ther ole sinner! He knows his name as well as some men know the name o’ whisky, and he answers jes’ as quick. He heard ye say ‘Nebbycudnezzar’ and he answers ye! How long’s it been, Buffler, sense that wise critter heerd your gentle voice, anyhow?”
“More than a year, I think.”
“Jes’ ther same, he’s rec’nized it. Buffler, I’ve seen wise hosses in my time, but Nebby goes ahead of ther best of ’em. He’s a-gittin’ so knowin’ that I’m acchilly askeered that some mornin’ I’ll wake up and find that he’s been translated to ther hoss heaven, if thar is one.”
Having started on his favorite subject, old Nick Nomad would have gone on indefinitely, if Buffalo Bill had not snapped one of his sentences in the middle by practically deserting him and entering the house with Latimer.
The thing that first arrested Buffalo Bill’s attention within the house was that the big, rambling structure was apparently without occupants. One servant had come to the door, to admit them—a Mexican of villainous aspect and slinking mien—but aside from this one Mexican not another soul was to be seen.
“You appear to be quite alone here?” the scout suggested.
“Yes,” Latimer admitted, “quite alone.”
“You have been here alone from the first?”