“If you find chance; but be careful. There you are! Take this.”
The supposed Indian, lifting himself, for he had apparently been examining the bonds of the white man, spoke again to him in harsh, guttural words of reproof.
In reality, Buffalo Bill had slipped a keen knife through those cords, and Wild Bill sat on the back of his pony, free, the cords dropping unnoticed to the ground as the pony moved on.
Then the knife itself was thrust into Wild Bill’s hands. Following this came a loaded revolver—a weapon which the Western dead shot knew as well how to use as any man on the wild frontier.
The possession of those weapons made another man of Wild Bill. With a good revolver in his hand, and a knife ready, he was ready to fight his weight in wild cats at any time; and that meant, in the Western style of speech, that he was afraid of nothing on earth.
That suspicion might not be attracted to him, Buffalo Bill now drew his pony back, while Wild Bill spoke to the girl.
“A fine evening,” he said, in his musical voice. “This is an evening when one likes to see friends. It would not surprise me if friends were near. The stars up there look friendly, and the mist we have been having is clearing away.”
He spoke in English, enigmatically, that no Cheyenne understanding English might comprehend, hoping that the girl would know what he meant, or at least get ready for an emergency. Then he carelessly pushed his hand against her arm, extending the knife given him by the scout.
“If one only had weapons!” he said, with meaning.
She felt the pressure of the knife against her arm.