The cry went forth that he was Buffalo Bill, but in reality he was none other than the scoundrel known to his intimates as Panther Pete.
He had drawn his big hat well down over his eyes, shading them and the upper part of his face, thus making it difficult for even one acquainted with him to say this was not Buffalo Bill.
He did not tarry with his men in the principal street; he had only entered it because he could get into the town and to the place he was going by that main street.
Leaving it, he struck off into a side street, and soon was in front of a small house, that sat at some distance from other houses. Here he dismounted, swinging agilely to the ground, and threw his reins to one of his followers.
“I’ll be out in just a minute,” he said, “and when I come be ready, for I’m betting that there will be something doing.”
He ran lightly up the steps of the house, and set his hand to rap on the door. As he did so the door flew open, and in the doorway stood a young man, his face showing an angry flush.
“You’ve come here again, you scoundrel, to see Ellen West!” said the young man.
Panther Pete dropped a hand to the revolver that swung at his hip.
“Is it any of your business?” he asked hotly.
“It is. I’m her friend, and I’ve discovered that you’re a scoundrel, and I came here just now to tell her so.”