“And if I ain’t?” he demanded.
“You have told me you were!” she gasped.
“And you’ve said I wasn’t. Well, I ain’t.”
He paused to note the effect of his words. She withdrew toward the other side of the room, alarm and fright showing in her face and manner.
“I’m not Buffalo Bill, though I reckon as that ain’t the name that his mother gave him I’ve as much right to it as he has. In other words, I’m not Bill Cody. And I reckon, too, that you’ve heard of me; most people round here have. Do you want to know who I am? I’m Panther Pete.”
She screamed, and crowded closer against the wall when she heard that dreaded name. Panther Pete! It was a name of infamy, a name that reeked with blood, a name to blanch the cheek of woman or man; for the miscreant who bore it was notorious as a murderer and outlaw, with innumerable black and bloody crimes laid at his door.
“You’ve heard of me, I see,” he remarked, with a sardonic smile.
She did not answer, but stared at him, large-eyed and fearful.
“And now that you know who I am, what do ye say to it? Ain’t I as good-looking as I was before—as I was when you thought me Buffalo Bill? Buffalo Bill! Faugh! He’s a milksop, that tries to make people believe that kindness pays when you’re dealing with Indians and cattle like that; and then has to go out and shoot up them same Indians for their deviltry, and thus eat his own words. It ain’t been any special honor to me to play Buffalo Bill; but I had a reason for doing it, which was to get him in a sling. I think he’s in that sling about now, and he won’t get out of it easy.”
It was a long speech, but he seemed to enjoy his words, and the terror they brought to the countenance of the girl.