However, the Mexican was strong, and he was lively and lithe as a captured snake.
The fight that followed was of brief duration, for the scout’s choking fingers subdued the little brown man in short order.
Buffalo Bill threw the Mexican against the wall. For a time the rascal lay in a heap, limp as a rag. In the meantime, the scout secured the long knife, which had fallen from the lean, brown hand. He was standing before the Mexican, when the latter tried to sit up. The Mexican was clutching at his bruised throat with a motion of pain.
“See here!” said Buffalo Bill sternly. “You would have no right to complain if I should shoot you, for on your part you tried to kill me.”
“No, no!” the fellow pleaded, his black eyes showing fright.
“Will you answer my questions?”
The Mexican stared as if he did not understand, until the scout repeated the inquiry.
“Si, señor,” he gurgled faintly.
“You were set on by some one to do this?”
“No—no, señor.”