CHAPTER XV.
A DESPERATE BATTLE.
When Buffalo Bill returned to the camp he found Nomad and Pizen Kate in a state of much excitement.
Nomad had made a discovery as important and startling as that of the scout.
“Buffler,” he said, in reporting it, “ef thar ain’t high old times round hyar purty soon, then I gives up as a prophet. Ef them Redskin Rovers follers us down ayar they’ll have their hands more’n full; fer thar’s a band of outlaws hidin’ nigh, and they seem ter be waitin’ fer them Rovers, with ther intention of doin’ ’em up.”
“If that fight comes off, I’m goin’ to see it!” avowed Pizen Kate. “I ain’t never seen a fust-class fight of no kind.”
“But you’ve been mixed up in more’n one!” said Nomad.
“Nicholas, don’t interrupt me when I’m talkin’! That’s one o’ the things about ye I never did like; you ain’t got any proper respect fer a lady. As I was sayin’ ter Persimmon Pete——”
“Ter Buffler, yer mean!”
“As I was sayin’ to him. I ain’t never seen any fust-class fight. When them two prize fighters fit in the op’ry house there in Kansas City last winter, tickets was fifteen dollars apiece, so I couldn’t afford one, and didn’t git to see it.”
“’Twouldn’t been no proper place fer ye, nohow!” Nomad sputtered.