“How long do you want me to wait, Nick?” called the scout.
For an instant the entire group seemed paralyzed; then Nomad turned slowly around, stared for a moment, let off a cry that was half-joy and half-consternation, and galloped toward the scout with both hands outstretched.
CHAPTER XVII.
THE TURN OF FORTUNE’S WHEEL.
“Kin I believe my eyes?” roared Nomad, as, gripping both the scout’s hands, he stood staring into his face. “Is et shorely my pard, Buffler, as I had given up as drowned like er rat in er trap down thar in ther Forty Thieves? Howlin’ hyeners! Why, his clothes ain’t even wet! Say, what new brand o’ Cody-luck was flashed on ye at this hyer turn o’ fortune’s wheel? Tell me, pard!”
“Tell us all,” chimed in Wild Bill, as he and the rest crowded around the scout; “we want to know, Cody.”
“Fortune’s wheel has turned queerly for all of us,” answered the scout, “but I think we’d better put off our explanations until some more favorable time—over some more of that maverick steer at the Lucky Strike, for instance. Eh, Blake?”
“I’m eating that steer with a good deal o’ relish,” grinned Blake. “If you say so, Buffalo Bill, we’ll wait till then.”
“Where Yellow Hair, Pa-e-has-ka?” asked Little Cayuse.
“She’s safe, boy,” answered the scout. “What have you done with the horses?”
“They’re safe, too, Buffler,” spoke up Lonesome Pete.