“This hyar camp must be er healthy place,” remarked Nomad, “ef et grows many ombrays o’ yore size.”
“It ain’t as healthy as it looks,” said Spangler. “Buffalo Bill, I’m glad ter meet ye. Ye kin have this hull hotel if ye want it. I’ll call a man ter take keer o’ yer hosses.”
“I take care of my horse myself,” replied Buffalo Bill. “Show me the stable, Spangler.”
Spangler waddled to the corner of the house and pointed to a brush shelter in the rear.
“What d’ye think o’ this, Buffler?” asked the trapper perplexedly, as he and his pard led their mounts to the stable.
“I don’t know what to think of it yet,” answered the scout, with a troubled frown.
“Wild Bill was hyar, an’ vanished last night.”
“He vanished with a man called J. Algernon Smith. If we’re to believe Spangler, both Smith and Hickok departed unexpectedly. It looks bad, on the face of it, but——”
The rear of the stable was open. As the scout looked in, he saw and recognized Wild Bill’s horse.
“Et’s Wild Bill’s animile, shore enough,” muttered Nomad, following the scout’s eyes with his own. “Hickok wouldn’t pull out ter go any great distance without his hoss.”