“I’ve heerd tell o’ such a chap, but I ain’t never seen him.”
“Well,” said the scout thoughtfully, “show me into the room Wild Bill occupied. I and my pard will stay in it till Wild Bill gets back. Go for the saddles, Nick,” the scout added. “We’ll keep them in the room with us.”
Spangler yelled for the Chinaman, and the latter showed the scout to the room recently occupied by Wild Bill. When left alone in the place, the scout looked over it carefully.
The first objects to strike his attention were a pair of boots. He picked them up and looked at them. The heel of one was missing—the reason, no doubt, the boots had been discarded.
On a chair lay a blue-flannel shirt. Wild Bill had worn such a shirt, but it might also have belonged to any number of men. The left sleeve was cut away close to the shoulder, and around the edge of the abbreviated sleeve were evidences of dried blood.
Deeply puzzled, the scout laid the shirt aside. Wild Bill’s saddle lay on the floor, and near it his war-bag. There was a box of cartridges in the bag, and a few other odds and ends, but nothing that would give the remotest clue to Wild Bill’s whereabouts.
While the scout was examining the bag, Nomad came in with the riding-gear. There was an odd look upon the old trapper’s face.
“Found out anythin’, Buffler?” he asked.
“No.”
“Didn’t J. Algernon enlighten ye none?”