“I feel like trying,” was the reply, “but whether I could get to the top or not is a horse of another color.”
“We kin rig a tackle an’ snake ye up,” said Nomad; “all ye got ter do is ter hang in er noose, an’——”
Nomad stopped short. From a distance came the reports of two revolver-shots, fired in quick succession.
“Trouble!” shouted the scout, snatching a candle from the wall and leaping away in the direction of the shaft. “That’s the signal Wah-coo-tah was to give us if any of that gang of scoundrels came this way.”
“I’m hopin’ ther trouble won’t reach ther gal afore we kin shin up ther rope an’ jine her,” cried the trapper.
“We’ll not be of much account in a gun-fight, Nomad,” said Wild Bill. “You’re not heeled, and neither am I.”
When Nomad and Wild Bill reached the bottom of the shaft, Buffalo Bill was already on his way up the rope. A rattle of revolver-firing came from the ore-dump, and the king of scouts climbed toward it with frantic haste.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE FIGHT AT THE ORE-DUMP.
When Buffalo Bill raised his head and shoulders above the edge of the platform, bullets flew about his ears like a swarm of angry bees. He could not see the Indian girl, and he could not see any enemies, but a shout from the girl called his attention as soon as he had pulled himself out on the planks.
“Here, Pa-e-has-ka!” the girl called.