“Of course not!” agreed Wild Bill. “Petticoat pards are all right, but they make a heap of trouble, now and then. You’ll be going back to your ranch in Arizona, one of these days, I suppose——”
“Just as soon as I can,” snapped Dell, and Wild Bill wondered what it was that had put an edge to her temper.
The shadows were lengthening across the flat in Sun Dance Cañon when Buffalo Bill and his pards rode up to the door of the Lucky Strike Hotel.
The bulky proprietor was sitting in front, as usual, but his ragged palm-leaf fan lay beside him. The cool of the evening was always grateful to Bije Spangler.
“Whoof!” sputtered Spangler, as the cavalcade of riders drew to a halt in front of his establishment. “What’s this, Buffalo Bill? You escortin’ a band o’ Injuns ter a new reserve, or what?”
“We’re here to stay with you for a while, Spangler,” said the scout.
“It’s agin’ my rules ter take in any reds,” averred Spangler.
“You’ll have to take these in,” said the scout. “The boy is my Piute pard, Little Cayuse, and the girl is the daughter of Captain Lawless. Miss Dauntless, my girl pard, will share the room Wild Bill occupied, and which Nomad and I later put up in, with Wah-coo-tah. The rest of us will bunk where we can. And a word to you, Spangler,” the scout added, dropping down from his saddle, “anything you say against one of my pards, white or red, you say against me. Just remember that.”
The tone in which the scout spoke sent a shiver through Spangler.
“No harm meant, no harm meant,” he sputtered. “O’ course, Buffalo Bill, whatever you say goes.”