An ordinary man would probably have hugged such a story to himself. He would have resorted to covert probing and excuse in extracting information. But then it is doubtful if, under such circumstances, his purpose would have been so strong, so absolutely invincible as Scipio’s. As it was, with single-minded simplicity, Scipio saw no reason for subterfuge, he saw no reason for disguising the tragedy which had befallen him. And so he shed his story broadcast amongst the settlers of the district until, by means of that wonderful prairie telegraphy, which needs no instruments to operate, it flew before him in every direction, either belittled or exaggerated as individual temperament prompted.
At one ranch the news was brought in from the trail by a hard-faced citizen who had little imagination, but much knowledge of the country.
“Say, fellers,” he cried, as he swung out of the saddle at the bunkhouse door, “ther’s a tow-headed sucker on the trail lookin’ fer the James outfit. Guess he wants to shoot ’em up. He’s a sawed-off mutt, an’ don’t look a heap like scarin’ a jack-rabbit. I told him he best git back to hum, an’ git busy fixin’ his funeral right, so he wouldn’t have no trouble later.”
“Wher’s he from?” someone asked.
“Sufferin’ Creek,” replied the cowpuncher, “an’ seems to me he’s got more grit than savvee.”
And this opinion was more or less the general one. The little man rode like one possessed, and it was as well that of all his six treasured horses Wild Bill had lent him his black beauty, Gipsy. She was quite untiring, and, with her light weight burden, she traveled in a spirit of sheer delight.
At every homestead or ranch Scipio only paused to make inquiries and then hurried on. The information he received was of the vaguest. James or some of his gang were often seen in the remoter parts of the lower foothills, but this was all. At one farm he had a little better luck, however. Here he was told that the farmer had received an intimation that if he wished to escape being burnt out he must be prepared to hand over four hundred dollars when called upon by the writer to do so; and the message was signed “James.”
“So ye see,” said the farmer––a man named Nicholls––despondently, “he’s som’eres skulkin’ around hyar.”
“Seems like it,” acquiesced Scipio.
Then, of a sudden, a suspicion flashed through the other’s mind, and the man-hunter spent an uncomfortable few seconds.