“Then he’s the bucko we want,” returned Ki Yi. “The quickest way to get at the Midnight Raider is to track him to his lair and surprise him. He probably knows there isn’t a living white man who could scout through those bottoms for twenty-four hours, so he wouldn’t take any pains to keep a lookout, once he reached his cover.”
“But, suppose we can’t find Slippery Nig, or he won’t come, what then?” inquired Hawks. “Do you think it would do any good to lay for the fellow to pot him when he starts out on another raid?”
“Not unless you had three or four regiments of Uncle Sam’s soldiers,” returned Deadshot. “The Sangammon bottoms cover about ten square miles—and the farther in you go the ornerier they get—so you can figure it out for yourself how many men it would take to throw a cordon round it.”
“Then, as far as I can see, the Nig is our only hope,” declared Dude.
“Providing you can get him,” added Ki Yi. “How about it, Deadshot, will he come, do you think?”
“He will if he’s in this part of the country.”
“Don’t be too sure,” interposed Grouch. “I’ve heard of Slippery Nig before. They say if there’s one thing he hates more than another, that same’s a white man.”
“That being so, what’s the use of wasting time trying to find him?” demanded Bowser.
“Oh, don’t worry about his not coming, if he’s alive—and I haven’t heard of his death,” rejoined Deadshot. “Slippery Nig is under a trifling obligation to me—I saved his life last summer when a couple of Injuns had him cornered—so there’s no danger of his refusing. If he does, I’ll send him where the bucks were going to.”
Realizing that the cowboy would, in consequence, be able to obtain the assistance of the guide, could he be located, Hawks asked, eagerly: