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Title: Buffalo Bill's Girl Pard Dauntless Dell's Daring Author: Colonel Prentiss Ingraham Release Date: September 11, 2020 [EBook #63176] Language: English Character set encoding: UTF-8 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BUFFALO BILL'S GIRL PARD *** Produced by David Edwards, Susan Carr and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net Buffalo Bill’s Girl Pard OR, DAUNTLESS DELL’S DARING BY Colonel Prentiss Ingraham Author of the celebrated “Buffalo Bill” stories published in the Border Stories. For other titles see catalogue. Colophon STREET & SMITH CORPORATION PUBLISHERS 79-89 Seventh Avenue, New York Copyright, 1908 By STREET & SMITH Buffalo Bill’s Girl Pard (Printed in the United States of America) All rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign languages, including the Scandinavian. CONTENTS PAGE IN APPRECIATION OF WILLIAM F. CODY 1 I. A DASTARDLY PLOT. 5 II. FOUL PLAY. 18 III. A QUEER CASE. 25 IV. AT THE “EL RIO.” 38 V. LITTLE CAYUSE ON THE WAR-PATH. 51 VI. THE OLD SHAFT. 63 VII. LAYING PLANS. 76 VIII. THE ATTACK. 83 IX. WORSTING THE RED THIEVES. 90 X. THE WINNING HAND. 103 XI. DELL, OF THE “DOUBLE D.” 109 XII. TREACHERY DISCLOSED. 121 XIII. THE NOTE AND THE ARROW. 128 XIV. THE SCOUT’S LETTER. 135 XV. LITTLE CAYUSE CAUGHT. 153 XVI. THE RESCUE OF CAYUSE. 160 XVII. BANKS AND HENDRICKS. 173 XVIII. THE ISLAND. 187 XIX. SENDING AWAY THE BUCKBOARD. 200 XX. ALARMING NEWS. 211 XXI. MESSENGERS TO BONITA. 218 XXII. “’PACHES ARE UP!” 224 XXIII. BUFFALO BILL’S VOW. 243 XXIV. OFF FOR TONIO PASS. 256 XXV. MODERN WITCHCRAFT. 263 XXVI. THE AWAKENING. 269 XXVII. LOCOED APACHES. 286 XXVIII. THE CAVE NEAR THE PASS. 293 XXIX. PARTING WITH THE GIRL PARD. 306 IN APPRECIATION OF WILLIAM F. CODY (BUFFALO BILL). It is now some generations since Josh Billings, Ned Buntline, and Colonel Prentiss Ingraham, intimate friends of Colonel William F. Cody, used to forgather in the office of Francis S. Smith, then proprietor of the New York Weekly. It was a dingy little office on Rose Street, New York, but the breath of the great outdoors stirred there when these old- timers got together. As a result of these conversations, Colonel Ingraham and Ned Buntline began to write of the adventures of Buffalo Bill for Street & Smith. Colonel Cody was born in Scott County, Iowa, February 26, 1846. Before he had reached his teens, his father, Isaac Cody, with his mother and two sisters, migrated to Kansas, which at that time was little more than a wilderness. When the elder Cody was killed shortly afterward in the Kansas “Border War,” young Bill assumed the difficult rôle of family breadwinner. During 1860, and until the outbreak of the Civil War, Cody lived the arduous life of a pony- express rider. Cody volunteered his services as government scout and guide and served throughout the Civil War with Generals McNeil and A. J. Smith. He was a distinguished member of the Seventh Kansas Cavalry. During the Civil War, while riding through the streets of St. Louis, Cody rescued a frightened schoolgirl from a band of annoyers. In true romantic style, Cody and Louisa Federci, the girl, were married March 6, 1866. In 1867 Cody was employed to furnish a specified amount of buffalo meat to the construction men at work on the Kansas Pacific Railroad. It was in this period that he received the sobriquet “Buffalo Bill.” In 1868 and for four years thereafter Colonel Cody served as scout and guide in campaigns against the Sioux and Cheyenne Indians. It was General Sheridan who conferred on Cody the honor of chief of scouts of the command. After completing a period of service in the Nebraska legislature, Cody joined the Fifth Cavalry in 1876, and was again appointed chief of scouts. Colonel Cody’s fame had reached the East long before, and a great many New Yorkers went out to see him and join in his buffalo hunts, including such men as August Belmont, James Gordon Bennett, Anson Stager, and J. G. Heckscher. In entertaining these visitors at Fort McPherson, Cody was accustomed to arrange wild-West exhibitions. In return his friends invited him to visit New York. It was upon seeing his first play in the metropolis that Cody conceived the idea of going into the show business. Assisted by Ned Buntline, novelist, and Colonel Ingraham, he started his “Wild West” show, which later developed and expanded into “A Congress of the Rough Riders of the World,” first presented at Omaha, Nebraska. In time it became a familiar yearly entertainment in the great cities of this country and Europe. Many famous personages attended the performances, and became his warm friends, including Mr. Gladstone, the Marquis of Lome, King Edward, Queen Victoria, and the Prince of Wales, now King of England. At the outbreak of the Sioux, in 1890 and 1891, Colonel Cody served at the head of the Nebraska National Guard. In 1895 Cody took up the development of Wyoming Valley by introducing irrigation. Not long afterward he became judge advocate general of the Wyoming National Guard. Colonel Cody (Buffalo Bill) died in Denver, Colorado, on January 10, 1917. His legacy to a grateful world was a large share in the development of the West, and a multitude of achievements in horsemanship, marksmanship, and endurance that will live for ages. His life will continue to be a leading example of the manliness, courage, and devotion to duty that belonged to a picturesque phase of American life now passed, like the great patriot whose career it typified, into the Great Beyond. [2] BUFFALO BILL’S GIRL PARD. CHAPTER I. A D A S T A R D L Y P L O T . Nate Bernritter, or “Bern,” as he was usually called when not referred to as “the old man,” was in an unpleasant frame of mind. He was superintendent in charge of the mining, milling and cyaniding at the Three-ply Gold-mine, but the cares of his official position could not wholly have accounted for the perplexed frown on his brow, the hunted look in his eyes, or the fierce, spasmodic clenching and unclenching of his big, brown hands. Pacing the narrow confines of his office and chewing savagely on an unlighted cigar, he muttered to himself, over and over again, his voice a husky and hopeless whisper: “We’re at the end of our rope; McGowan has taken the one step that will put the kibosh on us. Had we better duck out of here between two days and get across the Mexican border, or stay and try and brazen the matter out?” He stopped before a window. Leaning against the wall, he looked out dejectedly. The “plant” of the Three-ply lay below him, in the bottom of the scarred and blistered valley. Off to the right was the bunk-house and chuck-shanty. Several rods below the bunk-house was the ten-stamp mill, throbbing with the roar of the great stamps pounding out the gold. To the left of the mill were rows of big wooden tanks, where the mill “tailings” were treated with cyanid of potassium; and to the left of the tanks again, was the little adobe laboratory where the man—Jacobs by name—who had charge of the cyaniding, made his tests and did the assaying, refined mill, and cyanid bullion, and ran it into molds. Teamsters were hauling ore to the mill, miners were coming and going between the shaft-house and the blacksmith- shop, Mexicans were hovering over the tops of the cyanid-tanks, dumping into them wheelbarrow-loads of “tailings,” and everywhere was a scene of the utmost activity. Bernritter’s moody eyes took no account of all the bustle and energy which spelled success for the Three-ply plant and prosperity for its owner, Patrick McGowan. Bernritter’s unofficial affairs were in a tangle, and his everlasting ruin seemed imminent. When men betray an employer’s trust and do evil and dishonest things, they must expect to have an uneasy conscience. But it was more than an uneasy conscience that troubled Bernritter: His fears told him that he was face to face with exposure and punishment, unless he made some move for his own safety. As he stared absently through the window, a buxom girl of twenty strolled into his range of vision. Her sleeves were rolled up, she wore an apron, and her course was taking her from the laboratory by the tanks toward the chuck-shanty. Her name was Frieda Schlagel. As might be suspected by the name, and further guessed from her appearance, she was German. Frieda and her mother did the cooking for the camp. It was not the girl, however, who claimed Bernritter’s attention, but a man—likewise a German—who was walking beside her and awkwardly playing the gallant. The man was a comical specimen for a lover. He looked like a fall pippin balanced on a couple of toothpicks. An “Old Country” cap rested on the back of his head, there was a long pipe in his teeth, and he wore a California poppy in his buttonhole. As he walked, he tried to take the girl’s hand, and more than once attempted to put his arm about her ample waist. The girl, laughing the while, slapped her suitor’s face and, finally, knocked the pipe out of his mouth. There was humor in the situation, had Bernritter been in a mood to see it. But he was not. From the herr and the fraulein the super’s eyes wandered to the laboratory, near which was secured a horse, saddled, bridled, and with saddle-bags in place. The horse was fresh from the corral. Bernritter knew it belonged to the Dutchman, and that the Dutchman was about to leave camp, and was taking his farewell of Frieda. A glimmer shot into the super’s eye as a treacherous plan formed itself in his brain. Alert and resourceful at once, he stepped to the office door, called a passing Mexican, and told him to send Jacobs to the office immediately. When Jacobs—a slender man with a hint of Jewish origin in his face—entered the office, a moment later, he found Bernritter smoking his cigar and sitting in front of his desk. “You sent for me?” queried Jacobs, with an odd, furtive glance of the eyes. “I did, Jacobs,” answered Bernritter. “Shut the door, pull a chair close up, and sit down.” Jacobs, plainly nervous, obeyed the super’s orders. “What’s wrong?” he asked. [6] [7] [8] “You know, I suppose, that McGowan is determined to find out what becomes of the bullion he has been losing.” “It is but natural,” returned Jacobs, drumming on the chair-arms with his fingers. Significant glances passed between himself and Bernritter. “You’re running out a bar of cyanid bullion this morning, aren’t you?” queried Bernritter. “Yes,” answered Jacobs, wondering why the super had so abruptly mentioned the cyanid bullion. “Is the bar out of the mold? Is it cool enough to handle?” “It is. Why?” “I’ll tell you in a moment. Just now there is a bit of quick work for you to do. I am expecting McGowan back from Phœnix at any moment, and I am expecting that Dutchman, who has been in camp for the last few days, to pull out as soon as he can break away from Frieda. What I want you to do, Jacobs, is to take that bar of cyanid bullion and put it in the Dutchman’s saddle-bags!” Jacobs sprang up excitedly. “Why——” he began, but was impatiently interrupted by Bernritter. “Put the bar of bullion in the saddle-bags, and don’t let any one see you. Then come back here and I’ll explain.” Jacobs’ face was now reflecting some of the alarm and fear which had been shown in the super’s. He hesitated a moment, then turned, left the office, and hastened back to the laboratory. He was back in less than five minutes. “It is done, Bern,” he announced, in a low voice. Bernritter looked toward the chuck-shanty. The Dutchman, all unsuspicious of the treachery just done him, was still talking with Frieda at the chuck-shanty door. Bernritter drew a long breath of relief. “Do you know why McGowan went to Phœnix, Jacobs?” he asked. “No.” “Well, the man called Buffalo Bill is in Phœnix. Buffalo Bill is an Indian-fighter. McGowan suspects that an organized gang of Apaches, in some manner, is looting the Three-ply of its bullion. He is going to ask Buffalo Bill to help him locate the red thieves, and capture them.” “But this Buffalo Bill is employed by the government,” said Jacobs, his brown face growing pale. “He would not leave his government work to help McGowan on a job that manifestly belongs to the sheriff of the county.” “You can’t tell, any more than I can, what Buffalo Bill will do!” said Bernritter sharply. “The governor is a friend of McGowan’s, and Buffalo Bill is a friend of the governor’s. If the governor asks Buffalo Bill to do this for McGowan, the chances are that Buffalo Bill will get on the job. If he does——” Bernritter ground his teeth. “What—if he does?” came from Jacobs. “It’s all day with you and me, Jacobs,” finished Bernritter; “we should have to make a getaway at once, and get over into Sonora. I don’t want to leave here until we make our big clean-up. Then we can clear out with plenty of gold.” Jacobs fell back in his chair and breathed hard. “What about the Dutchman?” he asked. “His name is Schnitzenhauser, isn’t it?” “Something like that.” Bernritter took another look through the window. The Dutchman, whistling blithely, had left the chuck-shanty. Every once in a while he would turn around to wave his cap and throw a kiss to the plump-faced Frieda, who stood in the door. Bernritter watched until Schnitzenhauser reached his horse, untied the animal from the post, and climbed into the saddle. Frieda, by that time, had vanished from the door. “There he goes,” muttered Bernritter. “Jacobs, we must plan to get the Dutchman suspected! That will carry suspicions away from us—at least, until the redskins help us make our big clean-up. Then we’ll pull out with all the gold our horses can carry.” “A good plan,” returned Jacobs, casting a wary, guilty glance around the office. “But how is it to be done?” “Listen,” said Bernritter, leaning close to his confederate and sinking his voice to a whisper. With their heads together, the two scoundrels plotted together for several minutes; then, hearing a heavy step on the walk outside the door, they drew apart suddenly. [9] [10] The door opened, and a tall, thin man with a gray mustache, booted, spurred, and covered with the dust of a long ride, pushed into the office. “How are ye, lads?” cried the newcomer heartily, dropping into a chair. “Just in from Phœnix, and just sent my horse to the corral. How’s everything been going at the mine since I left?” “All right, McGowan,” answered Bernritter. “Jacobs just came to report that he has a five-pound bar from the cyanid clean-up.” “Well, for Heaven’s sake, Jacobs, take care of it,” said McGowan. “I’ll try to, sir,” smiled Jacobs, masking as well as he could the evil in his heart. He left immediately. “What luck in Phœnix, McGowan?” asked the super, with great show of interest. “No luck at all, at all,” grumbled McGowan. “Buffalo Bill won’t help us. He says it’s a job for the sheriff, and that he has other fish to fry.” Although secretly delighted, Bernritter’s face contrived to express disappointment. “Did you go to the sheriff?” he asked. “Fiend take the sheriff!” growled McGowan. “Hasn’t he been out here and tried? What did he accomplish? Not a thing! The sheriff’s no good. If he attempts——” The door was abruptly hurled open, and Jacobs showed himself. He looked wild and excited. “The bullion!” he gasped; “the bar——” He could hardly talk, and gripped at the edge of the super’s desk to hold himself upright. Bernritter, apparently astounded, rose to his feet. McGowan leaped at Jacobs and grabbed him by the shoulder. “What’s the matter?” demanded the super. “Speak out!” cried McGowan. “This ain’t a time to hang fire. What’s the matter with the bullion?” “It’s gone!” groaned Jacobs, dropping down in a chair beside the desk. The superintendent and the cyanid expert were playing a game and playing it well. “Gone!” shouted McGowan. “You don’t mean to tell me that some more of my good bullion has been lifted?” “It—it was in the laboratory,” answered Jacobs, “and—and it isn’t there now.” “By the powers! Bernritter, what do you think of this?” McGowan whirled on the super. “Why didn’t you take care of that bullion, Jacobs?” demanded Bernritter. “I did take care of it. I had just turned the bar out of the mold when you sent for me. I cooled it off and put it in the safe. When I went back to the laboratory, just now, the safe was open and the bar had disappeared.” “It must have been some of the greasers who are filling the tanks,” hazarded McGowan. “It couldn’t have been,” protested Jacobs. “The foreman told me, not more than a minute ago, that not one of them had left the work. They were all under his eyes.” “It may have been the foreman himself,” suggested Bernritter. “What!” scoffed McGowan; “Andy O’Connell? Not on your life! I’d stake all I’ve got on Andy, Jacobs,” and McGowan’s eyes glittered as he wheeled on the cyanid expert, “it’s up to you to explain this.” “Do you think for a minute,” cried Jacobs, “that I’d——” “I said it is up to you to explain. What I think hasn’t anything to do with it. Did you turn off the combination of the safe when you left the laboratory?” “I—I think not,” was the hesitating response. “Fact is, McGowan,” put in Bernritter, “I sent for Jacobs in a hurry. I was figuring out the returns of the cyanid-plant, and I needed the weight and fineness of that bar to complete my figures.” “That’s no excuse,” stormed McGowan. “Jacobs should have turned the knob on that bar before ever he left the office.” “By George!” Bernritter gave a jump, as though an idea had just flickered through his brain. “Well?” demanded McGowan. “That Dutchman! He had hitched his horse down by the laboratory, and he was up at the kitchen with Frieda when Jacobs came here. While Jacobs and I were talking, he went down to the laboratory and rode away. Perhaps——” [11] [12] [13] “That Dutchman seemed honest enough to me,” demurred McGowan. “He has been hanging out here for several days, but we began to miss gold long before he came.” “At the mill, yes,” said Bernritter, “but this is the first bullion that has gotten away from the cyanid-plant.” “Well, I don’t believe that Dutchman had anything to do with it.” “His horse was hitched by the laboratory,” persisted Bernritter. “It would have been possible for him to go into the office and take advantage of Jacobs’ absence to lift the bar.” “He was snooping around the laboratory all day yesterday,” spoke up Jacobs. “Getting the lay of things, I’ll bet something handsome,” averred Bernritter. “Did he ask you anything about the cyanid clean-up, Jacobs?” “Come to think of it,” answered Jacobs, “I believe he did.” “I thought he was too much interested in Frieda to pay attention to any one, or anything, else around this camp,” remarked McGowan. “More than likely,” suggested the super, “his fancy for Frieda was only a blind. It’s possible that he has had an eye on the cyanid bullion ever since he struck the Three-ply.” “Faith,” said McGowan, “I can size a man up pretty well, and if that Dutchman is crooked I’ll be a mightily surprised man.” “You say, Mr. McGowan,” said Jacobs, “that it is up to me to explain. Well, if that Dutchman doesn’t know anything about the bar, I can’t explain. In justice to me, sir, you ought to overhaul him on the trail, and find out whether he knows anything about the gold.” McGowan was thoughtful for a moment. “There’s reason in that, Jacobs,” he answered. “I’ll wrong no man, if I can help it, with unjust suspicions; but, as between you and the Dutchman, I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. Go to the corral and get three horses.” A gleam of triumph darted into Bernritter’s eye, and was telegraphed to Jacobs, as the latter left the office. McGowan stepped to the door and made a trumpet of his hands. “Frieda!” he shouted. The girl appeared in the door of the chuck-shanty, and McGowan motioned for her to come to the office. An order from the “boss” was to be obeyed instantly, at all times, and Frieda hurried across the intervening stretch and came breathlessly into the room where the two men were sitting. “Vat id iss, Misder McGowan?” asked Frieda. “I’d like to have you tell me what you know about the Dutchman, Schnitzenhauser, who seems to have been tied to your apron-strings during the last few days?” “Ach, he iss a fine chentleman, I bed you!” declared Frieda. “I presume so,” said McGowan dryly. “Bedad, it looks like he’d made something of an impression on you.” “Impression, iss id? Vell, meppy; only I don’d tell him dot.” Frieda blushed, and snickered, and then grew very much confused, dropped her eyes, and pulled the edge of her apron through her plump fingers. “Where did he come from?” asked McGowan. “He say dot he come from Yuma,” was the stifled response. “Yuma!” muttered Bernritter. “Why, they have a penitentiary at Yuma. Possibly the Dutchman broke away from there and——” Frieda lifted her head quick enough, at that. Her eyes snapped, and she stamped her foot. “You t’ink he vas a chailpird, huh?” she cried fiercely. “Vell, you haf some more t’inks coming. He iss a chentleman, I tell you.” “His full name is——” began McGowan, then stopped inquiringly. “Villum von Schnitzenhauser,” cried the girl, throwing back her shoulders proudly, “und he iss a baron ven he iss at home in der Faterland.” She folded her arms. “Now, I bed you,” she said, with an angry flash at the super, “you von’t say dot he iss some chailpirds! A baron! Ha! Baron von Schnitzenhauser, und a pedder man as you, Nade Pernritter.” “Baron!” sneered the super. “Bosh! That makes me think more than ever that he’s crooked.” He turned to McGowan. “The Dutchman wouldn’t tell the girl such a yarn as that if he was straight.” “Look, vonce,” cried Frieda. “He von py his pravery der orter oof der Plack Eagle, und he showed id to me. So!” “Probably his order of the Black Eagle was a tin tobacco-tag,” came sarcastically from the super. “Frieda wouldn’t know the difference.” [14] [15] [16] “Iss dot so?” returned Frieda scornfully. “I don’d vas so pig a fool as I look, den. No man can fool me, und you can’t fool me, neider. I vill tell you someding else.” “What?” asked McGowan. “Der baron iss a pard oof Buffalo Pill’s!” The girl’s pride grew to towering dimensions when she said this. Her chin went up in the air and her blue eyes gleamed like a pair of diamonds. Bernritter looked startled, for a moment, then smiled disdainfully. “Another yarn, McGowan,” said he. “An interesting yarn, anyhow,” answered McGowan. “Why hasn’t he said something about being a pard of Buffalo Bill’s to the rest of us?” “He say dot he stop in dis camp shust pecause oof me,” blushed Frieda, “und he don’d tell nopody else der segret oof his being pards mit Puffalo Pill.” At that moment Jacobs arrived with the horses. “That will do, Frieda,” said McGowan. “I hope, for your sake, that the Dutchman is all he represented himself to be.” McGowan and Bernritter went out and climbed into their waiting saddles. “Which way did the fellow go, I wonder?” muttered the super. “He took the Phœnix trail,” said McGowan. “I passed him on the road.” The three horses were put to the gallop and the mine-owner and his assistants dashed out of the camp. Frieda watched them until they disappeared, and then went back to the chuck-shanty with something like alarm in her eyes. “Dere iss somet’ing oop,” she murmured, “und I hope dot nodding goes wrong mit Villum.” The plot was thickening, however, and “Villum” was booked for considerable trouble. [17] CHAPTER II. FOUL PLAY. The reader, perhaps, will have recognized the baron from the description of him already given, and will know at once that he told Frieda the truth when he said he was a pard of Buffalo Bill’s. The baron had been sojourning at Yuma—not in the penitentiary, as Bernritter insinuated—but in one of the town’s best hotels. He had received a telegram saying that the scout would be in Phœnix at a certain time, and he had started for Phœnix. After several days of leisurely travel, halting betimes at ranches and settlements, Fate directed the German to the Three-ply Mine. It was the baron’s intention to halt at the Three-ply merely long enough to water his horse and himself, and inquire his most direct road to his destination. But Frieda came out to give him his directions, and the baron’s heart began to pound like a trip-hammer. Instead of asking which way he ought to go, the baron inquired if he could stay in the camp for a day or two, paying good money for his accommodation. Frau Schlagel, Frieda’s mother, kept all such money as her own perquisite, and the doughty baron was made welcome. He stayed four days, and hung about the chuck-shanty nearly the entire time. The baron wanted Frieda to become Mrs. Von Schnitzenhauser. Frieda declined the honor, but she did it in such a way as to give the baron grounds for hope. At any rate, the baron went off whistling “Die Wacht am Rhein,” and so pleased was he with himself, and so wrapped up in his future prospects, that he did not notice the unusual sagging of one of his saddle-bags. The baron rode slowly. He wanted to commune with himself, and a slow pace made it easier—likewise it made it easier for McGowan, Bernritter, and Jacobs to catch up with him. “I vill meed Puffalo Pill in Phœnix,” thought the baron, “und I vill tell him how id vas. I haf peen a flying Dutchman long enough, und if Frieda vill haf me for vorse or pedder, den I vill kevit dis roaming pitzness und seddle down. I vill ged a leedle golt-mine somevere und dig goldt for a lifing, und Frieda vill take care oof der house for me, und eferyt’ing vill be schust so fine as I can’t tell. Py shinks, but I’m a lucky Dutchman!” Just then the baron heard some one yelling at him from behind. He drew rein, and turned in his saddle. “Himmelplitzen!” he muttered. “Dose fellers haf come from der Dree-ply Mine. Vone iss McGowan, who iss a pooty goot feller; und dere iss der suberintendent, who iss not so goot a feller, und Chacops, who iss vorse. Vat iss id dey vant oof me?” While the baron sat his horse and waited, he had a foolish thought that made his heart skip a couple of beats. “Vat oof Frieda has sent dem afder me to say dot she vill haf me, afder all?” the baron fondly asked himself. “Dot’s id, I ped you! Ach, py shimineddy, vat a luck id iss! Oof dere is anypody any blace any habbier dan vat I am, den I don’d know where!” McGowan, Bernritter, and Jacobs came alongside the baron, and stood their horses in a triangle around him. Bernritter and Jacobs had each a hand pushed suggestively under his coat, but the baron was feeling so good with himself that he did not notice these ominous movements. “How you vas, chentlemen?” cried the baron. “Vy you shace afder me like dot, hey? Meppy,” and here he gave a good-natured laugh, “you t’ink I chumped my poard-pill?” “No,” said McGowan, “we don’t think you jumped your board-bill.” “Meppy you t’ink I shtole someding?” went on the baron, shaking with mirth. McGowan cast a startled look at Bernritter and Jacobs. That word “stole” was an unfortunate thing for the baron. “Well,” said McGowan shortly, “did you?” “Yah,” haw-hawed the baron, “you bed you I shtole someding. I shtole der heart oof dot pooty leedle Frieda, und I don’d gif id pack, neider.” “Did you take anything else?” went on McGowan, his eye on the overweighted saddle-bag. “Vell,” jested the baron, “I took my departure. Dot’s aboudt all.” “What’s the matter with that saddle-bag of yours?” The baron looked down at the bag. “Py shinks,” he exclaimed, “id looks heafy, don’d id? I didn’t haf nodding heavy like dot in id. Der frau must haf put in a loaf oof pread ven I vasn’t looking. Vell, oof she dit, id’s my pread, anyvay. Dit you pring me some messaches from Frieda, Misder McGowan?” “No.” [18] [19] [20] [21] “Und you don’d vant to dell me someding?” “No.” “Den vy der tickens you shtop me like dot? Clear oudt oof der vay und I vill rite on.” The baron had had time, by now, to observe the peculiar actions of the men from the Three-ply. As he finished speaking he tried to spur his horse ahead. Jacobs, however, blocked the forward movement by grabbing the bit-rings of the baron’s horse. “You vill ged me madt in a minid,” said the baron. “Led go oof dot horse, or I vill gif you a piece oof my mind mit my fist. I don’d like dot ugly face oof yours, Chacops, und I vill put some marks all ofer id oof you don’t ged avay.” The baron hauled back his right arm. Another moment and he found Bernritter glaring at him over the muzzle of a revolver. “No rough-house work, Dutchy,” said Bernritter. The baron was taken aback. But only for as long as it takes to bat an eye. “Two can play at dot game!” he cried, and dropped his hand toward his belt. “Do you want me to shoot?” snarled Bernritter. “Easy, there, Schnitzenhauser,” spoke up McGowan; “I’ll have no shooting or rough work, but I want to see what you have in your saddle-bag.” After the way the three men had come at him, the baron would not have shown the inside of his saddle-bags for a farm. “I do vat I blease mit vat’s mine!” he shouted. “You attend to my pitzness altogedder too mooch to suidt me, und dot’s all aboudt id. I’m der pard oof Puffalo Pill, undt olt Nick Nomat, und dis iss a free gountry, und I’ll do vat I vant, und nodding more.” The baron, justly indignant, was only making matters worse for himself by refusing to reveal the contents of the bag. Suddenly something happened. The baron was the cause of it. His fist shot out—not at Jacobs, but at the wrist of Bernritter’s pistol-hand. The six-shooter was jarred from the super’s fingers into the dust of the trail. Thwack! Before Bernritter had recovered from the daze caused by the baron’s first blow, the baron’s knuckles fell a second time—now on the super’s left ear. Bernritter was knocked off his horse as clean as though he had been dropped by a rifle-bullet. With the second blow, the baron jabbed the irons into his horse. The animal gave a mad leap forward, directly against Jacobs’ horse. The collision was tremendous. Jacobs’ horse went to the knees, and Jacobs himself turned a half-somersault out of his saddle, landing on his head and shoulders, heels in the air. This was doing pretty well for the baron. He might have got away from the Three-ply men if McGowan hadn’t taken a hand in the set-to. Reaching out swiftly, the mine-owner twined his hands in the baron’s collar and dragged him off his horse; then, falling on him where he lay on the ground, McGowan held the luckless Dutchman in that position. “Look into the saddle-bag, Bern,” cried McGowan. The super, whose head was still ringing from the effects of the blow on the ear, had regained his feet and was saying things. Watched by McGowan, he unbuckled the straps of the saddle-bag, pushed in his hand, and drew out—the bar of yellow bullion. “Ah!” cried McGowan, his voice like the snap of a whip, “the fellow’s a scoundrel, after all!” “You might have known that, McGowan,” scowled Bernritter, “from the fight he put up to keep us from looking into the saddle-bag.” “A rope, Jacobs!” ordered McGowan. “Bedad, we’re headed for Phœnix, and we’ll keep right on to the town and land this thief in the lock-up.” The baron, dazed by the sight of the yellow bar, was unable to say a word. He did not protest, or disavow any evil intentions, for he was so dumfounded he could not speak. His silence, of course, looked like a tacit confession of guilt. The whole cut-and-dried affair had worked out to the baron’s disadvantage and to the benefit of the scheming scoundrels, Bernritter and Jacobs. They had shifted the responsibility of the theft of the cyanid bullion to the Dutchman: And might not McGowan think [22] [23] that he was in league with the red bullion thieves who were believed to be back of the other thefts of bullion? The sharpest criminals are short-sighted as to one or two details, in even their cleverest trickery. Bernritter had overlooked the fact that possibly the Dutchman might be a pard of Buffalo Bill’s; and, if this should prove to be the case, then nothing could keep Buffalo Bill from getting into the game. The baron, properly roped, was tied to his horse and led on across the desert in the direction of Phœnix. He was still silent, but he was doing a lot of thinking. [24] CHAPTER III. A QUEER CASE. “What’s ther feller’s name, Buffler?” “Patrick McGowan.” “Sounds like er bit o’ th’ brogue.” “Not much of the brogue about McGowan. He’s Irish, all right, but not so you could notice it. A fine man, take him by and large, Nick, but he ran out the wrong trail when he came to me.” “What fer sort of a trail was et, Buffler?” “Going it blind on a hunt for red bullion thieves.” “Waugh! Sounds kinder good ter me.” “But it’s sheriff’s work, Nick; plain sleuthing, and nothing in sight for a strong arm. The sheriff gets paid for doing that sort of thing in this county.” “But reds! From ther way yer mouth went off, Buffler, I opined an Injun er two was tangled up in this hyar bag o’ tricks.” “McGowan has had three dreams to that effect and stands ready to bet his life that redskins are helping to do him out of his bullion.” The king of scouts laughed. Dreams and omens, when taken seriously, always struck at the comical side of his matter-of-fact mind. He and his trapper pard were lounging out the afternoon on the veranda of their hotel, in Phœnix. They were just in from a trying piece of work at Gray Buzzard’s Gulch, and were taking the two or three days of rest which they felt themselves entitled to. The scout had had his interview with McGowan in the early morning, and immediately afterward the disappointed mine-owner had left for his home camp. When Buffalo Bill mentioned “dreams,” old Nomad proceeded to take a consuming interest in McGowan’s business. The trapper believed in dreams, and in evil spirits which he called “whiskizoos,” and he was ready to bet his scalp that there were such things as spooks. The scout’s reference to dreams likewise aroused the deep interest of another of his pards, who had been squatting on the veranda floor at a little distance, nodding in the warm sun. This was the Piute boy, Little Cayuse. Getting up from his sitting posture, Cayuse crossed the veranda and settled down nearer the scout’s chair, where he would not miss a word of whatever else might be said. Buffalo Bill passed his eyes from Cayuse to Nomad and gave a grim smile. “It’s a queer case,” said he. “Tell us erbout et, Buffler,” said Nomad. “I’m not intending to mix up in it, mind you. We are going from here direct to Fort Apache, and report for duty to the colonel commanding.” “Waal, tell us erbout McGowan an’ his dreams, anyways.” “It’s this way, pards,” went on the scout, lighting a fresh cigar and tilting back comfortably against the wall behind him. “Patrick McGowan owns the Three-ply Mine, mill, and cyanid-plant, over in the Phœnix mountains.” The scout waved one hand toward the distant blue uplifts, visible from the veranda. “For a long time, now, McGowan has been losing gold. The ore, just before it is fed to the stamps, assays one hundred dollars to the ton; when the tailings come off the mill-plates they assay six dollars to the ton. That leaves a difference of ninety-four dollars a ton which McGowan’s plates ought to catch for him; but they don’t. His mill clean-ups bring in an average of only forty-four dollars a ton. The question is, what becomes of the remaining fifty dollars a ton? It’s a conundrum that’s bothering the life out of McGowan. “They put through ten tons of ore every twenty-four hours at the Three-ply. That means that McGowan is losing five hundred dollars a day in some mysterious manner. And this has now been going on for two weeks, causing him a loss of seven thousand dollars, so far.” “Some of his millmen aire workin’ er hocus-pocus on him,” suggested Nomad. “McGowan swears that his millmen are straight. He has camped in the mill night and day and is ready to make oath that there’s nothing crooked in the mill.” “Whar do ther dreams come in?” “Well,” and the scout smiled incredulously as he spoke, “McGowan says that he dreamed, one night, he saw an [25] [26] [27] Apache crawling among the cyanid-tanks. When the Apache came out into the moonlight he held up something that looked to McGowan like a bar of bullion. The next moment the Apache was whiffed out among the shadows. McGowan dreamed the same thing the next night, and the night after that. And for this reason,” laughed the scout, “McGowan believes that thieving redskins are mixed up in the thieving.” “Waugh!” grunted Nomad. “Et sounds reasonable.” “Bosh!” said the scout. “Speakin’ pussonly,” pursued old Nomad, “I’d like ter dip inter ther puzzle, jest ter prove whether er not a bunch o’ reds aire really foolin’ with McGowan’s gold.” “Go out and dip in,” advised the scout. “When you get through, come on to Fort Apache. You’ll find me there, if I’m not away on business.” Nomad looked startled. “Nary, pard,” said he, with emphasis. “Ye don’t find me tanglin’ up with any job in which Buffler ain’t consarned.” “Then,” returned the scout, “this bunch of warriors will hike for Fort Apache about dew-fall.” “Ain’t ye goin’ ter wait fer ther baron ter show up?” “The baron has had three days to show up. Evidently he has taken a cross-trail of some kind, and we’re not going to wait for him. If we should happen to——” “Beg yer pardon, Buffalo Bill, but I’d like a word with ye.” The scout dropped his chair down on the veranda with a thump, and looked around. Hawkins, a deputy sheriff, had come out on the veranda and was walking in the scout’s direction. “Howdy, Hawkins,” said the scout. “What can I do for you?” “The sher’f would like ter see ye at his office in the jail. Can ye come right over?” “On the jump. What’s the business about?” “About the McGowan bullion robberies.” The scout was already on his feet, but at that he hesitated. “I told McGowan,” said he, “that I hadn’t time to bother with that matter.” “I know, an’ it ain’t expected ye’ll bother with it. All you’re wanted fer is ter establish the identity o’ one o’ the thieves that has jest been brought in.” “A red thief?” “No, a white ’un.” “I don’t know why the sheriff thinks I can identity the thief.” “Ther feller claims ter be a pard o’ your’n.” “My pards are not drawn from that class.” “That’s what we all reckoned, but the feller insists that you come over an’ see him.” “I’ll go, of course,” said the scout, “but I haven’t the least idea I’ll be able to establish the thief’s identity. He’s bluffing, for some reason or other.” The scout followed the deputy into the hotel, down the stairs, and out upon the street. Nomad and Little Cayuse trailed along behind. Across the street was Court-house Square. The little party crossed the square, passed along a graveled walk bordered with oleanders and overhung with the branches of pepper-trees, and presently reached the court-house steps. The sheriff’s office was in the front of the building. As the scout and his friends entered the office they beheld a little group of men consisting of Rising, the sheriff, McGowan, the mine-owner, and two other white men, all grouped about some one who was sitting in a chair. “Hello, Cody,” called Rising, stepping forward and grasping the scout’s hand. “What have you got me over here for, Rising?” queried Buffalo Bill. “You haven’t any idea that I’m on intimate terms with a bullion thief, have you?” “I’m the one that bothered you, Buffalo Bill,” put in McGowan. “It’s the thief himself that asked us to send for you. He says he’s one of your pards. What we want to do now is to prove him a liar as well as a thief.” “Puffalo Pill!” came a wail of distress from a corner chair. “Look at here, vonce!” At the sound of this familiar voice, Buffalo muttered an exclamation and whirled around. The baron was sitting in the corner chair, a picture of rage and injured innocence. As he spoke, he had lifted up his hands, showing the ugly manacles about his wrists. [28] [29] [30]