CHAPTER XXVIII.

IN THE ENEMY’S CAMP.

From rising ground, where Buffalo Bill had left his pards on the previous occasion when he had gone alone into Phelps’ hangout, the scout surveyed the situation at the hostile ranch.

Everything was quiet about the buildings, but it was the brooding quiet that oftentimes precedes a violent storm. Cowboys passed and re-passed slowly under the scout’s eyes, but they seemed to avoid the log house in which Phelps made his headquarters.

In that building, no doubt, lay Jake Phelps, the mysteriously injured relative of Hank Phelps. It might be that the building was being avoided by the cowboys, on the injured man’s account.

Without lingering long over his survey, the scout started Bear Paw and rode down the hill up which he had once raced with the H-P cowboys tight after him. He hoped that performance was not again to be repeated.

No one appeared to molest him. He was seen, nevertheless, and several cowboys, out behind Hank Phelps’ quarters, gathered in an excited group.

Leaving Bear Paw at a little distance from the log house, Buffalo Bill dismounted and moved briskly forward on foot.

Before he had come within a dozen feet of the front door of the house, Phelps himself appeared in the opening. He seemed, for a moment, as though loath to believe his eyes.

Recovering himself quickly, Phelps stepped through the door and faced the scout. Rage was growing in Phelps’ face.

“What do you want here?”

“I want you, Phelps,” answered the scout.

A harsh laugh escaped the cattleman’s lips.

“You called on me once before,” said he, “and you got away that time. You’ll not be so lucky now, Buffalo Bill.”

“You mean that you will try to prevent me from going away when I get ready to leave?” asked the scout calmly.

“That’s what I mean.”

“Why will you do that?”

“Don’t you try to play lame-duck with me!” answered Phelps fiercely. “You can do it with Lige Benner, but I’m cut out of different cloth. You’ve been helping that young whelp over at the Star-A. What’s come of it? Jake lies in there”--he waved an angry hand at the house behind him--“unconscious and fighting for life. That’s what’s come of your work on the Brazos. But you’ve done more, Buffalo Bill!”

Phelps was rapidly lashing himself into uncontrollable fury.

“What more have I done?” returned the scout, still calmly.

“When Jake and that cur at the Star-A quarreled in Hackamore, you sent Jake out of town; then, by thunder, you sent Dunbar after him! You’re at the bottom of the whole villainous business! You set Dunbar on to steal the pay-roll money, and----”

“I wouldn’t go any further with that, if I were you,” cut in the scout significantly. “I reckon you understand that I’ve heard about enough in that strain.”

“You’ll hear all I’m going to tell!” stormed Phelps. “I’m on my own ground here, Cody! This isn’t the Star-A ranch. You haven’t got Benner and his outfit to stand between you and trouble. You were a fool to come here like this. But that’s your fault. Now that you’re here, you’ll take what I’m going to give you. I’ll square up for Jake!”

Jumping back, Phelps gave vent to a furious yell. At the same moment he jerked a revolver from his hip.

The cowboys, out behind the house, heard the yell, and came rushing around in front. One of them carried a rope.

But, if Phelps had been quick in executing his manœuvre, the scout had been even quicker. Seizing the angry man’s arm, the scout wrestled with him for possession of the revolver.

It was a critical moment for Buffalo Bill. He was fighting the cattleman on his own ground, and cowboys were rushing to the scene.

But the scout secured the revolver. That was the main thing. Throwing his left arm around Phelps’ throat, the scout backed against the log wall of the building, keeping the cattle baron in front of him by main strength. With his right hand he pushed out the revolver over Phelps’ squirming shoulder.

“Steady, you men!” called the scout, recognizing Prouther as one of the six cowboys. “I didn’t come here to make war, but to make peace. Leave us alone and all will be well. Try to stir up trouble, and a good many things will go wrong.”

“Take him, confound you!” roared Phelps, fighting for his freedom and half strangled by the arm around his throat.

The cowboys appeared undecided. At this moment two other actors appeared on the scene. They came from somewhere within the house and stepped hastily through the door.

One of them was Bloom, the sheriff. The other was the doctor.

“Ah!” came from Bloom. “So the chivalrous Mr. Cody has paid us a visit, has he? In his usual manner he has begun to make things lively. Go ’way, you men,” and Bloom turned and waved the cowboys off. “I reckon Phelps and I can look after this Cody person.”

The cowboys retreated to a distance. The scout released Phelps, but kept his revolver.

“Tut, tut!” cried the doctor. “This here ain’t accordin’ to Hoyle. We’re gents all, so why the nation should we act like a pack of rowdies? Hank Phelps, you ca’m down. I got the highest respect for Buffalo Bill, an’ I know he ain’t here for no wrong purpose. Bloom, don’t be unmannerly. Confound it, can’t you two give Buffalo Bill a chance to tell what he’s come here for?”

Here was an unexpected aide in the person of the doctor. The scout felt that he was indeed fortunate to find the doctor at the house.

“I’m not lookin’ at Buffalo Bill with the same eye as you, doc,” grunted Bloom. “Him an’ me don’t hitch.”

“That is regrettable,” said the doctor. “When people can’t hitch, Bloom, it’s best to let each other alone.”

“Why don’t Cody let me alone?” babbled Phelps. “What does he come crowhopping around here for?”

“That’s his nature,” sneered Bloom. “He makes it a point to blow in where he ain’t wanted.”

“If you’ll go in the house with me,” said the scout, “I’ll tell you what I want in a few minutes.”

“Invite him in, Hank,” suggested Bloom, “but walk behind him.”

“Oh, you fellers do make me all-fired tired,” grunted the doctor. “Come in, Buffalo Bill. I’m gladder’n blazes that I happen to be here.”

The doctor returned into the house. Buffalo Bill followed him, and the two others followed Buffalo Bill. Once inside, the scout was not asked to be seated.

“First, doctor,” said the scout, “I’d like to know how Jake Phelps is coming along?”

The doctor shook his head forebodingly.

“He got a rap on the head that was some fierce,” said he, “but it don’t seem to be a fracture. Yet, if it ain’t a fracture, why don’t he corral his wits, open his eyes and talk? He ain’t said a word since he was found in the trail. I’ve done my best to bring him around, because I know two words from Jake would do a hull lot o’ good. He could tell us, right off the bat, who it was knocked him out; then, without any guessin’, the law could get in its work. Personally, I don’t stand for any such foolishness as went on at the Star-A ranch last night. I’m a law and order man, I am, and such doin’s look too much like anarchy to suit me.”

“What are Jake’s chances, doctor?”

“Mebby slim, mebby good. I’m puzzled to beat four of a kind. A few hours more ought to tell the story, though, one way or the other.”

“He was hit with a club?”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“Or the butt of a revolver?”

“I wouldn’t say that, either. He was hit, an’ laid out senseless; but what it was hit him is more’n I can savvy.”

“The blow was on the head, wasn’t it?”

“Toby sure. It wouldn’t have grabbed his wits if it hadn’t been on the head.”

“Do you think that Nate Dunbar could have ridden up behind Phelps and struck him a blow on the head with a quirt handle?”

“It wasn’t a quirt handle. I’m darned if I know what it was, as I was jest sayin’. And I’ve been tellin’ both Hank and Bloom that Nate Dunbar couldn’t have done it, that Nate would have used the business end of a shooter and not bothered with the thing--whatever it was--that collided with Jake’s head. But they’re set in their notions an’ won’t listen to reason.”

“Dunbar did it!” cried Phelps.

“He shore did!” agreed Bloom; “and Buffalo Bill sent Nate Dunbar after Jake so’t he could do it.”

“Bloom,” said the scout, “you’re a cur dog. As an officer of the law, you should be trying to bring evil-doers to justice and bring peace on the Brazos. But you’re doing neither. All your energy is expended in fomenting trouble and discord. But we’ll settle this matter once and for all. You’ll know, presently, just what happened to Jake. I invite you, and Phelps, and the doctor to ride with me.”

“It’s a trap!” yelped Bloom. “He’s layin’ for us, Phelps.”

“Hush your yaup!” cried the doctor, “or I’ll give you somethin’ that’ll make you feel real bad. Phelps is going with Buffalo Bill; so’m I; so’re you. Do you understand me? As a man with the free and unrestricted right of franchise, a man who voted for you for sheriff, you’re going, Bloom, or I’ll see to it that you’re everlastingly snowed under at the next election. Phelps is going because I say so, and that’s why. Git your hosses. While you’re about it, git mine. Vamos!”

“You can boss Bloom,” answered Phelps, “but you can’t boss me. I’m staying here, with Jake.”

The doctor stepped to the door.

“Prouther!” he called.

“Hyer!” answered the voice of Prouther.

“Get up Phelps’ hoss, and Bloom’s, and mine. We’re goin’ to take a hossback ride through this beautiful morning quiet. Pronto, boy, pronto!”

“On the jump.”

The doctor turned back, pulled a cigar from his pocket, bit off the end and scratched a match.

“Sorry I ain’t got another,” said he.

“Look here, doc,” fussed Phelps, “you can’t handle me like this.”

“I can’t, hey?” returned the doctor, puffing at his weed. “I’m doing it, Hank, and you say I can’t. Poof! Why, if I wanted to, I could rope, down and tie you. Buffalo Bill says he’s going to settle this mystery about Jake.”

“It ain’t any mystery,” scowled Bloom. “He’s fixed up something to make it look as though Dunbar didn’t----”

There was a tramp of feet. The next moment, Buffalo Bill had Bloom against the wall and was twisting his fingers about his throat.

“Say you didn’t mean that,” said the scout.

The sheriff glared and stuttered.

“Out with it!” went on the scout.

“I--d-d-didn’t mean it----” gurgled Bloom.

“That will do.” Buffalo Bill threw the sheriff from him. “There’s a yellow streak in Bloom, doctor,” he added, “that has to be handled just so.”

“I’ve noticed it before,” agreed the doctor. “Bloom means well--sometimes--but he’s got a poor way of showing it--at all times. However, he ain’t such a bad sheriff, where his personal likes and dislikes don’t get tangled up with his duty. Don’t get sore, Bloom,” he added, to the sheriff; “I felt like doing the same thing to you when your mouth went off like that. Watch yourself, man, or your tongue will do harm for you.”

Bloom was angry. It happened, however, that the doctor was a politician. Whatever the doctor said, in politics in that county, was usually what the voters abided by. Nothing was to be gained by rowing with the doctor.

“I want to do my duty,” declared Bloom, caressing his throat, “but I’ll be durn if I want to stand for Cody and all his high and mighty purceedin’s. When he blows in here and begins straightening things out on the Brazos, does he come to me and ask my help? Nary. For all he cared, the sheriff didn’t amount to a whoop. He just went it himself.”

“So there’s your grouch, is it?” grinned the doctor. “Jealous! Jealous old sore-head! Cody’s doing things and never asking you to chime in and help. Oh, gosh! Well, what’s the odds so long as a good live man brings order out of chaos? Makes the bird of peace wing brightly up and down the river without molting a feather? Puts all you cattlemen into harmony with each other? Besides, it appears to me as though he’s asking you to do something now, and you’re hanging out about it. You travel with Hank and me, Bloom, or I’ll get your scalp when you’re up for nomination next time. That’s about as flat as I can make it.”

At that moment, Prouther came up with the horses.

“All aboard!” called the doctor, picking up his hat from a chair. “Here’s where we ride with the king of scouts, and find out what he’s got to show us. I’ll bet a pill against a dose of salts it’s worth while. Come, gentlemen!”

“Will Jake be all right?” asked Phelps anxiously.

“We can’t help him any by staying,” answered the doctor. “Maybe if we clear out he’ll come around while we’re gone. I’ll have Prouther come in and sit with him.”

The doctor hurried into a rear room for a moment, and then reappeared.

“Same’s usual,” said he, wrinkling his forehead perplexedly. “Ain’t it fierce that I can’t do a thing? Well, anyhow, over the hills and far away with Scout Cody. Chirk up, gents! I feel as though something important was about to happen. Oh, my prophetic soul!”

The doctor was a queer one. The scout had never seen much of him before, but he was wonderfully taken with the old fellow. He was an able aide in this emergency, that was certain.

The three men went out and mounted. The doctor kept sharp eyes on Phelps. He seemed perfectly sure of Bloom and gave him scant attention.

“How long will we be gone, Buffalo Bill?” asked the doctor.

“Two or three hours,” answered the scout; “I can’t say exactly.”

“I can’t go away from here for two or three hours,” expostulated Phelps.

“Tut!” returned the doctor, “you can stay away six, if necessary, in order to get to the bottom of these mysteries. It’s time, well spent, Hank. Prouther,” he added to the cowboy who held his horse while he mounted, “go in and sit with Jake till we come back. You won’t have to do anything but stay with him. He’s not very good company, Jake ain’t, but I’m hoping for the best. Go on, Prouther.”

Prouther looked toward Phelps to have the order confirmed. Phelps nodded, half sullenly. Meanwhile, the scout had been mounting Bear Paw.

“Which way, Buffalo Bill?” called the doctor.

“Up the hill,” answered the scout. “We’ll ride, first, for the forks of the trail, where it separates for the Circle-B and for Hackamore.”

Bloom and Phelps evidently did not care to ride beside the scout. They started on ahead, leaving the doctor to follow with Buffalo Bill.

“What do you expect to prove by this little junket, my friend?” asked the doctor, as they rode.

“I expect to prove whether or not Lige Benner had anything to do with the shooting of Ace Hawkins, for one thing,” was the reply.

“He didn’t--take it from me.”

“I don’t think he did, either, but Benner himself is anxious to have that point cleared up.”

“Jerry, Lige’s brother,” mused the doctor, “is Lige’s worst enemy. Lige has fired Jerry. Sent him to Houston, with a couple of thousand and his blessing. He went two days ago. Pity he ever came to the Circle-B at all. Lige Benner is a pretty good sort of a fellow, Cody, down at bottom.”

“I believe that, too, after the way he stood by us at the Star-A last night.”

“What else do you expect to prove by this trip of ours this morning?”

“Nate Dunbar’s innocence in the matter of Jake’s injury.”

“I had already gathered that. Anything more to be brought out?”

“Well, yes. For instance, we’re to get back the pay-roll money and Jake’s saddle.”

“Better and better. Go on. You delight me.”

“And then, doctor,” said the scout, “we will prove how Jake got his injury.”

“Whoop!” tuned up the doctor. “I can’t begin to tell you how glad I am that I’ve come. My friend, you’re a man after my own heart. You do things. While the trouble pot is boiling on the Brazos, you keep busy and find out the reason--then settle the reason. There is much cause for rejoicing m the fact that you paid the Brazos country a visit, just when you did. No man but you could have laid hold here and man handled this emergency in the correct way. I take off my hat to you.”

The scout laughed.

“You’ll have to take it off to some of my pards, this trip,” said he.

Bloom and Phelps, who had been galloping at a good pace along the trail, suddenly drew rein.

“I reckon this is as far as I’m going,” declared Phelps.

“Now, Hank!” protested the doctor indulgently, “what’s broke loose now?”

“Here’s the trap I told you about,” snapped Bloom. “Look ahead, there!”

The forks of the trail were in sight. A group of riders were in plain view.

“A trap, eh?” jeered the doctor. “Why, Hattie Dunbar is one of that outfit. Not afraid of Mrs. Dunbar, are you, Bloom? And there’s Lige Benner, too, on my soul!! Why, you’re old friends of Benner’s, both of you. If he can be riding in peace and amity with Mr. and Mrs. Dunbar and Perry, you fellows ought not to object. And is that Sim Pierce? It is. Sim’s everybody’s friend. Old Nomad is with the lot, and the little Piute Indian. What’s to be feared from that trap, Bloom?”

The sheriff swore under his breath. He had no logical answer ready.

“How much farther have we got to go from the forks?” demanded Phelps of the scout.

“About a mile.”

“Ride on, Hank,” urged the doctor. “The quicker we ride, the quicker we’ll be going back to the H-P ranch and Jake. Don’t waste time like this.”

Phelps rattled his spurs and made off. Bloom rushed on beside him.

“Waugh!” yelled the old trapper, waving his hat as those from the H-P ranch came up; “blamed ef ye didn’t do ther trick. Got Sawbones, too, an’ our friend, the sheriff. Whoop!”

There were no greetings exchanged between Phelps, Bloom and the other party. The doctor was gay and civil with all, and especially with Mrs. Dunbar.

“Now, then, amigos,” called the scout, “follow my lead. It won’t be long before you get developments.”

The scout set the pace, and behind him came the strangely assorted party. The course carried the riders along that part of the trail which the scout and the trapper had covered on the preceding day when riding to Hackamore. They galloped around the base of the hill, on for a hundred yards, then swerved to pass into a gully between two uplifts.

“I wonder whatever we’re comin’ in hyar fer?” muttered Nomad. “Ef I had ther sense of er locoed steer, mebbyso I could figger out which way the wind lies. But I kain’t. I’ll hev ter wait till somebody drors a diagram, an’ explains in words o’ one syllable.”

A little way through the gully the party came upon a ruinous adobe shack. In front of the door stood Wild Bill Hickok.

“Hello!” called Hickok. “You’re bringing quite a party, Pard Cody. Come in.”

“Are we in time?” asked the scout.

“Just about,” was the answer.

“Dismount, friends,” said Buffalo Bill. “Little Cayuse will take care of the horses while we’re in the ’dobe.”