CHAPTER XVIII.

THE BAD MAN OF THE BIG HORN.

Thrown off his guard by the manner of the scout and by his interest in searching for the second wound in the body of the Indian, Ginger Sam went right into the trap which was set for him, and did just what Buffalo Bill had been endeavoring he should do.

Quick as lightning in his movements, Buffalo Bill had sprung forward and seized the hand that held the revolver, before the outlaw could come to an upright position, and at the same time he presented one of his own weapons full in the face of his foe, while he said, in the coolest manner possible:

“If you wish to keep in good health, Ginger Sam, you’ll do as I tell you!”

The outlaw was livid with rage, and seemed to feel that his last day on earth had come.

“Do yer intend ter kill me?”

“I do not know what I shall do with you in the end, but at present I intend to disarm you. Drop old Daniel Boone’s rifle you hold in your hand there.”

“It mout break it.”

“I guess not, for it’s too old a settler to be hurt by a little tumble. Drop it, I say!”

“It mout go off an’ shoot yer from ther concussion.”

“My revolver will go off and shoot you from the muzzle, if you don’t obey!”

“Down she goes.”

The outlaw dropped it in such a way, at the same time giving it a kick, that showed he would like to have it explode in the fall and kill his captor.

But it did not, and, kicking it one side, Bill commanded:

“Now, unbuckle your belt and let it fall!”

“Now, thet would be dangerous.”

“Do as I tell you, and be careful not to let your hand touch those blunderbusses you carry, or you won’t know what killed you.”

The man uttered an oath, but obeyed, and the belt of arms fell to the ground.

“Now step this way.”

Bill drew him a few steps away from his rifle and belt, and then, with a sudden violent wrench of the wrist, tore the revolver from the outlaw’s hand, and pitched it over with the other weapons.

“Now, Bad Man of the Big Horn, I was born tired, and don’t like work, so take your knife and set to work to build a house under this tree,” said Buffalo Bill.

“A house?” asked the surprised man.

“Yes.”

“What kind of a house?”

“One that will fit a dead man.”

“Yer mean a grave?” asked the outlaw, in a tone of horror.

“I do.”

“Yer don’t mean ter kill me, and fust make me dig my own grave?”

“No, you are not worth burying; but I wish to bury that Injun, there, and being lazy, as I told you, I want you to dig his grave.”

The outlaw seemed to feel relieved in knowing that he was not the one to occupy the grave, and he at once set to work, and with his knife began to throw out the earth quite rapidly.

Buffalo Bill sat near, coolly watching him, and keeping him covered with his revolver, and noticing the rapid work of the outlaw, he said:

“I guess you were sexton for some graveyard, Ginger Sam, before you took to thieving?”

“Thet are jist what I were, Bill Cody,” replied the man, stopping in his work.

“And you took to robbing by night the people you buried by day, and got caught at it, I guess, so had to dig for the West?”

“Waal, you hits things pretty squar’, Bill Cody, fer they did plant a leddy in my yard one day, thet were durned fool enough ter leave it in her will thet she were ter be buried in her di’mints an’ t’other jew’lry.

“I know’d ther kin folks w’u’d dig her up some night, ef I didn’t, so I did, an’ them as was comin’ ter do it seen me, an’ I jist hed ter light out from them parts.”

“Well, you look the ghoul you are: but go on with your work, for life’s too short to listen to your sins, old man!”

The ex-sexton resumed his work, with a sigh, and soon had an opening which brought from the scout the remark:

“No Injun could wish for more than that, Ginger Sam, and you are the boss gravedigger of the Big Horn, whatever your other sins may be. Now wrap that Injun in his blanket and lay him in it.”

“Won’t yer scalp him?”

“No. Come, delay no further, but bury that man, for I wish to be on my way,” said Buffalo Bill.

“Whar goin’?”

“You’ll know all in good time.”

The man muttered an oath, but obeyed orders, and when the redskin had been buried, Buffalo Bill bound Ginger Sam securely with one end of his lariat, and forced the man to go on his way in the lead.

After gaining a point where the trail led across a river, Buffalo Bill said:

“Cross over, Ginger!”

“What do yer want ter cross fer?” was the surly response.

“I have my reasons, so wade in.”

“No; I don’t keen ter git wet.”

“Very well, take the back trail for the grave you dug; it will hold two,” said Bill indifferently.

The outlaw shuddered, and replied quickly:

“I’ll cross the river.”

“Right are you, Sammy, my boy.”

Into the water they went, and, once on the other shore, where a number of trails divided, Buffalo Bill selected the one that would lead him to the fort.

“Thet trail only goes up into ther hills,” said the outlaw nervously.

“It is into the hills I wish to go.”

“Ther’ ain’t nothin’ up thar yer want.”

“There’s where you are off your base, Ginger, for there is.”

“What do yer want?”

“I desire that you shall take the quickest trail to the fort.”

“I’ll die fust,” was the savage reply.

“You had better do as I ask, for I am not one to palaver.”

“I’ll not go a step.”

“Then I’ll lead you there,” was the quiet reply.

The outlaw saw that Buffalo Bill was in earnest, and his thoughts flashed like lightning through his brain.

His gaze falling upon the lariat end, held loosely in the hand of Buffalo Bill, his eyes suddenly gleamed with inborn resolve, and he said resignedly:

“Waal, pard, as I don’t know thet I kin kick agin’ yer, I’ll do as you say.”

“Right, Sammy! Now, move on!”

The outlaw obeyed, taking the trail once more with nimble step.

As it wound along the edge of a ravine, through the bed of which dashed a stream, the outlaw suddenly sprang over the precipice into the depths below.

Buffalo Bill caught hard at the end of the lariat, as it tightened, but could not hold on, and the end slipped through his hand, and a plunge following told him that his captive had fallen into the waters below.