CHAPTER XVIII.

AN ASSASSIN AT WORK.

The disappearance of Baron von Schnitzenhauser and Vera Bright filled Buffalo Bill and Nomad with so much uneasiness that they instituted a thorough search for them, but without avail. They had dropped out of sight completely. All that was known, was that the woman had returned to her work at the Casino, and had disappeared; and that the baron, set to shadow the Casino and Gopher Gabe’s, had also vanished.

Buffalo Bill sent for the sheriff, Matt Shepard; and laid the facts before him.

“You may not want to think so, Shepard,” said the scout; “but Gopher Gabe is at the bottom of this. So, as you’re on talking terms with him, I want you to tell him, as coming straight from me, that he had better drop this business. Tell him that I know he is holding the baron and the woman; and that it’s up to him to let them go, and right off.”

“Which, if he don’t,” added Nomad, in a rasping voice, “thar’ll be a dead saloon keeper purty prompt in this hyar town!”

“You’d better not say that to him, right now,” advised the scout, speaking to Shepard, “but give it to him hard, that he is making a fool of himself. Tell him it shows he must be in with the blackleg gang that has been running the robbery-and-murder mill round here lately, and that he ought to know what the end will be for the members of that gang.”

Matt Shepard went over to Gopher Gabe’s.

The saloon keeper was in his usual place, wiping off the sloppy bar with a damp cloth. He looked white-faced and worried.

The sheriff delivered Buffalo Bill’s message.

Gopher Gabe heard it through without apparent emotion, but a bit of color came into his fat cheeks, and his ratlike eyes glittered.

“You tell Cody for me, that he is an a-number-one fool,” was his answer. “Does he take me for an idiot?”

“You don’t know a thing about it?” Shepard asked.

“Certainly I don’t. I’d be a candidate for a lunatic asylum, wouldn’t I, if I done a thing like that?” He crushed the damp cloth in his thick fingers, and looked at Shepard. “Cody has got so excited over his failure to do anything, that he has gone to seein’ visions. Now, there ain’t no band of highwaymen makin’ their headquarters in this town; and you, as sheriff, ought to know that. There’s been hold-ups and robberies; but they’ve been done by individuals. Cody’s like a blind snake in August--scared at every sound he hears, and strikin’ out at everything.”

Matt Shepard was about convinced that this was the truth.

“Of course, he’s naturally he’t up by this disappearance of his pard,” he said, almost apologetically.

“Maybe the Dutchman is on a drunk, and layin’ out somewhere,” Gopher Gabe suggested.

“It might be,” Shepard admitted.

“As for that woman, the place to find out about her is at the Casino; if the manager of the show can’t tell you anything about her, I can’t.”

“About this Fool of Folly Mountain?” said Shepard, coming back to what to him was a subject of mysterious interest. “They tell me he’s been buckin’ the tiger heavy of late, in your rooms back there.”

Gopher Gabe smiled.

“Well, he says he is gittin’ a lot of gold out of that wuthless dirt in what he calls his mine; and if he wants to drop it here with me, I ain’t goin’ to make a kick, am I?”

“And they say he’s gittin’ thicker’n fleas with some of the suspected men about town?”

“I reckon you’d better see him, about that.”

“I’m beginnin’ to watch him.”

Shepard came away from Gopher Gabe’s knowing considerably less than when he went. He reported to the scout his disbelief that the saloon keeper was not playing a straight game.

But the report did not change the scout’s opinions, or cause him to lessen his efforts.

He was rapidly accumulating proof that in Blossom Range Juniper Joe and Tim Benson were connected with a desperate band, who were not only disposed to protect those rascals, but willing to “put out of the way” their enemies.

Proofs of the desperate character of the men he was watching came fast.

As Buffalo Bill was sitting in the Eagle House dining room that evening, the time being just after dark, a shot sounded in the street, and the bullet shattered the glass beside his plate, throwing splinters into his face.

Nomad dived with a whoop under the table, crawled out on the other side, and with revolver in hand ran to the window through which the bullet had come.

But he saw no one.

That night Buffalo Bill spent several hours in quiet work around Gopher Gabe’s and the Casino, with Nomad doing business on the “side lines.” They returned to the hotel together, at a late hour, having accomplished nothing.

Hardly were they closeted in the scout’s room, talking over their work, when a man passed rapidly through the hall before the scout’s door. He stopped just the fraction of a second, as if to make sure, by the sounds of the voices within, where Buffalo Bill was sitting; then he fired his revolver through the door, and went jumping in wild leaps down the back stairs.

It was useless to follow him.

Five minutes later a bullet came through the window, struck and caromed from the top of the table at which the scout was sitting, then imbedded itself in the wall behind him.

Nomad promptly turned out the lamp.

“Waugh!” he growled. “I reckons we’ve got to set round hyer in ther dark, ef we don’t want ter git lead under our hides! This thing is gittin’ plum serious.”

The scout went to the window, drew down the curtain, then turned up the lamp; but he did not sit down again by the table.

“When such things as this begin to happen, it’s clear proof that somebody’s getting badly scared,” he commented.

“Who’s doin’ et? Thet’s what I wanter know.”

“Some of Gopher Gabe’s emissaries, of course; but he ought to hire men who can do a little better shooting.”

“Thet bullet come nigh ernough ter make a clost call.”

“Well, yes; when it jumped from the table, it almost kissed me on the nose.”

He went to the wall and looked at the hole torn by the bullet.

“From a forty-five Colt revolver, I judge,” he commented.

Steps were heard in the hall, and Nomad pulled his revolver.

“Ef thar’s more shootin’, I shoots fust!” he growled.

But when, in answer to a rap; the scout opened the door, they saw the white face of the night clerk; he seemed scared.

“Was that shooting in here?” he asked.

Nomad pointed to the bullet hole in the wall.

“Ther eending of et war hyer, though ther beginnin’ wasn’t. Somebody has got inter ther pesky bad habit o’ poppin’ at Buffler; et’s likely ther same cuss what tried ter pot him at the supper table.”

“This has got to stop,” said the exasperated clerk; “we won’t have a guest in the house if it keeps up. To-night, after that shooting at the dining table, four of our guests left; the ones who were sitting at the table with you. They said they didn’t care to run such risks; and that if some one was trying to shoot you, they preferred to absent themselves from your company.”

“Who do you think’s doin’ et?” Nomad demanded.

“I haven’t the ghost of an idea.”

“Yer might guess.”

“If I did, my guess would be that it’s a friend of Benson and Juniper Joe. It’s known that the scout is hunting for them two.”

“Also, et’s known, ter me, at least, thet he’s shore goin’ ter git ’em. Yer ain’t heard any news down at your desk?”

When the clerk declared that he hadn’t, and went away, Buffalo Bill buckled on his pistols.

“Whar away?” Nomad flung at him.

“I think I’ll prowl round outside a little while. Maybe I can get sight of that rascal, if he’s lurking about.”

“I’ll pike erlong with ye.”

“No; you stay here. Move about now and then; so that if any one is watching the window he won’t know that I’ve gone out. That may help me to catch him.”

“An’ help me ter git er hunk o’ lead under my hide!”

Buffalo Bill skulked round outside for an hour; but he saw no one.

“This hyar thing’s gittin’ onto my narves,” the trapper declared, when the scout came back.

“It’s a bit trying to be shot at, and not know who is doing it!”

He took a turn about the room.

“I think, Nomad,” he said, “that I’ll do some scouting around that cabin of the Fool, up on Folly Mountain, before I turn in for the night.”

“Wow!” Nomad gurgled. “He’s gittin’ thicker’n thieves wi’ them cattle what air herdin’ continyul round Gopher Gabe’s. I’m beginnin’ ter think he’s ther wust o’ the lot. So, look out fer him; an’, ’special, look out fer yerself.”

The scout went away, slipping noiselessly down the back stairs, then out into the night.

But he saw no lurking form as he went.

Buffalo Bill knew now that it was a race between Death and Success, in his case and Nomad’s. If he did not soon “get” the leaders of the band he was after, they would “get” him. Evidence was accumulating, showing that the desperadoes had a surprising number of friends and allies, in some places where they were least expected.

He was still worried over the fate of the baron. Since the German had dropped so suddenly and mysteriously out of sight not a word had been received from him or about him. The same was true of Vera Bright. The show manager claimed not to know what had become of the woman, and appeared to be much mystified. It was useless to ask Gopher Gabe. Matt Shepard was being fatally handicapped in his honest efforts to aid the scout by reason of his belief in the statements of the saloon keeper.

During the next day another effort was made to assassinate the scout. He was shot at in passing the window of a house near Gopher Gabe’s saloon. He jumped for the door and smashed it in, after the shot was fired, and saw the disappearing heels of a man who dived through an open window into an alley. When he reached that window the scout found that the scoundrel had vanished. But what view he had almost convinced him that the man was White-eyed Moses. The house was unoccupied; and the would-be assassin had apparently stationed himself there and waited for the scout to pass along.

The shooting created some excitement in the street; men also came out of Gopher Gabe’s place to investigate it. The scout could only tell them that some one had shot at him from the empty house.

As White-eyed Moses was known to be one of Gopher Gabe’s intimates, and the baron had been set to watch Gopher Gabe’s as well as the Casino, the scout’s belief that within Gopher Gabe’s establishment, or the Casino, lay hid the mystery of the baron’s disappearance, became more than ever established.

That night, when the Casino show was over, Buffalo Bill stationed the trapper in one of the alleys, with instructions to watch both the saloon and the Casino; then the scout swung over the alley wall, and tried to get at the heart of the intricate maze of corridors and wine rooms back of the saloon.

He had a feeling that in doing this he was putting his head into the lion’s mouth. Yet danger never daunted him when such a purpose as this moved him. He had reached a point where it seemed to him he must know just what happened to the baron, no matter at what risk.

Waiters were still passing to and fro between the saloon and the wine rooms. Failing to make any prominent discoveries back there, the scout moved upon the saloon itself. Entering thus by the rear way, he came into the gambling room, located back of the room containing the bar.

It was well filled, and some exciting games were in progress. As men made way for Buffalo Bill, looking at him curiously, for the rumor had run round the town that bad blood existed between him and the saloon proprietor, the scout’s eyes fell on the tall form and blond locks of the Fool of Folly Mountain. With some others, he was deep in the mysteries of a card game, at one of the tables.

The scout stood looking with apparent interest at the man who called himself by the name of Uncle Sam. Finally, the man of the blond hair and blond mustache, apparently feeling the scout’s staring eyes upon him, looked up.

“Won’t you have a try at poker, pardner?” he asked, drawling his words.

“Not to-night,” Buffalo Bill answered, and moved on.

The scout saw nothing to make him suppose that these men knew aught of the baron, and turned to leave the place by the back way.

As he did so, there was a flash and report, in a corridor leading to the wine rooms, and the bullet brushed his face.

Buffalo Bill lowered his head and projected himself at the corridor, hearing the fleeing steps of the man who had shot at him.

“White-eyed Moses!” was his thought.

The rascal, discovering that he had failed once more, was so frightened by it and the scout’s reckless pursuit that he failed to fire again, but ran headlong toward the wine rooms.

When Buffalo Bill reached them, however, the man he sought was not there. And when the inmates were questioned they declared that though they had heard the shot they had seen no one.

As he turned back, Buffalo Bill thought he heard a voice in one of the small rooms, the one nearest the saloon.

But when he entered it, the door being open, he saw no one, and the room was empty. As the cubby-hole of a place was dark, he struck a match, to look about.

As if that were the signal, the room gave a downward jerk and dip, then settled with him, sinking so rapidly that he could not get out by the door.

He did not know it, then; but he was in the same elevator room which had trapped the baron.

As the elevator struck bottom somewhere with a heavy jerk, the scout heard a piece of wood break from its fastenings and come down on him. With quick presence of mind he dropped flat to the floor. The wood struck so heavily that it would have crushed his head like an eggshell if it had hit it fair; but by throwing himself flat the scout escaped with only a bruising of his shoulders, as one end of the timber struck against the elevator wall and was partly stayed by it.

“Trapped!” gritted the scout.

He drew his revolver, waiting for the next move of his enemies; for he was sure this had not happened by chance.

It came soon enough.

The door opened before him, into the cellar, and some men jumped at him.

But as they expected to find that he had been knocked out by the dropping of the timber, they were not prepared for the facts. One went down from a blow of the scout’s fist planted where it would do much good; the others--there were four of them--tumbled backward.

In another moment the scout was out in the cellar, his revolver swinging.

“Stand back!” rang his clear voice.

When they came at him with a jump he fired. One man dropped, hitting the cellar bottom with a grunt. Another the scout knocked down, giving the rascal a left-handed side-winder.

The total result enabled Buffalo Bill to run to the other end of the cellar, looking for a way out.

One of the men on the floor opened with a revolver, but he shot wild, being excited, and not able to see very well.

The scout did not reply to the shooting, but groped along, looking for an exit.

He came beneath a manhole, with a pile of coal under it. He knew the coal could not have been dumped there unless there was a place above for a wagon to stand. So he scrambled to the top of the coal and set his broad shoulders against the iron covering.

Two of the men were on their feet again and were now coming for him. One was swearing like a pirate.

They had heard the sliding of the coal as the scout climbed it; still, they could not see him.

“Surrender!” yelled the fellow of the sulphurous voice.

The scout had by this time unsettled the covering of the manhole. He now heaved it upward and aside; then quickly drew himself up through it.

A shot roared behind him, as the light from the opened manhole revealed to the men in the cellar what he was doing. But Fortune still favored him. He was outside now, unhurt, in an alley beside the saloon, the alley opening on the main street.

In another moment he was in the street itself.

He ceased to run as soon as he was out in the light. But he did not tarry, for he expected more shots to come singing after him.

The shooting had attracted attention, and the street was filling with men, who came pouring out of the saloon.

In their midst appeared Matt Shepard. Then Nomad came whooping on the scene, hastening from the alley in which he had been left to watch.

“I was trapped in the cellar there, Shepard,” the scout explained, “by some men who tried to shoot me. I want you to go in there with me, and we will make a search.”

“Under Gopher Gabe’s?” cried Shepard, staring.

“Yes, the cellar under Gopher Gabe’s; though it seems to extend, also, under some of the wine rooms.”

“You bet, we’ll look into it!” declared the sheriff. “You jest foller me; we’ll interview Gabe about this.”

The men who had leaped into the street were returning. Some of them had heard the scout’s declaration to the sheriff. They followed into the saloon, hard on the heels of Shepard, Buffalo Bill, and Nomad.

The barroom was filled with a talking, excited crowd. A few men were still in the gaming room back of it. Gopher Gabe came out of the latter place into the barroom, as the scout and his companions entered.

“What’s up?” he demanded. “Was that you shootin’ round hyer, Cody?”

“I was being shot at,” Buffalo Bill told him.

“’Tain’t ther fust time, neither,” Nomad whooped. “Bullets has been chasin’ him hard fer ther better part o’ two days. We’re gittin’ so anxious erbout et thet ef we don’t find sompin soon we’re plum li’ble ter throw fits.”

Buffalo Bill gave Gopher Gabe a keen look, and passed on; the fat, flushed face of the saloon keeper revealed nothing.

“As the thing happened in your cellar,” said the scout to him, “I have asked the sheriff to search it, and the wine rooms. Back there I stepped into a little room, which turned out to be an elevator and dropped me into the cellar, when the villains who were down there attacked me, and tried to shoot me. But I winged one of them, I’m sure.”

“I reckon he must be thar yit,” said Nomad. “Lead on thar, an’ we’ll mighty soon find out.”

“I heard shootin’,” said the saloon keeper, his tone that of apology; “but I reckoned it was out in the street.”

Shepard led the way through the gaming room and on into the corridor indicated, the scout and Nomad tramping at his heels. Behind them followed Gopher Gabe, protesting that he could not understand this queer shooting attempt. Back of the saloon keeper streamed the straggling and excited mob.

“What was you doin’ back hyer, anyhow, Cody?” Gopher Gabe demanded finally. “Only the waiters is allowed in this passageway.”

“Only the waiters, and officers of the law,” the scout retorted.

“Yes; if you put it that way.”

“That’s the way I put it, Gabe. As I was shot at from the window of an empty house near this place, I thought I’d look round near the wine rooms, in the hope that I might find who did it. Then this thing happened.”

“It goes ahead o’ me,” said Gopher Gabe, “who could have done it.”

They gained the little cubby-hole of a room that had been transformed into an elevator, or had been built in that shape to conceal its design.

“This is the place,” said the scout, stopping before the door. “I thought the elevator would be at the bottom of the cellar, but I see that it has been raised. Perhaps you will know who raised it? I went in here; then struck a match to look round, as it was dark. As I did so the elevator descended; and that bit of timber up there, which I see is in place again, came down on top of me as the bottom was reached. It’s heavy enough to kill a man, if it struck him right; and you will please note that it seems braced up there, as if for the purpose.”

Gopher Gabe protested that he had never noticed that the timber was “loose.”

“It didn’t get me,” said the scout, “simply because I dropped flat as the elevator landed. But though I wasn’t much hurt by it----”

“War yer hurt at all, Buffler?” Nomad bellowed.

“It hit me on the shoulders, but did no damage. Then the door was pulled open, and men came at me from the cellar, trying their best to kill me. I found a manhole and got out, or I reckon they would have succeeded.”

“It’s a mighty queer thing,” said Gopher Gabe. “Some rowdies got in hyer, I reckon, and tried to do ye, but I’m not responsible fer that; you’ve got a lot of enemies in this town, Cody. I suppose you know it?”

The scout looked straight at Gopher Gabe.

“Yes, a lot of them!” he said.

“We’ll go down and look round,” said Shepard. “How do ye work this thing, Gabe? Hanged if I knowed you had an elevator hyer. What you use it fer?”

“I keep whisky barrels and the like down there,” the saloon keeper explained. “I put ’em in, and get ’em out with this elevator.”

“Oh, I see!”

As many as could crowded into the elevator and were lowered by Gopher Gabe to the cellar.

This time the timber above did not come down. Some unobserved touch of the hand of the saloon keeper stayed it in place.

When the cellar was gained and entered, the sheriff flashing round it the light of the lamp he had brought, no wounded or dead man was seen in it; there were no evidences of the fight.

It looked, at first blush, as if the scout had been dreaming. If he had not been able to show spots on the walls where bullets had struck, many men there would have gone away believing that he had lied.

The manhole was found closed.

“I don’t see nothin’, though, of the men,” said Shepard, disappointed.

“It’s as I said,” was Gopher Gabe’s comment; “some street rowdies that have got it in fer Cody jumped on him in hyer and tried to do him.”

“Why war they layin’ fer him in hyar?” asked Nomad.

“You can answer that as easy as I can,” the saloon keeper replied. “How am I to know anything about it? Everything was runnin’ along smooth upstairs when this thing happened. If I should make a guess, it’d be that they sneaked down hyer, thinking to find somethin’ they could lug off. Then, when Cody come down they thought he was after ’em; and so they tried to get ’em.”

It seemed so reasonable an explanation that most of the men who heard it believed it to be the true one.