CHAPTER IV.

AT THE “EL RIO.”

When the trapper and the little Piute left the sheriff’s office they were expecting immediate saddle-work; but in this Nomad, at least, was disappointed.

Halting among the oleanders that bordered the gravel-walk leading from the court-house steps to the street, the trapper and the redskin saw their men in animated conversation on the corner by the hotel.

“They don’t appear ter like ther way things aire goin’, Cayuse,” said the trapper.

“Ugh!” said Cayuse, who thought much and said little.

“Anyways, they appears ter hev made up their minds ter somethin’,” went on the trapper, a moment later. “Jacobs is goin’ off down ther street, an Bernritter is goin’ inter ther hotel. Bernritter fer you, son, an’ I’ll shadder Jacobs.”

“Wuh!”

On reaching the edge of the square, Cayuse crossed in the direction of the hotel, while Nomad turned to the right and sauntered along on the side of the street opposite the one where Jacobs was walking.

Jacobs walked two blocks and turned in at a gambling and drinking-resort which a gold sign proclaimed to be the “El Rio.”

Thereupon Nomad crossed over and entered the El Rio himself.

It was too early for the gamblers. The El Rio was almost deserted.

A bar ran along one side of the mirrored and tinseled room, and along the other side were arranged roulette-tables, faro lay-outs, poker-tables, and other gambling paraphernalia.

Toward the rear, the big room merged into a three-foot corridor, on either side of which doors opened into private gambling-rooms.

Nomad entered the front door of the “chance” establishment just in time to see Jacobs entering a private room. It was the first room on the left, off the rear corridor. A low-browed, villainous-looking man entered the room with Jacobs.

The door closed. The trapper sauntered over to the bar and bought a cigar. Then he walked back, announced his desire for a retired place, and was shown by an attendant into the first room on the _right_.

“Forty-rod,” said he to the waiter; “a stiff glass o’ et.”

The waiter brought the “forty-rod,” received his pay, and a generous tip, and retired.

Nomad had no intention of beclouding his faculties with the contents of the glass, so he left it untasted.

Pulling off his boots, the moment he was alone, he took them under one arm and passed noiselessly to the door of the room. With a soft hand he turned the knob and drew the door slightly ajar.

No one in the front part of the El Rio was paying any attention to the rear of the establishment. As the old trapper waited and listened, he heard a mumble of low voices coming from the room across the corridor.

Closing the door from the outside as noiselessly as he had opened it, Nomad crossed the aisle. His stockinged feet made scarcely a sound.

Laying a quick, deft hand on the knob of the door next that through which Jacobs and his companion had passed, he pushed it ajar and stepped in. He drew a quick breath when he found the room was already occupied.

A man, far gone in liquor, was lying across a table, breathing heavily.

Nomad wanted to be in that particular room, because only a thin board partition separated him from Jacobs and the man with whom Jacobs was talking. The drunken man, Nomad decided after a second’s observation, was too much under the “influence” to prove anything of an obstacle; so the trapper made up his mind to occupy the room with him.

Closing the door as noiselessly as he had opened it, Nomad ran his eye over the board partition.

The partition was of flooring boards and painted white. The boards had warped considerably, but not enough to make any cracks.

The old man was disappointed. He wanted to “star” himself, in this queer case of McGowan’s, and felt that if he could hear something of what was being said, in the next room, the result would amply repay him for his time and trouble. Jacobs had been ordered by his employer to return to the Three-ply. He had not returned. The very fact that he had not was suspicious in itself.

Nomad had reasoned this all out; and he knew when Buffalo Bill told him and Cayuse to shadow Bernritter and Jacobs that the scout thought the actions of the two men open to question.

While the trapper stood in the room surveying the board partition, the mumble from the other side of it came tantalisingly to his ears. The sound was louder than when he had heard it across the corridor, but it was still impossible to distinguish words.

The snoring of the drunken man interfered with the sounds, and Nomad was ripe for some desperate move which might have spoiled everything, when his eye lit upon a knot in one of the boards of the partition.

The knot was about two feet above the floor, and was so warped from the board that it looked as though it might be easily removed. With hope mounting high, old Nomad drew a knife from his belt and sank to his knees.

Timing his prying with the long and regularly recurring snores of the drunken man, Nomad got out the knot with his knife-point; then, lowering his head, and stopping one ear with his finger to keep out the snores, he was pleased to find that the talk of Jacobs and the other man could be plainly heard.

“You understand that part of it, Bascomb?” Jacobs was saying.

“Sure,” answered the man referred to as Bascomb. “I kin send a couple o’ light-fingered lads ter attend ter the hotel end. Now fer the rest o’ it.”

“Buffalo Bill will certainly take hold and help McGowan.”

“It was a bad move o’ your’n, gittin’ Buffler Bill’s pard mixed up with that thar gold-brick.”

“That was Bern’s idea, but I guess he understands now the move was bad. Buffalo Bill will go to the mine by the Black Cañon trail--it’s the most direct route, and whenever he goes any place, I understand it’s the beeline and a keen jump fer him.”

“Us fellers are up agin’ it, all right, now that the scout has took holt. He’s the wust kind of a propersition ter flash on a lot er grafters. What’s fer me to do? I’ll skin the deck both ways ter do all I kin, Buffler Bill er no Buffler Bill.”

“The mill clean-up comes to-morrow. That’s where we’re to make our big winning and skip out. Bern says to hang Buffalo Bill up to-morrow so that he can’t interfere, and we’ll be able to do our work and make a getaway.”

“I’m ter help hang the scout up, hey?”

“You’re to do it. As soon as you attend to the hotel part of it, make for the hills as fast as you can go, round up your reds, and lay for the scout in some convenient place on the Black Cañon trail. When you capture him, leave him in the hands of enough reds to keep him, then come on to the Three-ply and stand ready to help in running off the loot from the clean-up.”

“Suppose Buffler Bill rides out ter the Three-ply with McGowan?”

“Then nail the two of them. It will be so much the better for us.”

“It’s a scheme fer yer life, Jacobs! Count on me. But s’posin’ Buffler Bill has already left fer the mine?”

“He won’t start before supper--at least, I don’t think he will. If he does, we stand a chance to lose out, that’s all. You’ll have to run your chances.”

“Is that all?”

“Yes; and I can’t waste any more time here. McGowan told Bernritter and me to go right back to the mine; Bern’s gone, and I must follow as soon as I can.”

“If McGowan finds out ye didn’t go with him----”

“Bern will take care of that, in case McGowan makes any remarks. He’ll offer an excuse by saying he had me stay a while in Phœnix to talk with our powder-men about the last lot of high-explosives. Hike out, now, and do your work. I’ll leave after a while myself. Make sure you’re not shadowed, Bascomb, and don’t let any grass grow under your feet. Bern told me to say that everything depends on you, and if we get away with forty-odd thousand in bullion, you’ll be handsomely remembered.”

“Which I ort ter be. Waal, _adios_ fer now.”

Nomad put back the knot carefully and got to his feet. He was astounded by what he had heard.

Here, at the very start-off, was evidence of the plot against the baron, as well as evidence of a greater plot against the clean-up which was to be made on the following day at the Three-ply Mine!

And Buffalo Bill was to be ambushed along the Black Cañon trail!

Nomad exulted to think that he had acquired information which, properly used, would break this far-reaching combination of bullion thieves.

But what, he asked himself, did Jacobs and Bascomb mean in their references to underhand work at the hotel?

That part of it had escaped Nomad. He felt that he had overheard enough, however, and was not disposed to find any fault because a little of the conversation had got away from him.

A few minutes after Bascomb left, Nomad heard the door of the next room open and close. This was Jacobs, going out.

The trapper pulled on his boots, took a final look at the drunken man--who had not stirred since his privacy had been intruded upon--and also went out.

Jacobs must have passed quickly through the front of the El Rio when he left the small room. Nomad could not see him, and hurried out through the front door to the sidewalk. There he caught a vanishing glimpse of his man around a corner.

Still trailing, he followed until he saw Jacobs enter the gate of a corral. This was not the corral where the scout and his pards kept their own horses, and Nomad had no business in the place, and no reasonable excuse for calling there.

While he stood watching for Jacobs to reappear, the bell of the court-house clock tolled the hour of seven. Nomad was surprised. Time had passed quickly for him since he and Cayuse had parted in front of the Court-house Square.

On the last peal of the bell, Jacobs rode out of the corral and headed east along Washington Street.

“Hyar’s whar our trails fork fer a spell, you pizen whelp,” muttered Nomad. “I got ter find Buffler, an’ tell him er few things thet’ll open his eyes some. But we’ll meet-up with each other ag’in, Jacobs, ye kin gamble er blue stack on thet. Go ahead with ther preparations fer yer ‘clean-up.’ While ye’re a-doin’ of et, Buffler an’ me’ll be plannin’ er leetle clean-up of our own. What er rum game this hyar is, anyways! Bernritter an’ Jacobs plannin’ ter beat McGowan out o’ more-n forty thousand in bullion! Oh, no! I reckon I didn’t find out er thing in thet El Rio place.”

Nomad pointed in the direction of the hotel, swinging along at a swift stride.

“An’ thar’s Injuns mixed up in et, too, jest as McGowan dreamt et,” said the trapper to himself. “I wonder what Pard Buffler’ll say ter thet? You kin bet yer moccasins thar’s a hull lot in dreams, spacially ef ye dreams ther same thing three times, hand-runnin’.”

Nomad turned into the hotel and peered around the lobby for the scout. The scout was not in evidence, and neither was Little Cayuse.

The Piute boy, Nomad thought, was probably well away toward Three-ply, on the track of Bernritter; but Buffalo Bill---- Could it be that _he_ also had pulled out, in company with McGowan? This notion gave the old trapper something of a jolt.

Walking over to the counter, he put an inquiry to the clerk.

“Buffalo Bill, Mr. Nomad?” returned the clerk, lifting his eyebrows. “Why, he went away from here half an hour ago. He rode off with a queer-looking character that I took to be a Dutchman.”

The trapper gulped wildly, and a chill of apprehension shot through him.

“Any idee whar Buffler went?” he asked.

“Not the slightest.”

Nomad turned thoughtfully away.

There could be little doubt but that Buffalo Bill had started for the Three-ply Mine. He had also secured the release of the baron and had taken him along.

What was to be done? Just one thing--ride after the scout and the baron and overtake them before they dropped into Bascomb’s ambush.

Nomad started on a rush for the hotel door. At the entrance he paused, suddenly remembering that his spurs were in his room.

It would take him a few minutes to get the spurs, but it would be time well spent.

“Say, pard,” said he, pausing at the counter for an instant on his way to the stairs, “call up Nickerson’s corral, will ye, an’ tell Nickerson ter git ole Nomad’s hoss under saddle, _muy pronto_. I’m in a tearin’ hurry, an’ ef ye’ll do thet much fer me, I’ll be obliged.”

“Certainly, Mr. Nomad,” answered the clerk. “Glad to do it.”

Nomad raced on up the stairs, pulling his key out of his pocket as he went. Unlocking the door, he flung it open and raced into the room. He did not shut the door behind him, as he had no time for any extra or unnecessary frills.

His spurs were hanging from a hook in the closet, along with his war-bag. The war-bag would not be needed; and he jerked down the spurs, unbuckled the straps that held them together, and hurried to the window.

Here, where the light was better, he threw up his foot on a chair and deftly affixed one of the spurs. Putting up the other foot, he began adjusting the second spur.

He remembered putting the end of the strap through the buckle and beginning to pull. Following that, memories of every kind grew hazy and mixed.

Something landed on his head, from behind. It was a terrific blow, and the trapper lurched forward, overturned the chair, and still further injured his head by bringing it into contact with the sharp edge of the window-casing.

Then it seemed to Nomad that he dropped, and then that he was floating around in the air. Little gleams danced before his eyes, resembling varicolored fire-balls, like those which are thrown by Roman candles. Then night engulfed the fire-balls, and a dead silence intervened--a silence of complete oblivion.

Nomad opened his eyes in the dark. The first thing he heard was the court-house bell.

One, two, three---- He counted the strokes. There were nine of them. Nine o’clock! Suffering catamounts! What had happened to him since seven?

Then, as his mind once more became active, he began to piece together his experiences. While he was putting on that second spur, some one must have crowded in on him through the open door and struck him from behind.

Foul play, of course! But by whom? Who could have done it if not some one of the Bernritter and Jacobs outfit?

Then Nomad recalled what Bascomb had said to Jacobs regarding the “hotel end” of their plotting. Was he, Nomad, the object of the hotel plot?

Nomad knew that he could not have been the direct object, for Jacobs and Bascomb, during their talk in the El Rio, had not known that he was on Jacobs’ trail.

And yet, somehow, the trapper was sure that he had dropped into Bascomb’s work in the hotel. Bascomb’s light-fingered men may not have meant to get Nomad at the start-off, but they had got him, nevertheless.

The trapper’s hands and feet were bound with towels, and there was a towel tied over his mouth.

Where was he? He moved his feet around, and in this way discovered that he was in cramped quarters.

The air was suffocating. Undoubtedly the miscreants who had treated him to this surprise had dragged him into the closet.

Meanwhile, Buffalo Bill and the baron had been traveling along the Black Cañon trail straight into the ambushed Apaches whom Bascomb was to have in readiness.

Nomad groaned at the thought.

What good would all the information he had gained at the El Rio do him now? He was powerless to save Buffalo Bill!

After his first spasm of chagrin and disappointment, Nomad fell to thinking more calmly.

He recalled that Bascomb was merely to capture and hold the scout, thus keeping him away from the Three-ply Mine until the white and red thieves could accomplish their daring robbery of the mill bullion.

Those who had placed Nomad in his uncomfortable position probably did not know what the old trapper had discovered at the El Rio.

The robbery planned to take place at the Three-ply would, no doubt, still be attempted on the following day.

Nomad’s work lay clearly before him: He must effect his escape as soon as possible, do something for Buffalo Bill if he needed anything done, and then, together, they would take what steps the scout deemed necessary for saving the Three-ply bullion.

This line of action fired the trapper with a determination to get effectively busy.

With the sweat pouring off him, and his breath coming from behind the towel-gag in gasps, he fought with the bonds at his wrists.

A twisted towel is not nearly so effective as a rope when used for binding the hands of a powerful man like Nomad.

He got his hands free, but a deep _boom_ of the court-house bell marked the half-hour before he had succeeded.

To get the gag from his mouth and free his feet took him only a moment; then he staggered erect, groped for the door-knob, and reeled out of the closet and into the room.

He was drenched with sweat, and there was a sound in his ears as of the buzzing of a swarm of bees. That blow on the head was responsible for the buzzing. And what mattered it? Nomad was free! The trail to the Three-ply lay before him.

Fumbling for a match, he lighted a gas-jet. The room seemed in order. The chair by the window was overturned, and a spur lay near it, but, aside from that, everything was in place.

The hall door was closed. Nomad pulled at it, and found it locked. The key, he discovered, was sticking in the lock on the outside.

“What did thet pizen, light-fingered man blow in hyar fer, ef et wasn’t ter do me up an’ put me in ther closet?” thought Nomad. “Ain’t nothin’ in ther room been teched. Arter usin’ them towels on me, ther feller went out an’ turned ther key on ther outside. Waugh, but thet was er bump!” and the old man felt of the lump on the back of his head.

He had no time, however, to waste on himself. Pushing on the bell for the call-boy, he picked up the spur, righted the chair, and finished the operation he had begun something like two hours and a half before.

By then, “front” was rapping to find out what was wanted.

“Unlock ther door,” said Nomad.

The key grated, the door opened, and the astonished boy showed himself.

“Say,” said he, “how did ye happen t’ lock yerself in the room an’ leave yer key on the outside?”

“Never mind thet,” snorted Nomad. “I didn’t happen ter, an’ thet’s all ye need ter know.”

He put on his hat, pushed the boy out, relocked the door, and handed him the key.

“Take that down ter ther man behind ther counter,” said he; “I ain’t got time ter stop.”

Then, with spurs jingling at his heels, he raced down the stairs three steps at a time, and dashed out of the hotel.

At the corral he found his horse ready and waiting.

“Thought ye wanted the animile in a hurry?” remarked Nickerson. “He’s been standin’ thar fer the better part o’ two hours.”

“I was delayed gittin’ hyar,” answered Nomad, leaping into the saddle. “See how quick ye kin tell me ther way ter ther Three-ply Mine, Nickerson.”

Nickerson used up a dozen words, and when he had done, the old trapper dug in with the irons and shot through the corral-gate.