CHAPTER XXXVI.

THE WESTERN DEAD SHOT.

The man who had galloped with that yell right into the crowd was none other than Wild Bill, the Western dead shot.

Many of the men there recognized him, and they were sure his sudden dash meant an attempt to rescue Buffalo Bill.

Wild Bill reined in his horse so quickly that he threw it back on its haunches. It reared, its pawing front feet making the men there scatter, and when it came down, Wild Bill, with a touch of the spur, drove it to Cody’s side. Then he half wheeled his horse, lifting his cap to the astonished crowd.

“It seems to me, from the look of things, that you’ve got the wrong steer by the horns! I know that my friend Cody is too white a man to ever do anything that would call for a hanging bee.” He smiled upon Buffalo Bill. “Eh, pard, what have they got it in for you for?”

Not a man there but had heard of Wild Bill, and many of them knew him by sight; so that when it was known that this was Wild Bill, the most dare-devil and reckless shot of the West, the man who feared not the face of clay, and if report spoke correctly would rather shoot than eat, there was a falling back. Yet they still surrounded Buffalo Bill and this new rider, and seemed no more disposed to give up their prey than if they were a band of wolves.

Wild Bill had seen many mobs, and he knew their moods and methods; yet his flashing eyes betrayed no sign that he really understood the very dangerous and ticklish position which he and his noted pard were in. He even seemed to be merry.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “won’t some one enlighten me? Here am I, a wayfarer, blundering into this tragic scene, but knowing no more what it is about than if I were the off hind wheel of a prairie schooner. I can see, though, that you are harboring some sort of hard feelings against my friend Cody, as white and true a man as ever breathed the breath of life. What is it? Spit it out!”

They began to “spit it out,” telling him the things with which Buffalo Bill stood charged.

“And he denies it? Strange that he should deny anything like that! I’m afraid, though, that I’ll have to help him deny it. For I know that there is another man who goes round here pretending to be my pard Cody. I got word of it, not long ago, over in the Bitterroot country, and I’ve ridden over here to hunt the devil down, just for my pard’s sake.”

The great scout gave him a look of gratitude.

“I didn’t know that Cody was here, and----”

“That’s jist it!” was yelled at him. “You didn’t think that Buffler Bill would do the things that it’s known he’s done. Nor we didn’t think it, till we had the proofs and had to. And here, when you come, you find him, caught for doin’ the things you wouldn’t believed of him. And now that we’ve got him we’re goin’ ter make him dance on air.”

Again that roar of rage broke forth from the surging and excited mob. The whisky these men had swallowed in the Flash Light had helped to transform them into human wolves.

For a few moments after Wild Bill had thus tried to interfere they had held back. They were astonished by his boldness and they feared his deadly revolvers; but they did not intend to be balked of their feast of blood. They intended to have the life of Buffalo Bill; and if Wild Bill interfered and stood in the way, then so much the worse for him, for they would promptly hang him, too, for being a meddler and an obstructer of border justice.

Both Wild Bill and Buffalo Bill understood what was seething in their minds; and, if they had not so understood, the cries that now went up would have quickly informed them.

“Stand outer the way, thar, Wild Bill!” a man yelled. “We ain’t got no fight against you; but t’other feller we’re after, and aire goin’ to have.”

Slocum stood on the outskirts of the crowd, trying to make his voice heard in the uproar. Close by him stood Rainey, revolver ready for bloody work.

Half of the crowd had revolvers out, and in their drunken condition they were ready to shoot.

Buffalo Bill spoke again, repeating his story and his denials.

“Hang ’em both!” was roared. The crowd surged forward. The rope was flourished by the ruffian who parried it, and from some other point a cowboy’s lasso was hurled forward, for the second noose intended for the neck of Wild Bill.

The dead shot crowded his horse close against the scout, who, since the death of his own animal, was afoot.

“Up behind me, pard!” he said, stooping over so that Buffalo Bill could hear him. “We’ll make a break together, and go down together, fighting. I think I’m good for a half dozen of these wolves before they get me, and you’re good for as many more. There will be something occurring in the graveyard business here to-morrow, anyway.”

His eyes flashed fire, and his voice was tense with determination.

Buffalo Bill saw that delay only increased the danger. Soon those nooses would be round his own neck and the neck of his friend; and when that happened the end was not far off.

“All right!” he cried.

Wild Bill swung the horse around as Buffalo Bill sprang for its back. As he did so, his gold-mounted revolver glittered in the light of the Flash Light’s lamps.

The time for desperate action on the part of the two pards had come. What the end would be they did not know, but they were prepared to die fighting.