ANOTHER STOOL PIGEON.
Buffalo Bill and Wild Bill had gained the Blue Hills in the region of
Panther Pete’s stronghold.
They had escaped from the vigilantes in a manner that was not even
yet clear to them, for they had no present means of discovering who
threw the bomb which gave them the opportunity to get away from the
mob. Whoever he was, they felt grateful to him, and called him their
friend.
As their purpose was to hunt down Panther Pete as soon as they were
safely out of the town, they shaped their course in the direction of
the hills where, as they had previously learned, Panther Pete had a
stronghold.
It seemed a blind attempt to locate it, for the Blue Hills were of
large area. However, the daring scouts had more than once set out
with less to guide them in their efforts to run down some desperado,
and had succeeded.
They were sure that a pursuit would be made from the town, and they
knew that, if hard pressed, the Blue Hills would give them refuge, as
well as it gave Panther Pete.
As they rode on, both mounted on one horse, they discussed Panther
Pete and what they had heard of him, and the singular fact, as it
seemed to them, that both had appeared at about the same time in
Scarlet Gulch, led by the same motive.
They pitched camp in the borders of the Blue Hills, and awaited there
the coming of day.
Sunrise was no more than upon them when they beheld a man who had set
forth to find and misguide the pursuers of Panther Pete; a man who
was one of the “stool pigeons” already described.
This man came up to them, riding a piebald pony. He had keen
black eyes that bored them through and through. His clothing was
nondescript, but the rifle he bore and the revolvers he carried were
of the best and latest patterns.
“Howdy!” he said, and he looked Buffalo Bill straight in the face,
knowing at a glance who he was, for the resemblance to the man who
was his leader was remarkable. “I been lookin’ all round fer ye,” he
added, with rare confidence and nerve.
The scouts were a bit puzzled.
“Yes?” said Buffalo Bill. “And now that you’ve found us?”
“Well, I didn’t know what orders you might have fer the boyees.”
He was making the daring pretense of believing that this man was the
fake Buffalo Bill.
Buffalo Bill dropped a hand to his ready revolver.
“Who do you take me for?” he asked.
“Buffalo Bill, o’ course,” said the man, with a meaning grin.
“Yes, that’s my handle, as we say in this country; but I don’t seem
to know you.”
The man opened his eyes in professed surprise. “Don’t know me?
Me--Sam Garland? I reckon you’ve got a sudden trouble of yer head,
if ye don’t know me.”
He stopped, and made a pretense of staring harder and in
astonishment. His acting was really excellent, so excellent that it
fooled even the clever scouts. Suddenly he wheeled his horse, jerking
it round.
“Stop!” Buffalo Bill shouted, snatching his revolver.
The man pulled in with a jerk that threw his horse well back. “Don’t
shoot!” he yelled. Again his acting was astonishingly clever.
“Surrender!” Wild Bill commanded, covering the fellow with a revolver.
“Yes; don’t shoot!”
The man sat trembling in his saddle, his actions still being but a
clever pretense; he was one of the best of Panther Pete’s “stool
pigeons.”
Wild Bill caught the bridle of his horse.
“Dismount!” Buffalo Bill commanded.
The man slid from the saddle.
“Now, I’ve got you covered, and shall bore you through if you start
to run,” said the scout.
“And I’ll bore you through, if you don’t talk lively and give some
straight answers,” added Wild Bill.
“Yes; don’t shoot!” begged Garland, in professed terror.
“You thought I was the fellow who is riding about this section
claiming to be Buffalo Bill?” said the scout.
The man hesitated. He knew he had to steer carefully now; a false
movement might mean his death.
“Yes,” he said, “that’s what I thought.”
“And that man is Panther Pete?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I’ll inform you that I’m the real Buffalo Bill. And, if your
leader looks enough like me to fool even one of his own men, I shall
begin to be ashamed of my personal appearance, for I understand he’s
one of the worst desperadoes of the border.”
Garland did not answer this.
“How far is Panther Pete’s home from this place?”
Garland hesitated; not because he did not know, but to pretend a
hesitation he did not feel.
“Speak up!” commanded Wild Bill tartly.
“I don’t know jes’ how far,” said Garland.
“You could lead us to the place, of course?”
“Y-es, I--guess I could.”
“We’ll have you do that. You’ve just come from there?”
“Y-es.”
“Bear in mind,” said Wild Bill, “that, if any trickery is played,
you’ll be dropped first thing with a bullet through you. There will
be no fooling.”
Garland’s face paled a little. These men had a reputation for being
quick and sure shots, and he knew the danger he had placed himself
in. Then his nerve returned.
“If I’m shot,” he said, “it will be by some o’ ther boyees, or by
ther boss, fer betrayin’ ’em, I’m thinkin’.”
They tied his hands, and then compelled him to mount to the back of
his horse.
Wild Bill mounted behind him, and Buffalo Bill tied the feet of the
rascal together under the horse’s belly.
“We’ve got a horse apiece now, old pard,” said Wild Bill, laughing.
“I didn’t think we’d stay long without mounts for both of us. Now,
heave ahead, Sam. And, mind you, no trickery. We won’t stand it.”
Garland indicated the direction to be taken, which he claimed was
the right direction to Panther Pete’s stronghold. In reality the
direction he pointed out was that toward the “trap” into which the
“stool pigeons” were instructed to decoy pursuers.
So they rode along, with Garland and Wild Bill leading the way.