“They was too fur off, Buffler, ter make out who they aire.” “You could have recognized Hank Phelps easily enough, in his Mexican clothes.” “Waal, I didn’t see him, an’ I don’t reckon he’s erlong.” “Into the house, pards,” ordered the scout, “and we’ll make ready to hold our ground.” Perry had already pushed into the cabin. Pierce and Nomad followed him. The scout was last to enter, and he closed the door and dropped a stout oak bar across it. A few moments later there came a sodden roll of hoofs, growing louder and louder. The scout, peering through a loophole, saw fifteen armed men debouch from the timber and surround the cabin. “Not a shot is to be fired,” said Buffalo Bill to the silent little group in the cabin, “until I give the word. We will use our weapons only as a last resort and not until every other expedient is exhausted.” From his loophole the scout saw one of the cowboys throw himself from the saddle and advance upon the front door. The plans of the H-P men must have been well considered, for each of the party moved at once to his post in the cordon that surrounded the cabin. There was no talking, no confusion. A fist pounded on the door. “Who’s there?” called the scout. “A crowd of fellers from the H-P ranch,” answered a hoarse voice, “and we mean business right from the drop o’ the hat.” “What do you want?” “We want the murderin’ hound that done fer Jake Phelps!” A stifled cry escaped Mrs. Dunbar. Nate stepped over and put his arm around her waist, at the same time whispering to her encouragingly. “Is Jake Phelps done for?” asked the scout, intent on securing a little information. “Purty nigh,” was the answer. “He ain’t never spoke a word since he was found on the trail, where Dunbar knocked him out o’ the saddle.” Here was something, at all events. Phelps was still alive, and while there was life there was hope that he would recover. “Wait a minute,” said the scout. “I don’t like talking through a door, and I’m coming out.” Perry made a gesture of protest. “I want to reason with these men,” said the scout, in a low tone, “and I can do it better face to face with them.” “But what if they should capture you?” murmured Mrs. Dunbar, her voice sharp with apprehension. “What should we do then, Buffalo Bill, with you taken from us?” “He won’t be captered, gal,” returned old Nomad. “I’ll let Buffler out, an’ I’ll stand by ther door ter let him in ag’in. He’ll come in a-hummin’ ef they make er move ter rush him.” The scout took a precautionary look through the loophole and stepped to the door. The trapper lifted the bar and the scout stepped to the front of the cabin. The cowboy scowled at him. There were no more than five of the H-P outfit in sight, the others being scattered around the cabin. “Call the rest of your party here,” said the scout. “I want to talk to all of you.”