“Buenos!” The scout whirled away towards the door. “Come on, parson,” said he; “we’ll now move toward the jail.” The jail was an isolated shanty at the end of the street. Gloomy shadows hung around it. As the scout and the sky pilot came up in front of the small structure, a man started up out of the shadows and planted himself in front of them. “That’s far enough!” the man snapped. “It’s not far enough to suit me,” returned the scout. “Well, I’m the one that’s boss here.” “Who are you?” “Bloom, the sheriff.” “And I’m Buffalo Bill, and a friend of Nate Dunbar. I’ve come to talk with him, and Mr. Jordan is with me.” “You can’t talk with him to-night. That shot goes as it lays.” Bloom, the sheriff, had a rifle in his hands. As he spoke he brought it to “port arms” and glared at the scout over the barrel. “I’d rather not have any trouble with you, Bloom,” said the scout, the words clicking like the snap of a breechblock, “but you’re putting on the screws at a time when it’s unnecessary and useless. Why can’t we go in and talk with Nate?” “Because I tell you you can’t,” ground out the sheriff. The next moment the scout had made a move. It was a lightning-like move, and when the sheriff had caught his breath the scout was standing in front of him with the rifle. Nor was the rifle at “port arms;” its point was leveled at Bloom’s breast. “That’s the way you stack up, is it?” asked the sheriff, in a tense voice. “It is,” was the cool reply. “Maybe you’d like to lock me up with Dunbar? Think twice before you try. This is not a time to say ‘no’ to me, Bloom. Lead the way into the jail.” The sheriff hesitated. “On an occasion like this I’m not in the habit of repeating an order,” went on the scout significantly. The sheriff snapped his jaws together, whirled on his heel and unlocked the door of the jail. When he had stepped inside, the scout and the sky pilot crossed the threshold after him. “Strike a light, Bloom,” ordered the scout. A match was scratched and a lamp lighted. In the middle of the shanty’s one room stood a bench; and on the bench, wrists and ankles manacled, sat Dunbar. His face was haggard, but a light of hope shone in his eyes as they rested on the scout. “Buffalo Bill!” he exclaimed joyfully. “I thought you’d come as soon as you found out what had happened to me. Does Hattie know? Or Dick?” “Neither of them has been told, Nate,” answered the scout, stepping to the young rancher’s side and dropping a kindly hand on his shoulder. “Nor will they know,” he added, “until we get you out of this and you tell them yourself.” The handcuffs rattled as Dunbar gripped the scout’s hand. “You’re a friend worth having, amigo,” he murmured, “same as Jordan, there.” “This foul injustice, Nate,” said the sky pilot, “will not be allowed to continue long. Truth will prevail, and those who have caused this trouble will be made to suffer for it.”