Señor Otega stood amazed at the bold words of Buffalo Bill. He knew perfectly well that there had been no dying confession; he was surprised and startled at the daring shown by the scout, and flinging into the face of a man whom every one in the valley feared, a charge of guilt, as it were. He glared at the alcalde, expecting a terrible outbreak. Instead, he saw that his face was livid, that his lips were drawn back from his white teeth like a snarling dog, and that they were clicking together with a nervous chill. “Señor Otega retire a moment, please, for I wish to ask our friend here of this man’s confession.” The voice of the alcalde was hardly audible. A glance at Buffalo Bill, and the Señor Otega saw a sign for him to go. “I will soon join you, señor, as the alcalde will not detain me long,” said the scout pleasantly. When the door closed behind Otega, the alcalde said in a low tone: “Who made this confession you speak of?” “I do not know the name of the man of the cowboy king’s band,” was the evasive reply. “Ah! it was he?” “Shall I tell you that the confession appeared like that of a man who sought to destroy you, alcalde; but where there is smoke you will always find fire, and were I to speak there are plenty to listen, though I myself might not believe that you can be guilty. “Suppose we square this matter by your giving me a discharge for my comrade; in other words, that he acted in self-defense, and you bury the three bodies at your expense.” “Yes, yes, señor, that will do, for I have no desire to prosecute you or your comrades. You are strangers in our valley, and I will give you the paper asked, and in return your lips are sealed about the confession of that dying man. As you said, it was the malignant confession on the eve of death, to ruin me, for we had had some trouble several times, and there is not a word of truth in it.” “I did not tell you what he had said.” “No, no.” The alcalde looked most anxious. “Just write out the paper for my pard, please--his name is Robert Mead, nicknamed Blue Jacket Bob.” “I see.” The alcalde hastily filled in a discharge and handed it to the scout, saying as he did so: “Now, there is no charge, you know.” “Thanks, señor.” “Now, what did that wicked man have to say about me?” “Well, I heard enough to know you were in some way allied to these secret foes of the valley, and kept by fear of death of making known all that you are aware of.” “Nonsense, señor, utter nonsense! Still, it is best not to let it be known that I had such a charge against me, and you are not to speak of it, you know.” “Not one word I ever heard from that dying man against you, señor, shall ever pass my lips, at least as long as you don’t forget.” “Then that will be all right. I will call in the Señor Otega, and you are to have a glass of wine with me.”