Shepard came away from Gopher Gabe’s knowing considerably less than when he went. He reported to the scout his disbelief that the saloon keeper was not playing a straight game. But the report did not change the scout’s opinions, or cause him to lessen his efforts. He was rapidly accumulating proof that in Blossom Range Juniper Joe and Tim Benson were connected with a desperate band, who were not only disposed to protect those rascals, but willing to “put out of the way” their enemies. Proofs of the desperate character of the men he was watching came fast. As Buffalo Bill was sitting in the Eagle House dining room that evening, the time being just after dark, a shot sounded in the street, and the bullet shattered the glass beside his plate, throwing splinters into his face. Nomad dived with a whoop under the table, crawled out on the other side, and with revolver in hand ran to the window through which the bullet had come. But he saw no one. That night Buffalo Bill spent several hours in quiet work around Gopher Gabe’s and the Casino, with Nomad doing business on the “side lines.” They returned to the hotel together, at a late hour, having accomplished nothing. Hardly were they closeted in the scout’s room, talking over their work, when a man passed rapidly through the hall before the scout’s door. He stopped just the fraction of a second, as if to make sure, by the sounds of the voices within, where Buffalo Bill was sitting; then he fired his revolver through the door, and went jumping in wild leaps down the back stairs. It was useless to follow him. Five minutes later a bullet came through the window, struck and caromed from the top of the table at which the scout was sitting, then imbedded itself in the wall behind him. Nomad promptly turned out the lamp. “Waugh!” he growled. “I reckons we’ve got to set round hyer in ther dark, ef we don’t want ter git lead under our hides! This thing is gittin’ plum serious.” The scout went to the window, drew down the curtain, then turned up the lamp; but he did not sit down again by the table. “When such things as this begin to happen, it’s clear proof that somebody’s getting badly scared,” he commented. “Who’s doin’ et? Thet’s what I wanter know.” “Some of Gopher Gabe’s emissaries, of course; but he ought to hire men who can do a little better shooting.” “Thet bullet come nigh ernough ter make a clost call.” “Well, yes; when it jumped from the table, it almost kissed me on the nose.” He went to the wall and looked at the hole torn by the bullet. “From a forty-five Colt revolver, I judge,” he commented. Steps were heard in the hall, and Nomad pulled his revolver. “Ef thar’s more shootin’, I shoots fust!” he growled. But when, in answer to a rap; the scout opened the door, they saw the white face of the night clerk; he seemed scared. “Was that shooting in here?” he asked. Nomad pointed to the bullet hole in the wall.