But what, he asked himself, did Jacobs and Bascomb mean in their references to underhand work at the hotel? That part of it had escaped Nomad. He felt that he had overheard enough, however, and was not disposed to find any fault because a little of the conversation had got away from him. A few minutes after Bascomb left, Nomad heard the door of the next room open and close. This was Jacobs, going out. The trapper pulled on his boots, took a final look at the drunken man--who had not stirred since his privacy had been intruded upon--and also went out. Jacobs must have passed quickly through the front of the El Rio when he left the small room. Nomad could not see him, and hurried out through the front door to the sidewalk. There he caught a vanishing glimpse of his man around a corner. Still trailing, he followed until he saw Jacobs enter the gate of a corral. This was not the corral where the scout and his pards kept their own horses, and Nomad had no business in the place, and no reasonable excuse for calling there. While he stood watching for Jacobs to reappear, the bell of the court-house clock tolled the hour of seven. Nomad was surprised. Time had passed quickly for him since he and Cayuse had parted in front of the Court-house Square. On the last peal of the bell, Jacobs rode out of the corral and headed east along Washington Street. “Hyar’s whar our trails fork fer a spell, you pizen whelp,” muttered Nomad. “I got ter find Buffler, an’ tell him er few things thet’ll open his eyes some. But we’ll meet-up with each other ag’in, Jacobs, ye kin gamble er blue stack on thet. Go ahead with ther preparations fer yer ‘clean-up.’ While ye’re a-doin’ of et, Buffler an’ me’ll be plannin’ er leetle clean-up of our own. What er rum game this hyar is, anyways! Bernritter an’ Jacobs plannin’ ter beat McGowan out o’ more-n forty thousand in bullion! Oh, no! I reckon I didn’t find out er thing in thet El Rio place.” Nomad pointed in the direction of the hotel, swinging along at a swift stride. “An’ thar’s Injuns mixed up in et, too, jest as McGowan dreamt et,” said the trapper to himself. “I wonder what Pard Buffler’ll say ter thet? You kin bet yer moccasins thar’s a hull lot in dreams, spacially ef ye dreams ther same thing three times, hand-runnin’.” Nomad turned into the hotel and peered around the lobby for the scout. The scout was not in evidence, and neither was Little Cayuse. The Piute boy, Nomad thought, was probably well away toward Three-ply, on the track of Bernritter; but Buffalo Bill---- Could it be that _he_ also had pulled out, in company with McGowan? This notion gave the old trapper something of a jolt. Walking over to the counter, he put an inquiry to the clerk. “Buffalo Bill, Mr. Nomad?” returned the clerk, lifting his eyebrows. “Why, he went away from here half an hour ago. He rode off with a queer-looking character that I took to be a Dutchman.” The trapper gulped wildly, and a chill of apprehension shot through him.