Nomad stopped, then; not because he so much feared for himself, as because he feared for the life of Nebuchadnezzar. He knew that even in the darkness those riflemen could see well enough to shoot down the horse; he was sure they would do it if he tried to get away on its back; and Nebuchadnezzar was as dear to him as his own life. He faced around, swinging his heavy rifle. “By all ther spooks o’ ther hills, ef I don’t let daylight through ye, ef ye shoot Nebby!” he yelled. “’Ware thar, and don’t do it!” A man was riding toward him, and at the man’s heels came others. “Hands up!” “And drap my gun? Waal, ye don’t know me, if ye think I’ll do it. Waugh!” “Put down that gun!” “I’ll do that, yes; and willin’, see ’t I can’t do nothin’ else. But I shoots ther fust cuss thet lays a hand in harm on my ole hoss.” The man drew rein, and some of those behind him snickered at Nomad’s words. “Who aire ye?” “Waugh! I’m a better man than ther critter that asks ther question!” “No foolishness! Hands up! And give your name!” One of the man’s followers, who had ridden near enough to see Nomad, now announced the old trapper’s name. “Nick Nomad,” he said; “ther friend of Buffler Bill! And may the devil roast him!” “Put down yer gun!” the leader commanded. The tone was so menacing that Nomad saw he must comply, if he didn’t want to feel the lead of the outlaw’s revolver. So he laid the old rifle on the ground, though he did it with a sigh. Then he folded his arms on his breast, and stood erect before the outlaws, an impressive figure, in spite of his small stature, wizened face, and his eccentric dress. He was a typical trapper of the old time in appearance, with his fringed and greasy leggings, and hunting shirt of cloth and deerskin, and the round beaver-skin cap on his head, the cap being as greasy and soiled as his clothing. “Now, what is it ye want of me?” he said; though the manner in which the announcement of his name had been received told him that these men were his enemies; and he was sure they were road agents, the very desperadoes he had come there to seek with his old pard, Buffalo Bill. The men sprang from their saddles and surrounded him. Old Nebuchadnezzar backed from them to the end of his picket rope, and snorted indignantly and fearfully. “Aire you Nick Nomad, as he says?” demanded the leader, peering into the trapper’s face. Nomad fancied that lying would gain him nothing. “Happy ter say thet I am,” he declared. “I reckon it ain’t a name ter be ashamed on, along this hyar border; seein’ thet Injuns and outlaws never yit liked ther sound of it.” “Give up yer weapons.” “Thar’s my gun.” “But yer other weapons--yer knife and pistols.” “And then what?” the old man asked. “Mebbe ye’ll be wantin’ me ter give up my life next?” “Surrender yer weapons!” was shouted at him. Nomad was driven to the conviction that this surrender meant his death; but, if he was to die, he preferred to do it in more heroic fashion than that.