“Why, you locked me in when you went away! Why did you do that?” “For your protection,” he said, still thinking it best to lie to her. “For my protection?” “Yes; some of these men here I don’t trust. They’re all right as scouts, and all that, but I don’t trust them. We’ve got to stay here a little while, until we can get more men; for the outlaws, it’s reported, are in strong force between here and the Blue Hills.” His manner had changed, and the truth suddenly came to her, with its startling revelation. “You are not Buffalo Bill!” she cried, gasping. “Who’s been telling you I’m not?” he said, startled. “Oh, I know it! I feel it! You can’t be Buffalo Bill. I did hear rumors, and thought them----” “What rumors?” he demanded. “That Buffalo Bill was not in this part of the country, and that you were a fake Buffalo Bill. But I didn’t believe them, for you----” “For I was making love to you and all that?” He laughed harshly. “No; because you were father’s friend.” “Well, I’ve been good to him, for your sake,” he said brazenly. She became terrified, for this seemed almost a confession that he was not Buffalo Bill. “I’ve been good to him,” he repeated, “and he knows it, and he don’t doubt that I’m Buffalo Bill. I let him have a thousand dollars to help him out with that claim, and he doesn’t forget it.” She regarded him with terror, for there was a change in his manner--a reckless change apparently. “You will take me on to father’s claim as soon as possible?” she said. He dropped to a rough stool close by the door, in such a manner that the door was still guarded by his body. “Well, what if I’m not Buffalo Bill, as you say?” “I--I am afraid you’re not.” “And if I ain’t?” he demanded. “You have told me you were!” she gasped. “And you’ve said I wasn’t. Well, I ain’t.” He paused to note the effect of his words. She withdrew toward the other side of the room, alarm and fright showing in her face and manner. “I’m not Buffalo Bill, though I reckon as that ain’t the name that his mother gave him I’ve as much right to it as he has. In other words, I’m not Bill Cody. And I reckon, too, that you’ve heard of me; most people round here have. Do you want to know who I am? I’m Panther Pete.” She screamed, and crowded closer against the wall when she heard that dreaded name. Panther Pete! It was a name of infamy, a name that reeked with blood, a name to blanch the cheek of woman or man; for the miscreant who bore it was notorious as a murderer and outlaw, with innumerable black and bloody crimes laid at his door. “You’ve heard of me, I see,” he remarked, with a sardonic smile. She did not answer, but stared at him, large-eyed and fearful.