They pitched camp in the borders of the Blue Hills, and awaited there the coming of day. Sunrise was no more than upon them when they beheld a man who had set forth to find and misguide the pursuers of Panther Pete; a man who was one of the “stool pigeons” already described. This man came up to them, riding a piebald pony. He had keen black eyes that bored them through and through. His clothing was nondescript, but the rifle he bore and the revolvers he carried were of the best and latest patterns. “Howdy!” he said, and he looked Buffalo Bill straight in the face, knowing at a glance who he was, for the resemblance to the man who was his leader was remarkable. “I been lookin’ all round fer ye,” he added, with rare confidence and nerve. The scouts were a bit puzzled. “Yes?” said Buffalo Bill. “And now that you’ve found us?” “Well, I didn’t know what orders you might have fer the boyees.” He was making the daring pretense of believing that this man was the fake Buffalo Bill. Buffalo Bill dropped a hand to his ready revolver. “Who do you take me for?” he asked. “Buffalo Bill, o’ course,” said the man, with a meaning grin. “Yes, that’s my handle, as we say in this country; but I don’t seem to know you.” The man opened his eyes in professed surprise. “Don’t know me? Me--Sam Garland? I reckon you’ve got a sudden trouble of yer head, if ye don’t know me.” He stopped, and made a pretense of staring harder and in astonishment. His acting was really excellent, so excellent that it fooled even the clever scouts. Suddenly he wheeled his horse, jerking it round. “Stop!” Buffalo Bill shouted, snatching his revolver. The man pulled in with a jerk that threw his horse well back. “Don’t shoot!” he yelled. Again his acting was astonishingly clever. “Surrender!” Wild Bill commanded, covering the fellow with a revolver. “Yes; don’t shoot!” The man sat trembling in his saddle, his actions still being but a clever pretense; he was one of the best of Panther Pete’s “stool pigeons.” Wild Bill caught the bridle of his horse. “Dismount!” Buffalo Bill commanded. The man slid from the saddle. “Now, I’ve got you covered, and shall bore you through if you start to run,” said the scout. “And I’ll bore you through, if you don’t talk lively and give some straight answers,” added Wild Bill. “Yes; don’t shoot!” begged Garland, in professed terror. “You thought I was the fellow who is riding about this section claiming to be Buffalo Bill?” said the scout. The man hesitated. He knew he had to steer carefully now; a false movement might mean his death. “Yes,” he said, “that’s what I thought.” “And that man is Panther Pete?” “Yes.” “Well, I’ll inform you that I’m the real Buffalo Bill. And, if your leader looks enough like me to fool even one of his own men, I shall begin to be ashamed of my personal appearance, for I understand he’s one of the worst desperadoes of the border.” Garland did not answer this.