“Me too!” said Nick. “And I keep wonderin’ why, havin’ found me out, you chase me about so. See what’s happened to ye by doin’ thet! If you’d stayed in Kansas City----” “If _you_ had stayed in Kansas City, you mean!” she snapped. “Wasn’t you the first one to leave there? And ain’t it the duty of a dutiful wife to foller her husband wherever he goes? Nicholas, if I----” “Too much talk!” one of the Indians grunted. Pizen Kate shut up like the closing of a steel trap, but she gave the redskin a black look. The Redskin Rovers paid at first little attention to their captives, after they had duly celebrated the capture of the noted Long Hair. They were now busy in getting supper, using some of the things taken from Latimer’s. Nevertheless, the rebuke of the Indian could not keep either Pizen Kate or Nomad quiet very long. “I told you I was goin’ to camp outside and watch fer things, and that I knowed somethin’ was goin’ to happen last night,” said Pizen Kate, addressing Buffalo Bill, whom she still persisted in calling Persimmon Pete. “It happened, all right. But I guess I wasn’t a very good watcher. Mebbe I cat-napped a little. Anyway, I was a pris’ner of these red rascals almost before I knowed it.” She seemed to have no true perception of the very serious position she was in, although, as if to silence her, Nomad made wry faces while she talked, and now and then retorted with some curt warning. In the midst of the talk old Nebuchadnezzar drew attention to himself by a shrill squeal. As he squealed he launched out with his hind feet; and an Indian who had been standing so near him that it drew his disapproval received the full force of the heavy kick and sat down on the ground with a loud grunt of pain. Nomad cackled with uproarious laughter. “Te, he! Did ye see him, Buffler? Ole Nebby ferever! He jes’ natcherly can’t stand an Injun! They make him that mad thet he jes’ has to go fer ’em when they comes nigh him. He thinks they ain’t human, and I’m somewhat er that opinion myself.” The bowled-over Indian rose in a rage and proceeded to belabor the gnarled old beast; and as a result received another kick that sent him sprawling again. The roars of laughter from the other Indians showed how they appreciated the fun. Their laughter so angered the bruised redskin that he would have shot Nebuchadnezzar dead but for the prompt interference of a man who had but recently come into the camp. That he was a white man, and the real leader of the Redskin Rovers, Buffalo Bill was sure as soon as he saw him; but he was dressed as an Indian, and his hands and face were so covered with paint that one not closely attentive would have been sure he was an Indian.