“Now jist go with us ter Deadshot Dean, and he’ll say it’s all right.” “Where is he?” “Up ther cañon thar. We’ll show yer.” “Look here, Deadshot Dean went East weeks ago, and you cannot play any bluff game on me.” “I tells yer ther truth.” “You couldn’t tell the truth, either one of you, except by accident. No, I am going to Pocket City, and you go with me. I caught you breaking into the cabin of an absent miner, and I shall so report to the miners and give you up to them.” “They’ll hang us.” “That is your misfortune, not my fault.” “And we so innercent,” whined one. “See here, Buffalo Bill, we don’t want ter hand in our chips no more than you does, so if yer plays quits with us we’ll divvy.” “What will you divide?” “I’ve got nigh a thousand in money here with me, and Jerry have got about half as much, so you kin hev all if yer’ll let us go.” “Yes, all of fifteen hundred dollars.” “Well, it is more money than I make in a year with chief of scouts’ pay, but if it was ten times as much, you could not bribe me to do a mean act. I know you are two scamps, and as I caught you house-breaking, I’ll so report your acts. Come, you go with me. Stand close up behind this man, sir.” “Tom, we is goners.” “Dead sart’in, Jerry.” Having placed the men at close step, Buffalo Bill buckled their belts together, and fastened them about their waists. “I’ll carry ther weapons, Buffalo Bill.” “No, thank you, Jerry, I can do so,” was the smiling reply. Shouldering the ax and iron bar the two men had brought with them, and sticking their weapons in his belt, until he looked like a walking arsenal, Buffalo Bill made his prisoners march down the hill before him. There he found his horse, and, mounting, ordered the men to face toward Pocket City and march. They did so with low curses and whines. It was just before sunset, as they passed Hangman’s Gulch, and they glanced up into the dark recesses of the cañon, with many a misgiving that they would soon be more intimately acquainted with the weird and dreaded spot. Just as twilight was falling, the scout heard the supper-horn of the Frying Pan Hotel, and from that moment a stream of humanity began to pour out of the mines and cabins, and flow toward the rendezvous of the miners on every night. They quickly caught sight of Buffalo Bill, whose handsome face and form were seldom seen in Yellow Dust Valley, and, beholding his prisoners, they began to call out, in many an odd question, as to what it meant. “Ho, Tom and Jerry, what’s up?” “Ain’t thet Buf’ler Bill?” “What has yer got ’em in limbo fer, pard?” “Has they been robbin’ a hen-roost?” “Say, pard, what has they been up ter?” “Is yer goin’ ter hang ’em?” “They’ll be no loss.” “How did yer git yer foot inter it, Tom and Jerry?” Such questions flowed too fast for replies, and, though the scout remained silent, the two prisoners tried to explain, but were constantly cut off by fresh questions. At last a commanding voice said: