“You’ve got me, old man,” said Buffalo Bill easily. “Guess again.” “Don’t play with me, Cody, or I’ll have your life.” “What’s the use of shooting me if you’re not going to make anything out of it?” demanded the scout calmly. “I am determined to have that paymaster’s chest.” “Oh, sho! _that’s_ your game, is it?” “It is.” “And you think I’ve got it?” “I _know_ it’s on this stage-coach.” “Come, now, what’ll you bet?” drawled Cody easily. “What are you waiting for, Cody?” demanded the outlaw angrily. “I know you’ve got it. Shell out!” “You know a lot, Bennett.” “I know the gold is there.” “You’re mistaken.” “I am not. I had a friend who saw it put on board. You’ve got it, and I intend to possess it.” “Go ahead and possess,” drawled the scout. “Don’t you trifle with me, Cody! I know you wouldn’t have been put up to drive this old hearse if the soldiers’ money was not aboard.” “Say! you know a whole lot, Bennett. D’ye mind if I smoke?” “Keep your hands up!” roared Bennett; “or I’ll puncture you!” “Thanks! You needn’t be so gruff about it. Didn’t know tobacco smoke was so offensive to you.” “Hand down that box before I count three, or you’re a dead man!” commanded the robber with deadly significance. “You keep well posted, Bennett; but you’re behind time on this run.” “What do you mean?” asked the startled road-agent, beginning to suspect that Buffalo Bill’s ease of manner masked some high card in the game. “The coach has already been robbed.” “You lie!” Buffalo Bill’s brows met in a sudden frown. “You’ve got the drop on me, Bennett, or you’d never question my word aloud.” “You _do_ lie.” “Open the coach door and look for yourself.” “Not for Joe! I’m no spring chicken, Cody,” laughed the outlaw. “Set a trap for us, have you? Men! fire through that coach--low down.” Half a dozen or more rifles blazed away. The bullets shattered the sashes of the coach doors and went through and through the vehicle. “Scared at nothing, are you?” taunted Buffalo Bill. “If I’d come up behind you on a dark night and hollered ‘Boo!’ I suppose you’d all run.” “Men! if he moves, kill him!” commanded the exasperated Bennett, and he stepped forward and flung open the coach door. Even Boyd Bennett started at what he beheld there. “The devil! what does this mean, Cody?” “Injuns.” “How did you escape?” “Wasn’t with the coach.” “And the treasure-box?” “Look for yourself.” “The Indians got it?” “Whether they did or did not, you lose the game, Bennett,” said Buffalo Bill, laughing with an appearance of heartiness which he did not feel. “I don’t believe they got it!” cried Bennett, in rage. “Well, you can run along and ask ’em. They’re not over a dozen miles away, I reckon.” The countenance of Boyd Bennett grew black with passion, and for a moment he was silent, while into his eyes crept an expression of devilish intent. Then he spoke, and his words hissed from a throat hot with passion: