Chapter II: Klamath John’s Message

Shortly before eight that evening, Buffalo Bill, accompanied by the fighting Irishman and by Cudjo, took his way to the river bend above the town where grew the lone poplar.

Darkness fell before they reached the spot, and they crept close up to it and went into hiding.

Leaving Flynn and Cudjo behind, with instructions as to what they were to do in the event of a pistol shot or other signal from him, the scout stole softly away, approaching Poplar Bend from the opposite direction.

The time was after eight o’clock when he came again within sight of the high bluff at the bend, and saw in the dim light at the foot of the tree a human form. No other person seemed near, and when he had determined that, the scout stood up, revolver in hand.

“Hello!” he called softly.

The man sprang to his feet and looked about.

“Hello!” he answered, after a moment of hesitation.

“Are you alone?” the scout asked.

“Yes,” the man answered, looking around, for he not only did not see Buffalo Bill, but also he was unable to locate his direction.

This deceptive manner of speaking, so that the voice seemed to come out of the air rather than from the ground, Buffalo Bill had long practiced and had found it useful.

“You are sure no one is with you, or near?”

The man stared upward, and then, stepping out from the bluff, glanced at its top.

“You’re up there, are you?”

“No, I’m off here!”

The man turned slowly around, staring.

“Is there any one with you?” the scout demanded. “A straight and true answer will save your life, perhaps, while trickery will cause me to promptly snuff out your candle.”

“Is that you, Cody?” the man asked. “I can hear you, but can’t locate you. There’s not another soul here, I swear. If that’s you, show yourself. I’ve been here three nights, and I was afraid you wouldn’t come.”

Buffalo Bill stepped out now and advanced, still closely watching out for an ambush. But the fellow was alone.

The scout saw as he came up to the man that he was young, yet he was rather heavily bearded, for he wore mustache and imperial and side whiskers that stuck out like Dundreary’s. Long hair hung down on his shoulders, after the border fashion. His clothing, too, was of border style, though somewhat exaggerated. His jacket was of buckskin, and he wore buckskin chaps, and high-heeled boots with spurs that jingled when he walked. He seemed rather a dude sort of cowboy.

“You’re Cody?” he asked, peering into the darkness as the scout came up to him.

“Yes.”

“Well, I’m glad to see you, for I feared you wasn’t coming. Sit down. I’m Klamath John.”

“That’s not your real name, of course,” said the scout.

“No, my real name is John Langstrath. But I call myself Klamath John.”

“Why?”

“Why do you call yourself Buffalo Bill?”

“The name was given to me. I did not take it myself. It was given to me because, when I had a contract to furnish beef to the men who were building the Union Pacific Railroad, I killed more buffaloes than any other man of the border ever killed before. It’s not a record I’m particularly proud of, though the work was necessary at the time. Now, why are you Klamath John, and what do you want with me?”

“I took the name because the town here suggested it,” was the man’s answer. “That’s the only reason. As to what I wanted—you saw the letters I left sticking on your door?”

“I saw them, but they didn’t explain anything. I wasn’t sure but they paved the way for a trap. That’s why I didn’t respond very promptly to them.”

This seemed to please Klamath John, for he chuckled.

“Why didn’t you call on me at my hotel, instead of taking that singular way to get in communication with me?” Buffalo Bill now demanded.

“I had my reasons, Cody; I wanted to test you.”

“In what manner?”

“Well, the purpose was to see if you could be aroused to a proper interest in this thing.”

“I’m in the dark, you know, as to what it is you want of me.”

“I’ll come to it right off. You remember the gruesome stick pins I used?”

“Yes. I have them with me.”

“They’re not gold, of course, but——”

“I beg your pardon, they’re pure gold!”

“What?”

“Just as I say, they’re pure gold. I had one of them tested.”

“Gr-reat governor! Is that so?” His astonishment was too natural to be assumed. “I thought they were just brass, washed over with gold,” he declared. “So they’re pure gold? Then it becomes even more interesting.”

“Just remember that I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Well, I’ll come right to it. I found the pins, and there was a letter lying with them. I’ve got it here, and I’ll show it to you in a minute. The letter is signed, ‘Red Reynard, the Fox.’”

“Ah!”

“That interests you, does it?”

“Yes, very much.”

“Just in what way?”

“I think I’ll hear your story before I say in what way such a letter interests me.”

“Well, this Red Reynard is said to be a highwayman and desperado. I’ve been trailing him. But it was luck got me that letter. It seems to have been dropped accidentally, and the pins with it.”

“You are an officer?” the scout asked.

“No, not at present.”

“You have been?”

“No.”

“Well, go on.”

“I found out, by that letter, that Red Reynard and a lot more are in the Golconda Cup, and they’ve found gold there.”

“But nobody can get into the Golconda Cup!”

“That’s what everybody thinks. But _they_ got in. And they went by the way of Lost River. Golconda Cup, you know, is supposed to be a big, wide valley, or basin, walled in by cliffs so steep and high on all sides that they can’t be scaled. It’s said that a few men have climbed to the top of the outer walls, and have looked over into the basin, but no man has ever been able to get down the inner walls; or, if he did, he was never able to climb ’em and get back to tell what he’d discovered. That’s the story.”

“Yes.”

“You’ve seen those walls?”

“I climbed to the top of them, on the south, once, a couple of years ago.”

“Jerusalem! You did? Well, I tried it, and quit soon enough. I don’t see how you did it.”

“Ropes and patience,” said the scout.

“But you couldn’t get down on the inside?”

“No. And I could see no place where any one could get down. The walls have a thousand feet drop and are as steep as the sides of a house, with not a crevice showing in them, and not a bush, nor anything that would give foothold or a place to hang a rope.”

“Yet this Red Reynard is in there now, and he and his men are taking out the gold.”

“Just a fairy story,” said the scout.

“They went in by the way of Lost River,” Klamath John continued, without heeding this comment. “It’s said that no man ever descended that river, that it runs into a black cañon, and then on into a tunnel-like hole, and then down into the very bowels of the earth. Two men were caught in it, in a canoe, and they were sucked down into the hole and never were seen again.”

“I’ve heard that.”

“You wouldn’t want to try that route?”

“I should think twice before trying it.”

“Well, I’ve been along the top wall of the cañon there, and I believe it can be done. You see, a thing not generally known is, that after the stream gets close down under the outer walls of Golconda Cup, it splits into two parts. One is Lost River, or the continuation of it, the other simply shoots through a big hole in the walls and flows into the Cup, where it’s as gentle as a mill pond.”

“But you’ve no good proof that it does?”

“I’ll show you a letter. I’ve got a candle here, which I brought for the purpose, hoping you’d come and would want to see it, and talk this thing over. Cody, you’re the man to help in this, if I can get you interested.”

Klamath John lighted his candle and produced the letter.

By the light of the candle the scout read it.

It was as follows:

“MY DEAR BAT: You can get into Golconda Cup without any
trouble, if you’ve got a little nerve and don’t scare too
easy. Take a canoe at the head of the cañon where Lost River
flows into it. Then when you get well down toward the walls
of the Cup, you’ll find where the stream branches. One of
the branches is Lost River proper, the other shoots through
a dark tunnel, and then out into the Cup, where it flows
along as quiet as you please. There’s plenty of room over
your head when you go through that tunnel, and you needn’t
be afraid.

“It’s a lucky thing for us that the entrance looks so scary,
for it keeps people out, and makes them believe that
Golconda Cup can’t be got into at all. But it’s dead easy.
Take the right fork where it branches, and you’re safe
enough.

“We’ve got a cinch down here—gold to talk about. I never saw
the like of it, the river sand is full of it, and there are
slivers to be picked up that are bigger than a toothpick.
Yesterday I got a pure nugget that was worth at least a
thousand dollars. We’re cleaning up more than a thousand
dollars a day, and some days we clean up twice that much.
But this thing wants to be kept on the strict q. t.

“I’m hiding out here, you know, and so are the other boys,
and the officers are simply up against it. They couldn’t
find us in a thousand years. For everybody believes that the
Golconda Cup can’t be got into. We got into it dead easy;
and we get in and out just as easy as we got in. I’ll show
you if you come. The gold we’re carrying to Frisco, and
stacking it in the banks there. The Frisco bankers think
we’re working in Death Valley, and we let it go at that, and
they don’t know where the gold is coming from. We let Poker
Pete take it in for us. Pete’s a shrewd guy, and they
haven’t got wise to him yet. And they’ll never get wise to
Golconda Cup. The thing is so easy I laugh whenever I think
of it.

“Crimp up your nerve, and come along.

“Your old pal,
“RED REYNARD, THE FOX.”

Buffalo Bill was surprised as much by the fact that he knew the handwriting as he was by the contents.

“What do you think of it?” said Klamath John, when he saw that the scout had finished reading.

“It’s the handwriting of Red Reynard.”

“Not a forgery?”

“No, I know his handwriting too well. I’ve got some of it right here.”

He dived into his pocket and produced a folded paper.

When he opened it, Klamath John saw that the handwriting was the same.

Thus ran the note produced by Buffalo Bill:

“DEAR BAT: Look out. Buffalo Bill is on our track. He came
near roping me in Glendive yesterday, but I threw sand in
his eyes and got away. I’m off for another and healthier
climate quick as I can go. Keep your eyes open, or you’ll be
into something hard.

“Your old pal,
“RED REYNARD, THE FOX.”

The scout spoke, while Klamath John was looking this over.

“Whoever you are, or are not, I’m willing for you to see that note, to compare it with the other,” he said. “Red Reynard knows I’ve been following him, so that it can’t hurt to tell you, or anybody.”

Klamath John looked up quickly.

“You think mebbe I’m in with that devil?”

“I don’t know anything about you, so I’ve no thoughts on the subject at present; but if you were Red Reynard himself, it would be nothing new for me to make openly the statement that I’ve been following him. He knows it already, and he has known it for a long time.”

“Yes, this note shows that.”

Klamath John laid the letter and the note side by side on his knee, and held the candle so that they could be seen and compared.

“The same handwriting,” he declared. “Cody, this proves to you that I don’t lie, not about that letter, anyhow. And I haven’t lied about anything else. I want to go into the Golconda Cup, and I want you to go with me. There’s gold there, worlds of it, and I want to see it, and mebbe handle some of it. I thought mebbe if you knowed Red Reynard was in there, you’d jump at what I’ve told you—I mean at the chance of getting in there and at him. And if what the letter says is true, and I believe it is, it will be easy to get in and dead easy to get out again.”

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