“They must have known long ago at the station that something has happened to Dick Lightfoot; I should think they would search for him. If that man on horseback had not carried a light and locked his lips, I could believe that was his business, but he is acting in a way I don’t understand.” Venus held her proper place among the other brilliant orbs overhead, and the lusty youth swung off vigorously, determined to keep at it without further stop, provided nothing unusual checked him. Surely that was another light which he caught a long way ahead. A second glance revealed that it was not of the nature of the last. The glow was unwavering. It must be the big camp fire of a wagon train. Though certain on this point, Alden would not have turned aside, but the camp lay almost directly in front and he would soon come to it. He decided to stop long enough to learn how far away the station was. If he had gone astray and the distance was far, he would rest, for he needed it, but if the interval was not great he would press on. His first supposition proved right. In less than half an hour, he came up to a circle of white-topped Conestogas, in the midst of which a huge fire was blazing. Although it was not late, the evening meal had been eaten, and most of the tired travelers had withdrawn into the wagons and were asleep. Sentinels of course were placed, and Alden was challenged as he came out of the darkness. His response was satisfactory, and he walked between two of the lumbering vehicles to the cheerful blaze, around which half a dozen men were seated on the ground, smoking and talking together. All looked up as he came forward and bade them good evening. His appearance was interesting, for he was on foot, carried no rifle, but had a couple of mail pouches slung over his shoulders. He flung them to the ground with a sigh of relief, looked around and laughed as he exclaimed: “I’m glad to get rid of them for awhile.” A tall, bearded man rose to his feet and walked toward him. He asked in surprise: “What are you doing with the United States mail?” “Trying to reach the station.” “You are not the regular carrier.” “The Indians got him; he was killed a long way back, beyond the other station.” “Where is his pony?” “I left him at the station, mounted another, that gave me the slip, was shot by Indians and I have made the rest of the way on foot.” “Well, you _are_ a hero!” was the admiring comment. “Not by any means; any one could have done as well.” The youth now looked more searchingly at the speaker, whose voice had a familiar sound. To his astonishment, he recognized him as Garret Chadwick, uncle of Ross Brandley. Alden at last had overtaken the other train, and would meet the combative youth for whom he had looked in vain throughout the past weeks.