He was on the point of wheeling and dashing off, with no clear idea of the direction to take, when another report rang out. It was that of a rifle, whose bullet went straight to the seat of life. With a snarling growl, the bear reared on his hind legs and clawed at the wounds made by the revolver bullets, as if he thought they were splinters which he tried to pluck out. It was the rifle ball that settled the business. He sagged over on his side, struck and kicked for a few seconds and then the prodigious carcass lay still, for he was as dead as Julius Cæsar. From the same direction that the bear had come, advanced a Pony Express Rider, with smoking rifle in hand. He had arrived in the nick of time and could not have asked a fairer target than that presented by the brute. The man, however, did not know whom he had saved, until Alden Payne came from behind the boulder and confronted him. Then he reined up and looked wonderingly at the youth. “Who the mischief are you?” he asked, as Alden appeared. “A young fellow in need of the help you gave.” “How comes it you’re on foot and in this fix?” Alden hastily explained. “So Dick Lightfoot’s dead, eh? Too bad; where did you leave him?” “Two or three miles back; he was shot from his pony by an Indian arrow.” “Where’s his pony?” “He made off when I sprang from the saddle and hid here.” “Umph! never run from a bear like that.” “I never met a grizzly before.” “And you didn’t meet one this time: only an ordinary black bear. Why didn’t you use your rifle?” asked the rider, with a glance at the weapon on the ground. “My bullets don’t fit.” The horseman scrutinized the gun. “Why it’s Dick’s; you didn’t think to take his bullets; I can let you have a few; you may need ’em before you reach the station.” He deftly extracted a half dozen which he passed to the grateful Alden. “Don’t lose any time in reloading, which reminds me.” And he proceeded to recharge his own weapon. During this brief chat, it struck Alden that the man resembled in looks and voice the rider who lay on the ground several miles away. The alert manner and crisp way of speaking were the same. “You are about the weight of Lightfoot and have much his appearance.” “Umph! I ought to; I’m his brother.” He snatched out a small watch and glanced at it. “I’ll be hanged! I’ve lost six minutes; I must be off; bye-bye.” He touched the flanks of his pony with his spurs, and the animal bounded away at full speed. Almost immediately he disappeared. To put it mildly, Alden Payne was surprised. Here was a man who received the news of his brother’s death without a sign of emotion, and yet doubtless he felt it deeply. But it was all a part of the game. The living brother might pass over the Great Divide in a brief while and join the other. Such was the life of the Pony Express Rider.