“Only one enemy to attend to,” said Wild Bill, after he had heard the story of Sybil Hayden’s adventure. “Flag-pole Jack is in the castle, but we will get to him by the way of the tunnel.” “Let him go,” urged Sybil. “You have done enough.” Wild Bill would have made reply had not one of the Indians detailed to watch the tunnel come up as the girl ceased speaking. He had a report to make, and Wild Bill looked pleased when it was made. It was short but important. Flag-pole Jack had attempted to escape through the tunnel, and had been shot and killed as he was crawling out of the long hole. “All’s well that ends well,” said the colonel joyously. The white contingent of the force that had routed the Apaches slept that night in the castle, and next morning left for the desert and the civilized places beyond. Wild Bill resigned his position as acting leader of the Yelping Crew. Colonel Hayden and his daughter went on to the military post in Wyoming. They parted with Buffalo Bill, Wild Bill, and Alkali Pete at Laramie. What was said and done at the parting left the two scouts blushing like schoolboys. “Kissed me, kissed me,” murmured the lanky plainsman, as he walked away with the king of scouts. “Didn’t she know’t I’m a married man?” “Your status as a husband cut no ice with her, Pete. It was purely a matter of generous sentiment. Tell your wife, she won’t be jealous.” “Ye don’t know her, Buffler. This aire is one o’ ther things I’ll shore keep ter myself.” There was a pleasant twinkle in his eyes as he rubbed his cheek. Upon their arrival in Laramie, Buffalo Bill received orders to proceed at once to Fort Grant. Alkali Pete elected to remain at Laramie, but Buffalo Bill and Hickok pushed on to Fort Grant, where they met with old Nick Nomad and Buffalo Bill’s Indian pard, Little Cayuse. From Fort Grant the outfit hit the trail for Skyline, where their services were needed. CHAPTER XVI. THE MAN WITH A PAST. The man who answered to the names of Tom Conover and Toltec Tom squared his drooping shoulders and stood up more sturdily on his shaking legs. “No,” he said to the man who asked him to have a drink at the bar of a cheap saloon near by, “I’ve cut it out!” The tempter laughed skeptically, and Conover lurched past, his face flushing to a deep red. It was already flushed and somewhat swollen from the effects of alcohol. High on the forehead was a scarlet nick—a three-cornered scar—extending well up into the hair. Conover pulled an old brier pipe and a handful of loose tobacco from a side pocket of his corduroy coat, filled the pipe and thumbed the tobacco down in the bowl as he went on, his hands trembling. “Yes, I’ve cut it out—for good!” he muttered. “I’ve been a fool for the past month, but I won’t be any longer. I’ll straighten up and be a man again, if I can, and then I’ll get back to God’s country. No more of this for me—I’ve had enough of it.”