Looking toward the lower end of the small flat upon which he was located, he saw, as he expected, a cabin on fire. The crack! crack! of a rifle greeted his ears as he was on the point of starting for the cabin. What did all these shots mean? Was the fire the work of an incendiary, and had murder been added to arson? Bart Angell, hunter, scout, and Indian fighter, as brave a man as ever stood six feet two without boots, compressed his lips tightly, and into his sharp, homely, honest face there crept an expression of grim resolution. Rifle in hand, he started on a run for the burning cabin, and was about halfway to the spot when he caught sight of a man, a stranger, running from the fire and toward the brush at the outlet of a ravine. Crack! went Angell’s rifle, and the runner, with an unearthly scream, fell to the ground. The cabin was in ruins as the scout passed it to reach the form of the man he had shot. He was near the victim, who was lying on his face, when he heard a faint voice calling him from the bushes on his right. He stopped, said loudly, “Who’s that?” and, receiving no answer, walked quickly toward the place whence the voice had come. The light was still strong enough for Angell to see about him, and he was near the bushes when he saw a section of the buckskin habiliments of a man who was lying on the ground. “That you, Bart?” asked a faint voice, as the scout reached the bushes. “Great Cæsar’s ghost!” ejaculated Angell, as his eyes rested on the face of the prostrate man in buckskin. “Buffalo Bill!” The king of scouts tried to rise, but the effort was a failure. “I—I am all right, Bart,” he said, with an attempt at a smile. “Lost blood that I need in my business, that’s all.” Angell quickly made an examination of Buffalo Bill’s hurt. He had been shot in the side, and it was impossible then to tell how serious was the injury. But after the wound had been washed and bandaged and a generous stimulant had been administered, the king of scouts diagnosed his case, and, as it proved, correctly. “The bullet did not go straight into my anatomy, Bart. That’s a cinch.” He felt along his side. “It struck a rib, glanced and shot upward. I can feel it under the skin near the armpit.” “Then I’ll purceed ter seperate it from yer person, old son,” remarked Angell, and with his hunting knife he deftly performed this bit of surgery. The operation over, he said: “I’ve shore got ter ask yer ter excuse me fer a few minutes. Thar’s a measly rickaroon at the edge of ther flat that is claimin’ my attention.” “Come to remember, I did hear your Peter Erastus speak just before I called to you, Bart. Did you bring down your man?” The homely scout snorted. “Do I know how ter shoot? Buffalo, I’m ashamed on ye.” With these words he walked away, and was soon bending over the form of his victim. The man was not dead, but the end was not far off.