Buffalo Bill sighed. “I would have prevented the murder if the fiend had not surprised us. I was shot just before Holmes made for the door.” As he spoke, the king of scouts noticed that Angell had his hand behind his back. “Found something, Bart?” he said quietly. “Trot it out.” Angell brought to view a white handkerchief. He had found it near the body of the murdered man. The king of scouts took the handkerchief and examined it carefully. In one corner was a Chinese laundry mark. “I am not a detective, Bart,” said Buffalo Bill, as he scrutinized the mark, “or I might trace this wipe to its owner.” “It would be a hard job”—with a shake of the head—“fer ther nearest chink joint is in Denver. Hold yer horses,” he added suddenly. “I’m clean off my base. Thar’s one in Taos. It shore opened up six months ago. I war in ther town when ther chink piked in from Austin. I’ll bet a quirt ther rag came from Taos.” Buffalo Bill put the handkerchief into his breast pocket. “I’ll try Taos if I don’t make the riffle in these mountains. The evidence I want may be on the body of the man you killed. Go back again and search the pockets. Bring everything here.” Angell went away for the second time, and when he returned he brought a purse containing a few dollars in silver, a knife, a revolver, a plug of tobacco, and a match box with the initials “T. D.” engraved upon an oval. The king of scouts was disappointed. The match box was the only clew to the identity of the dead man, and even it might prove valueless. The initials might belong to somebody else. The box might have been found or stolen. “Do you know any one whose name will fit these initials?” he asked. “Lemme think,” replied Angell, as he stroked his chin. “It’s more’n likely that it stands fer Tom. As fer ‘D’—jumpin’ Jehosophat! Ther galoot is Tom Darke; Lanky Tom, that ther sheriff of Santa Fe was achin’ ter catch when I war down that way three months ago. I seen ther bills describin’ ther critter, an’ thar’s no mistook about it.” “I reckon you’re right,” returned Buffalo Bill quietly. “I remember the case. Darke was implicated in a dastardly murder. He was the tool, not the principal. Jared Holmes, a merchant of Santa Fe, was assassinated at his home. It was after dark, and he was sitting in front of an open window. A shot was fired from without, and the bullet entered his brain. A man answering the description of Tom Darke was seen running away from the house; there was other circumstantial evidence connecting him with the crime, and so the officers tried to overhaul him.” Bart Angell nodded. “Tom war a tinhorn gambler, and ther sheriff told me that, onct whilst how-come-ye-so, Tom let out ter a feller he war drinkin’ with that he war workin’ fer a boss that war shore comin’ in fer all kinds of money.”