“Have you any property in this hangout, Nate?” he asked. “That gun you took away from Red Steve belongs to me, Buffalo Bill,” was the reply. “That’s about all I brought with me except my clothes.” “What became of your horse?” “That was left with Red Steve’s in a swale to the south of the hangout.” “Then, amigo, here’s your gun, and we’ll be going.” The scout motioned Dunbar toward the ladder. The cowboy started up. “Don’t forget what I told you to tell Benner, Steve,” cautioned the scout as he followed Dunbar. “If this outfit of cattle barons gets in my way, we’re liable to juggle the hatchet somewhat before we bury it.” As the scout stepped through the slanting door in the roof, a husky laugh floated upward from Red Steve. “What do you suppose that means?” asked Buffalo Bill of Dunbar. “Why,” was the answer, “you had Steve going, down there, an’ I reckon he feels good to see the last of you.” “You’re wide of the mark, Nate. That scoundrel knows something that he thinks will give our work the double cross. But,” the scout added grimly, “that’s a bridge we’ll cross when we get to it.” Pointing to a jagged break in the roof of the dugout, he went on: “That’s where Bear Paw broke through with his hind hoofs, rolled me out of the saddle and dropped me below. I hope the horse wasn’t hurt.” He whistled sharply. The shrill signal was answered by a loud neigh and a thump of approaching hoofs. Another moment and the gallant black was rubbing his nose against the scout’s shoulder. “I suppose, old sport,” laughed the scout, slapping Bear Paw’s neck, “that you hadn’t a notion what had become of me. That’s the queerest adventure we’ve had in some sort of a while, eh? How did you come through it, boy?” As well as he could the scout examined the horse. An exclamation of relief escaped his lips. “His shins are skinned a little,” he announced to Dunbar, “but he came through that affair a heap better than I had dared to hope. Get your horse, Nate,” he added, vaulting into the saddle, “and we’ll be touching the high places.” Dunbar started south and vanished into a shallow swale. The scout rode after him. “The horses are here, all right,” called Nate, “but I can’t locate the riding gear.” “Wasn’t it taken to the dugout?” returned the scout. “I didn’t see it in there, but--Ah,” he broke off abruptly, “here it is. I just stumbled over it.” He saddled and bridled in record time, swung a leg over his bronk and rode to the scout’s side. “Where now, Buffalo Bill?” he asked. “Take me to Perry’s ranch, Nate,” said Buffalo Bill. Impulsively Nate Dunbar reached out his hand and gave the scout’s a grateful grip.