Pinkney brought out their saddles and bridles. Bear Paw and old Hide-rack seemed surprised at the sudden getaway. Probably, in their brute minds, they had been expecting an all-night stay in the comfortable corral. “It beats the nation,” remarked the scout, when he and his old pard were galloping along the trail, “what beastly luck comes Nate Dunbar’s way.” “Some fellers,” commented old Nomad, “tumbles inter bad luck jest as nacherly as some others tumbles inter good. Nate’s shore gittin’ his share o’ misfortun’s hyar on ther Brazos.” “And to have this happen,” frowned the scout, “just when we were having such good success as peace commissioners!” “Ain’t thet allers ther way?” answered the trapper. “Did we ever start out ter do a sartin thing thet some other thing didn’t butt in on us? Thet sorter bizness comes so frequent, Buffler, et ort ter be expected. But, say!” “Well?” “Sarcumstances does look mighty bad for Nate, huh?” “Yes.” “Ef Red Steve hes got er hoss, an’ er saddle, an’ a wad o’ dinero, he won’t hang eround ther Brazos. He’ll git ter whar he kain’t be found. Then, ef he does thet, how aire we goin’ ter prove it was him, an’ not Nate, as done ther trick fer Jake Phelps?” “It’s a hard proposition we’re facing,” said the scout gloomily. “But Nate may be able to prove an alibi.” “How?” “Oh, in a dozen ways. Suppose he met some one riding his way? That man might give information that would clear Nate. We’ve got Nate’s side of this to hear yet. Just now, it looks as though he and Lige Benner would have to work shoulder to shoulder.” “Fer why?” “Why, because Benner will be suspected of complicity in what happened to Ace Hawkins, same as Nate will be suspected in the matter of Jake Phelps. The capture of Red Steve will help out both of them.” “Thet’s so. A good head is a heap better fer a feller, any time, than a pair of guns. Let’s don’t fergit thet Pard Hickok is camped on Red Steve’s trail. Mebby Hickok hes got hands on Red Steve by this time.” “I’m hoping he has had some success.” The scout pointed to a rapidly approaching cloud of dust in advance of him and Nomad. “Some one coming this way,” said he. As the rider approached, and the faint wind whipped the dust aside, the pards made out that it was Sim Pierce. “Sim’s in somethin’ of er hurry,” muttered Nomad. “What d’ye reckon he’s got on his mind?” “We’ll know in a few moments,” answered the scout grimly. As Sim Pierce’s horse came nose to nose with Bear Paw and Hide-rack, Sim drew to a halt. “This here’s luck an’ no mistake!” exclaimed Sim. “What’s the matter, Pierce?” “I was pikin’ fer Hackamore ter find ye, Buffler Bill. Findin’ ye on the trail this-a-way saves considerable time.” “What have you to tell me?” “A hull lot. I don’t know principally whar ter begin.” “How about Jake?” “He’s in bad shape, but he ain’t cashed in. They’re took him on ter the ranch.” “What does the doctor think?”