The forks of the trail were in sight. A group of riders were in plain view. “A trap, eh?” jeered the doctor. “Why, Hattie Dunbar is one of that outfit. Not afraid of Mrs. Dunbar, are you, Bloom? And there’s Lige Benner, too, on my soul!! Why, you’re old friends of Benner’s, both of you. If he can be riding in peace and amity with Mr. and Mrs. Dunbar and Perry, you fellows ought not to object. And is that Sim Pierce? It is. Sim’s everybody’s friend. Old Nomad is with the lot, and the little Piute Indian. What’s to be feared from that trap, Bloom?” The sheriff swore under his breath. He had no logical answer ready. “How much farther have we got to go from the forks?” demanded Phelps of the scout. “About a mile.” “Ride on, Hank,” urged the doctor. “The quicker we ride, the quicker we’ll be going back to the H-P ranch and Jake. Don’t waste time like this.” Phelps rattled his spurs and made off. Bloom rushed on beside him. “Waugh!” yelled the old trapper, waving his hat as those from the H-P ranch came up; “blamed ef ye didn’t do ther trick. Got Sawbones, too, an’ our friend, the sheriff. Whoop!” There were no greetings exchanged between Phelps, Bloom and the other party. The doctor was gay and civil with all, and especially with Mrs. Dunbar. “Now, then, amigos,” called the scout, “follow my lead. It won’t be long before you get developments.” The scout set the pace, and behind him came the strangely assorted party. The course carried the riders along that part of the trail which the scout and the trapper had covered on the preceding day when riding to Hackamore. They galloped around the base of the hill, on for a hundred yards, then swerved to pass into a gully between two uplifts. “I wonder whatever we’re comin’ in hyar fer?” muttered Nomad. “Ef I had ther sense of er locoed steer, mebbyso I could figger out which way the wind lies. But I kain’t. I’ll hev ter wait till somebody drors a diagram, an’ explains in words o’ one syllable.” A little way through the gully the party came upon a ruinous adobe shack. In front of the door stood Wild Bill Hickok. “Hello!” called Hickok. “You’re bringing quite a party, Pard Cody. Come in.” “Are we in time?” asked the scout. “Just about,” was the answer. “Dismount, friends,” said Buffalo Bill. “Little Cayuse will take care of the horses while we’re in the ’dobe.” CHAPTER XXIX. RED STEVE. The surprises began for old Nomad with this unexpected meeting with Wild Bill. “How’d ye know Hickok was hyar, Buffler?” the trapper asked, as the party moved in the direction of the adobe. “Wild Bill came to the Star-A ranch last night,” answered the scout, “and I went away with him.” “Waugh! So ye was with Wild Bill when ye was absent from the ranch, hey? Has he diskivered somethin’?” “He has.” “Whar’s ther baron?” “We’ll see the baron later, Nick.” The adobe shack had long been abandoned. It was scarcely more than a shelter at best.