The scout’s spurs rattled and Bear Paw galloped clear of the scrub and down the slope leading to the ranch houses. A little distance from Phelps’ private quarters the scout passed a group of cowboys, lounging in the shade of a tree. There were four in the group, and they were reclining lazily and smoking and gossiping. Evidently they were visitors. There were five saddle horses secured to the hitching-pole, and this left one visitor to be accounted for. Probably, ran the scout’s thought, the missing visitor was in the cabin with Phelps. The loafing cattlemen gave the scout keen attention as he loped past. Even though his name was unknown, yet he was a figure to command attention anywhere. The magnificent black war horse, without a peer for looks, mettle and speed, backed by the lithe, athletic form that swayed in perfect unison with the black’s movements, offered a picture not easily forgotten. The cowboys sat up and stared. The scout waved a hand at them in friendly wise, slowed pace at the hitching-pole and dismounted. Quickly he buckled his reins about the pole, moved to the open door of the cabin and, unannounced, stepped inside. A volley of savage oaths greeted his appearance. Calmly he leaned against the wall and took the measure of the situation. He was in a room, a big room, whose floor was littered with catamount and wolf skins. The furniture, although of the pioneer variety, was comfortable and somewhat pretentious. There were three men in the room. The one that commanded most of the scout’s attention was, to use a colloquial term, “buck-and-gagged;” that is, he was trussed up in a manner as uncomfortable as it was effective. He was sitting on the floor, knees hunched up to his chin and his hands lashed around his knees. Under his knees and over his arms ran a piece of stick. This man, it was clear, was a prisoner. The scout guessed that it was Dick Perry. Perry, if that was really the man’s name, was middle-aged, and well dressed--considering the clothes worn in that part of the country. He wore a blue shirt and his trousers were tucked into the tops of knee boots. On the floor beside him lay a broad-brimmed hat. Hope flickered in his eyes as they rested on the scout--hope, and a wild appeal. The other two men in the room were the spectacular persons already encountered by Wild Bill in the street of Hackamore--the baron in black and the baron in haciendado regalia. The barons, the scout saw at a glance, had been indulging rather too freely in liquor. They had exploded their oaths and leaped from their chairs, but they were none too steady on their feet. “What’re you doing here?” demanded the man in the greaser costume. “I have just happened in for a little call,” answered the scout. “Then happen out again. This ain’t my day for callers.” “You seem to have a few, nevertheless.” The scout went over towards the barons and calmly took a chair.