Buffalo Bill, Wild Bill, and Jordan hurriedly answered the clerk’s summons. In the dim, ghostly light of coming day a weary horse could be seen with drooping head over the pole. A man was hanging to the saddle--bound to the horn and cantle by a rope. His arms hung limply, and his head was bowed over on the horse’s neck. “Who is it?” demanded the scout. “Pass the ante,” the clerk answered. “The hoss must hev come up hyer while I was at the c’ral. The man’s tied in the saddle. By jings, he’s shot an’ past talkin’! It’s--it’s one o’ Benner’s men. It’s Ace Hawkins.” The sky pilot and Wild Bill both started hastily forward. CHAPTER XX. IN A GOOD CAUSE. The limp form in the saddle was untied and carried into the hotel. The clerk proffered the use of a room--the same room in which Dunbar had talked with Isaacs--and Hawkins was borne in there and laid down on the bed. A doctor was sent for. “He’s got his gruel, that’s my opinion,” announced Wild Bill, surveying a wound in Hawkins’ breast. “This,” said Jordan, in a voice that throbbed with deep feeling, “is my friend--the very man who came from Benner’s ranch and told me that trouble was brewing for Perry and Dunbar.” “And he’s the man, parson,” added Wild Bill, “who helped me out of Benner’s adobe house. Red Steve and his White Caps were standing guard around the house to see that I didn’t make a getaway; and it was Hawkins, here, who came down the chimney, took the ropes off me, and helped me get out and find my horse. He said he had helped me because he was a friend of yours, and that you had brought him to see where he had been going wrong. When I left Hawkins, he was just starting off with Red Steve and the other White Caps. The scoundrels must have found out he helped me to get away--and paid him for it.” Wild Bill, with sadness and regret in his face, looked down on the unconscious man. “It was in a good cause, a good cause,” murmured the sky pilot. “Although a brand snatched from the burning, yet Ace Hawkins is nevertheless sure of his reward.” The minister bent over and parted the tangled hair from Hawkins’ forehead; then, gently, he began chafing his temples. Buffalo Bill had laid a hand on his heart. “He’s alive yet,” said he. At that moment the doctor came. “A shooting, eh?” said he, looking down at the man on the bed with merely professional interest. “Pretty bad, but I’ll see what I can do.” The most the doctor could do was to revive Hawkins. The man opened his eyes, and stared around. “Whar’s Buffler Bill?” he asked feebly. “Here!” said the scout, pushing close to the bed. “Yer pard, Hickok----” “Here, too, Hawkins,” cut in Wild Bill, stepping to the scout’s side. Hawkins lifted a hand, and brushed it across his forehead.