In that motte, there on the wild plain, few cared to seek sleep, with the dead and wounded everywhere around them. General Canton and his officers still sat around the camp fire, though midnight had come and gone. Presently the sound of rapidly advancing hoofbeats was heard, the sentinel challenged, and the answer came in the stern, deep voice of the scout. The next instant he dashed up to the fire, accompanied by the negro, Buttermilk, the servant of Ricardo. Another man was with him, and this man was none other than Alfred Carter, who had followed on, hoping to be in the fight against the outlaws. Alfred Carter was wild in his rage against Ricardo and the outlaws. “Thank God! you have come, Cody. We feared danger had befallen you,” cried the general. “No, sir; I took the trail of this negro, and I caught him. Where is the body of Ricardo?” “Lying where he fell, I suppose.” Walking hastily away into the timber, the scout soon hailed: “Send me a few men; the chief is not dead.” A few minutes more, and half a dozen troopers approached the fire, bearing between them the wounded form of Ricardo, the chief of the Brotherhood. “Gently, men, gently; do you not hear his groans, and he is no man to cry out at trifles. Lay him there,” said Buffalo Bill, and around the wounded chieftain gathered General Canton, the scout, Captain la Clyde, the negro Buttermilk, Alfred Carter, and several others. “Ricardo Carter, for that is your real name, do you know that you are dying?” suddenly asked Alfred Carter, in an earnest tone. “Yes, my sands of life are ebbing out rapidly; but who are you that calls my name--a name that has been dead to sound for long, long years?” replied the chief, speaking with difficulty. “I will tell you, and you must say whether I speak true or not.” “I am listening; hasten, for death keeps back at the bidding of no man.” After a moment’s silence Alfred Carter began speaking in a low but distinct voice, plainly heard by all. “Nearly thirty years ago there were two brothers, sons of wealthy parents, living on the Missouri River. One of these brothers, in his eighteenth year, left his home to serve in the army of his country.” Ricardo started up, staring; then, it seemed, for the first time he recognized in this man one whom he had known before. As he made this discovery he fell back with a cry of terror, but still continued to stare into the face of the man before him. “You set out to be an honest soldier, Ricardo, but, dismissed from the service, you leagued with robbers, roaming over the Western and Southwestern plains for years, until at length you became the leader of the Branded Brotherhood. Have I truly told your life, Ricardo?” “You know all,” sadly replied the chief, “and you are my brother! And I would have killed you. How did you discover me?”