And at once the hunt for the fugitives began, many of the citizens joining in the search, for it was whispered around that Kent King, the Gambler Guide, had come in the night and kidnaped Panther Kate, and no one who knew the truth contradicted the statement. CHAPTER XIII. PARSON BRISTOW HOLDS TRUMPS. The day for the train to start on its long western trail rolled around, and all was bustle and confusion in and around Border City. Russell, Majors & Waddell were sending out a larger bull outfit, as it was called, than usual, and a quantity of beef cattle for the Western forts were to be driven along in company with it. Ben Tabor had been appointed chief herdsman, and, with his men, was very busy getting the cattle together. Buffalo Bill was to accompany the men, intending, when the train struck the South Platte, to branch off to Julesburg, from which place he was to continue his journey alone. A short while before the train pulled out from its encampment, the stage from the East rolled up to the tavern, and the driver, Bob Briggs, sung out in his cheery way: “On time, landlord, fer ther western-bound train?” “Yes, just in time, Bob; you have driven hard, and are ahead of time.” “Yas, always clever to obleege calicos and preachers, fer I hes some bound West. ’Light, parson, fer our journey hes ended right heur, an’ ef yer were a ginslinger, I’d ax yer in ter take a drink, out o’ thanks fer yer pra’ers fer me, an’ ther sweet voice o’ yer darty, though I hasn’t seen her face.” Then Bob Briggs sprang nimbly from his box and assisted down an elderly gentleman, with smooth face, long white hair, gold spectacles, a suit of clerical black, and high hat with a band of deepest mourning surrounding it. Behind this pious-looking individual came a young girl with a wealth of golden hair peeping out from beneath her nunlike headdress and heavy black veil. “This are Parson Uriah Bristow, landlord, and his darty, whom he calls Rebecca. They is goin’ West as missionaries ter convart ther red heathen from ther bernightedness. So fill ’em with provender, fer we didn’t stop fer breakfast. Then hunt ther parson up a hearse o’ some kind ter travel West with, fer he’s got ther dust ter pay fer it.” Turning to the clerical individual, Bob added in a low tone: “Won’t you hev a drink, parson, jist fer yer stomick’s sake, an’ good-fellowship?” “No; I never drink; it becometh not my cloth,” answered Uriah Bristow in a sepulchral tone. “Never rastle tanglefoot? Why, pard, yer doesn’t know what is healthy. Then hev a smoke?” “I never use the intoxicating and damning weed.” “Ther dickens! What do yer do, pard, ter make yer cheerful?” “I am never cheerful.”