He had left camp before daylight one morning, it was said, to go on a hunt. Since then he had not been seen. Though the train had halted for two days, and parties had been sent out in all directions, no trace of him had been discovered. The last to see him was Parson Bristow, who had reported that while he was throwing the earth into his daughter’s grave, the scout had joined him and aided him in his sad work, and that when he had left the timber to overtake the train, Buffalo Bill had said he would remain and hunt for game. Ben Tabor and his Texans had gone back to the timber, where was the lone grave of the young girl, and had seen the tracks of the scout and of Midnight. But they had also made a discovery which filled them with dread, for there were signs of a large party of horsemen having passed that way, and not far distant was another new-made mound. They had thrown the earth out of the grave, expecting to find the body of Buffalo Bill, but with glad hearts they saw that it was not the face of the scout. What they saw was a painted face and a form clad in Indian costume. But the paint was a disguise--beneath it was the fair skin of a white man. Farther upon the prairie, as they followed the trail of over a score of horses, they found a dead mustang, a bullet in his head. “Ther gerloot in ther hole had a wound in his head, an’ this mustang died suddint like o’ ther same disease, an’ I’m thinking thet Buffier Bill were the one as did ther shootin’.” Such had been the comment of Seven-foot Harry, and so had all agreed. They followed on the trail to the hills, where they lost it, and, with their small force dare not go farther, and gave the scout up as dead. Suddenly a hoof fall caught the ear of Mary Hale, as she thought of these things, and, glancing up, she saw a horseman approaching the cabin. Then, as she gazed, she recognized the rider, and her face flushed crimson. A moment after he dismounted, and met her upon the piazza. “Why, Captain Dash, who would have expected to see you here?” she said, in the innocent way a woman can assume in deceiving a lover, while she well knew she had expected and hoped for his coming for months. “You said I might come, Mary,” answered the captain of the Revolver Riders, in his sincere way. “Did I?” she asked archly. “Yes; have you forgotten the time when I struck your train with my Revolver Riders, and captured Kent King, the Gambler Guide?” “Oh, no, Mr. Cody led you there, and you both did me a noble service.” “Yes, noble Cody, whom some of my men report dead. I intend to start on his trail to-morrow with my men.” “I fear it will be useless, from all my father tells me,” she said sadly. “It may be useless, as far as finding him is concerned; but not to avenge him,” and his voice became deep and stern. “But you know not whom to strike as his murderers, Captain Dash.” “I do know; the man who pretended to be Parson Bristow----”