As they drew nearer they were recognized, and such a shout of welcome went up as was never heard before in the Hale settlement. Then Captain Dash rode toward them and shouted: “Bravo! bravo! Buffalo Bill, you’re a man of men and have saved us trouble, for we just returned victorious from the bandits’ camp, and the judge told us of Mary’s capture!” “The judge! Is my father living?” gasped Mary. “He is, indeed; the bullet grazed his head, and stunned him only; see, here he comes to greet you.” The next moment the girl was in her father’s arms. Then the girl told her story, and Buffalo Bill told his, and, as the Revolver Riders had wiped out the band of outlaws, there was wild rejoicing in the valley. * * * * * The papers taken from Mathew Kingsland gave to Judge Hale and Mary their fortune, for the witnesses were looked up, and the money was found to be deposited in the banks, subject to the order of the heirs of the deceased miner. With Kenton Kingsland dead, Captain Dash’s trail of hatred ended in the grave, and the loving sister, whom the Gambler Guide had falsely married, and who had died of a broken heart, was avenged. But the young Texan, Dudley Dashwood, struck a trail that had a happier ending, for it led him to the altar, with sweet Mary Hale for his “pard.” Buffalo Bill was his best man, while Ben Tabor, Seven-foot Harry, Old Negotiate, and hosts of others went East to attend the wedding of their loved leader. Soon afterward Buffalo Bill departed for the Black Hills, in Dakota, where he was destined to pass through many strange adventures. CHAPTER XXII. THE RED RIGHT HAND. A singular-looking man, dressed as a Western hunter, stood alone in a gorge in the depths of the Black Hills. On the hat that covered his handsome, well-shaped head was a large pin of red coral, shaped like a human hand. The right hand of the hunter, which rested now on his rifle, was blood-red in color, thus resembling the coral hand pinned to the side of his hat. These two things gave him the name by which he was known--Red Hand, the scout. As he stood thus, a deer leaped into view, and behind it came a man. The man’s rifle cracked, and the deer fell. Then the hunter’s rifle sounded, almost as if it were an echo, and the man who had shot the deer fell dead on the grass. With rapid strides the man of the red right hand advanced and stood over the prostrate form of the man he had slain. Into his face crept a look that was hard to fathom, for it held hatred, sorrow, triumph, and remorse, all commingled.