Upon the rocky ledge, in front of the cabin, the moonlight streamed with almost noonday brilliancy, and lighted up a strange scene. Lying upon the rock was the hermit chief, his long gray beard and hair shining like silver in the moonlight, and his broad chest heaving with every hard-drawn breath--for the hermit had received his death wound. Standing near was Kansas King, a bloodstain upon his forehead, from a wound made by the butt of the scout’s pistol. The face of the hermit was pallid with pain and some inward emotion of bitterness. The face of the man whose deeds had won him the name of Kansas King was still unmoved and reckless. In front of these men stood Buffalo Bill and Red Hand. Red Hand was slightly in advance, and he was speaking, while his deep voice was stern and almost cruel in tone. He was saying: “Carter Bainbridge, you have but a short time to live. Before your soul takes its flight, I would have you speak, if the story I am now about to relate is not true in every word.” After a moment, the hermit replied: “Hell has certainly aided you, Vincent Vernon, in letting your hand take my life; tell all you wish to, for I care not now--no, not now--ha! here comes Pearl.” At that moment the girl rushed from the cabin, and, beholding the strange scene and the hermit lying wounded upon the rock, cried: “Father, my father! Are you dying?” Quickly Red Hand stepped forward, and, restraining her, said: “My dear girl, this man is not your father--waste not your pity on him.” “Not my father! Oh, surely you are----” “He tells the truth, Pearl; I am not your father. Listen and he will tell you all.” The hermit spoke with difficulty. “Yes, I tell the truth, as you shall all hear,” said Red Hand. “Many years ago, in a New England State, I was living with my widowed mother; my father, a naval officer, having died when I was a mere lad. My mother had wealth, and, being youthful and handsome, had many admirers. “When I was fifteen years of age I first saw this man--Carter Bainbridge--known to you all as the Hermit of the Black Hills. This man became, as I believed, the husband of my mother. She loved him dearly, and so did I; but his was a black heart, for already he had a wife living in a Southern State--the mother of a son whom this man brought to our house after his marriage with my mother, and passed off as his nephew. “From the day of that son’s arrival, there began a plot for my mother’s and my wealth, for the pretended nephew was as bad as his professed uncle. At length I entered the navy as a midshipman, and after an absence of three years returned to find my mother dead.