The disguised man was out of sight, amid the rocks that lined the cañon, by the time the scout and the trapper reached the spot where last they had seen him. “Waugh!” Nomad roared, staring around. “Was et a man, er a woman? Anyway, ther critter hes kited.” The scout ran on, looking about, hand on ready revolver, prepared to shoot, and expecting to be shot at. The rocky sides of the cañon were bush-grown, and there were little crevices and cracks making off from it on the right and left. These were dark, and made darker by the bushes. The outlaw had all the advantage. He could lie hidden; and when he felt safe, he could climb softly up the broken and ragged cañon wall, or sneak away along the rifts. Twenty men would hardly have been enough to make a prompt and thorough exploration of the many hiding places. Buffalo Bill turned back, meeting Nomad, who had been following. “Er clean giterway!” the trapper howled. “It looks it, Nomad. But we’ll go back to the stage and see what we have there.” Instead of answering, Nomad whirled as if on a pivot, swinging his revolver round, and sent a shot plunging and roaring into one of the side gorges. At the same time he followed the shot by rushing into the place. “Did you see him?” Buffalo Bill called, following the trapper. “I heared him--er her!” But the sound did not come again. What was heard next was a plunging of the stage horses, then the bounding and rattling of the stage, accompanied by a roar from Hank Elmore, commanding the horses to stop. “I reckon ther hosses hez tuck et inter their heads ter make a break, too,” commented the trapper. He and Buffalo Bill rushed into the gorge, searching for the author of the sound they had heard. But they unearthed nothing, and by and by came out. “We might’s well give et up, Buffler,” the trapper admitted ruefully. He was in a fuming rage. “This is tough luck. Whoever thet was made a clean giterway. Looks like er trick o’ Benson’s.” Hastening back to the spot where Wild Bill and the German had been left with the stage, they found the stage gone, and those who had been with it. “This is a beastly mess!” Nomad whooped. “Even so big a thing as a stagecoach slips right through our fingers. But I reckon thet Wild Bill an’ ther baron aire chasin’ arter et.” They followed, also, hurrying at a run along the trail. When they came out of the cañon they saw the stage and horses a quarter of a mile away. The German and Wild Bill had apparently overtaken the stage, and then had turned back, for they were coming toward the cañon. The stage driver, after wrapping the lines round a tree by the trail, came also toward the cañon, hastening to overtake the man from Laramie. “Might’s well wait fer ’em ter git hyer,” suggested Nomad. “I’m plum winded. But ef we war follerin’ Benson, ther kyote got away.” “I believe it was Benson, in spite of the woman’s clothing. Circumstances suggest it.” “And Wild Bill said thet et war him.”