“Apparently, unless we are all off in our guesses, he came out here to bury the stuff the baron saw him have,” suggested the scout; “then some one, seeing him with it, shot him, got away with the gold, and hid the body here.” Instead of starting off to town, Nomad began to circle round, to see what he could discover. In a few seconds he let out a cry. “Hyer’s er trail, Buffler!” When the scout examined it, he found tracks somewhat larger than those they had been following. They plunged into some bushes off on the right, went on a few yards, then swung round in the direction of Blossom Range. “Hikin’ back fer home, _he_ was!” said the trapper. “What does yer make o’ thet, Buffler?” “The tracks of the murderer, without a doubt. After he covered up the grave, he was in too big a hurry to thoroughly hide his tracks here; though you can see that he was trying to step softly. If he doesn’t take to rocky land, we can probably follow this until the streets of the town are at least reached. He is back there by this time, of course, if he went right along; and there can be no trailing of him in the streets.” “Somebody might ’a’ seen him, though, when he went inter the town,” Nomad suggested. “You stay right hyar with ther baron, by ther body. I’ll foller these tracks, on my way ter town, and see ef I kin make anything of ’em. You’ll find me back hyar ’fore ye know et.” The wiry old trapper set off at a sharp jog trot, following the trail of the supposed murderer; and was soon out of sight. The German, still weak from his wound, though excitement now flushed his face, dropped down on the sand a few yards from the body. Buffalo Bill placed his handkerchief over the face of the dead man; then took a seat beside the baron. “Vale, vot do you make uff idt?” the baron asked. “What do _you_ make of it?” “Noddings. I am as mixed oop as a cotton pall vot der pussy cats haf peen blaying mit.” He breathed heavily. “You see how idt iss. Ve manufacdure der t’eory dot Shackson Dane he has gone to der capin uff Yuniper Yoe unt ropped him, unt dot he vos oudt here drying to hide der goldt he got py doing so-o. Dot may sdill pe der troot’. Yidt der t’ought vot game py me, vhen I seen der poty, iss dot Yuniper Yoe haf follered him unt kilt him; budt idt tond’t holdt vater. Vor you see, Yuniper Yoe he gand’t pe here unt at der same dime at der capin daking care uff his voundedt vifes. So-o.” He puffed out his cheeks, and his eyes stared, as he struggled with this knotty problem. “Unt uff Shackson Dane he iss Dim Penson, unt--Ach! I gif idt oop! You say somedings.” “Jackson Dane, or Tim Benson; the fellow is dead.” “Dot iss too blain to sbeak apoudt.” “And he said that Juniper Joe would kill him on sight.” “Yaw.” “Is there any one else he would have been afraid of?” The German jumped as if a bee had stung him. “What is it?” “An itea haf hidt me.” “Out with it, then.” “You rememper dot vomans py der Casino in?” “Vera Bright?”