Once Buffalo Bill believed he had trailed the fellow right to the edge of Iron Bow’s Ute village, and entered the village to make inquiries. But if Benson had sought concealment there, the Utes would not give up the secret. At last the chase was given over, and the scout and his party returned to camp. “Waal, we’ve bagged one o’ the scoundrels, anyhow,” Nomad comforted himself by saying. It was true enough--Juniper Joe was in jail in Blossom Range. The woman was being held, too, for she would be needed as a witness against him. They called on Juniper Joe on their return to the town; but he was in a sullen mood, and would not talk. “If I’ve done all the things you say I have, I must be mighty clever,” he said to them; then a twinkle came into the corners of his eyes. It made Nomad laugh. He laughed again, when they came out of the jail. “Waugh!” he gurgled. “Whenever I want ter tickle myself half ter death, I’m jest goin’ ter whisper, ‘Juniper Joe’s jubilee.’ But what yer goin’ ter do, Buffler? Let Benson go by the board?” “No,” replied the scout with determination. “I am going to get Benson, and make a clean round up.” That night a tall man with a blonde mustache and long hair was closeted for a long time with Buffalo Bill in the latter’s room at the Eagle House. He came to the Eagle House late at night, and he went away before morning. With the exception of the scout himself, no one saw him come and no one saw him go. Not a servant, not even the night clerk, knew that he had been there. Sunrise saw him occupying the cabin on top of a hill called Folly Mountain, just north of the town. A tenderfoot had built the cabin, worked furiously for a month in the prospect hole behind it, without taking out enough gold to pay even the blacksmith for sharpening his picks, and was ready to sell out. The tall man made him an offer for the cabin and the mine; then the tenderfoot moved out, and the man with the blond hair took possession. The first thing apprising Blossom Range of this change of ownership was the small United States flag flying from the pole in front of the house. The stranger had changed the slender aspen growing there from a tree into a flagstaff, and hoisted Old Glory. Blossom Range knew then that the tenderfoot had either moved out or gone crazy. His habits had been too penurious to admit of the suggestion that he could have bought the flag, and it was not in keeping with his character that he would have flung it to the breeze if he had owned one. The smoke floating from the rusted stovepipe in the lean-to which, backed against the hill, served as kitchen, suggested that whoever had hoisted the flag was now getting breakfast. The hour was early, yet curiosity was sufficient warrant for sending a number of men to the cabin to investigate.