Then Buffalo Bill began an investigation on his own hook to discover the author of the tragedy. Lambert, the hotel proprietor, had no idea regarding the miscreant or his object. He--Lambert--did not know that he had an enemy, and he could not imagine the object of any man in destroying his property, and at the same time taking the lives of innocent people. The scout began to suspect that he and his pards were the object of the dynamiters. “Were there any inquiries yesterday,” he suddenly asked of Lambert, “concerning the sleeping quarters of any of your guests?” The hotel man started, and then answered: “Yes; Dave Green asked me about you and your party--who you were and what rooms you had. He said he guessed he would see if he couldn’t sell you a quarter section up the valley.” “Who was with him at the time?” “Jim Price, the Indian agent.” “Did you see either of these men about town after the explosion last night?” “Yes, I saw Price, and he said Green was laid away, ossified, at the Red Tiger.” “How soon after the explosion did Price appear?” “Why, he showed up while we were trying to pull the people out of the wreck before the fire drove us away.” “Thank you,” said Buffalo Bill. “Why, you don’t suspect Jim Price of anything like that, do you?” “Oh! I thought he might prove to be a good witness if an inquiry was made,” answered the scout. In his own mind Buffalo Bill was satisfied that Price had attempted to blow the scout and his pards into eternity. So far as brave Hickok was concerned it seemed that the wretch had been successful. Buffalo Bill had succeeded better than he had expected in the beginning of the unraveling of the government’s skein of Indian difficulties. CHAPTER IV. BUFFALO BILL’S LITTLE JOKE. “Waugh! Of all ther sky-whoopin’ heifercats, that thar Hide-rack is ther plumb wust. Ther cantaknerous cuss has nigh shook ther liver clean outer my ’natomy, er rip snortin’ through ther mud all ther way f’m Virginy City. Ther pesky critter hain’t been doin’ er thing but layin’ on fat an’ a-storin’ up devilment fer more’n er month, while I been er cooperatin’ f’m er tumble down ther mounting. I say, Buffler, whar’s that onery pard, Wild Bill? I’m jest er itchin’ ter git my claw dogs outer his flipper. Whar’s Hickok?” Old Nomad, Buffalo Bill’s trapper pard had “lit” after a long lay-off to nurse the injuries received through an accident. He arrived at Bozeman the next day after the fire, and lost no time in locating the scout. “Nick, old pard, I’ve got bad news for you,” the scout answered. “The hotel was partly blown up night before last, and the section our room was in was knocked to splinters. Hickok was in the room asleep at the time, or at least we left him there, and he has not been seen since. The ruins have not cooled sufficiently so that we can find the body.”