“Any idee whar Buffler went?” he asked. “Not the slightest.” Nomad turned thoughtfully away. There could be little doubt but that Buffalo Bill had started for the Three-ply Mine. He had also secured the release of the baron and had taken him along. What was to be done? Just one thing--ride after the scout and the baron and overtake them before they dropped into Bascomb’s ambush. Nomad started on a rush for the hotel door. At the entrance he paused, suddenly remembering that his spurs were in his room. It would take him a few minutes to get the spurs, but it would be time well spent. “Say, pard,” said he, pausing at the counter for an instant on his way to the stairs, “call up Nickerson’s corral, will ye, an’ tell Nickerson ter git ole Nomad’s hoss under saddle, _muy pronto_. I’m in a tearin’ hurry, an’ ef ye’ll do thet much fer me, I’ll be obliged.” “Certainly, Mr. Nomad,” answered the clerk. “Glad to do it.” Nomad raced on up the stairs, pulling his key out of his pocket as he went. Unlocking the door, he flung it open and raced into the room. He did not shut the door behind him, as he had no time for any extra or unnecessary frills. His spurs were hanging from a hook in the closet, along with his war-bag. The war-bag would not be needed; and he jerked down the spurs, unbuckled the straps that held them together, and hurried to the window. Here, where the light was better, he threw up his foot on a chair and deftly affixed one of the spurs. Putting up the other foot, he began adjusting the second spur. He remembered putting the end of the strap through the buckle and beginning to pull. Following that, memories of every kind grew hazy and mixed. Something landed on his head, from behind. It was a terrific blow, and the trapper lurched forward, overturned the chair, and still further injured his head by bringing it into contact with the sharp edge of the window-casing. Then it seemed to Nomad that he dropped, and then that he was floating around in the air. Little gleams danced before his eyes, resembling varicolored fire-balls, like those which are thrown by Roman candles. Then night engulfed the fire-balls, and a dead silence intervened--a silence of complete oblivion. Nomad opened his eyes in the dark. The first thing he heard was the court-house bell. One, two, three---- He counted the strokes. There were nine of them. Nine o’clock! Suffering catamounts! What had happened to him since seven? Then, as his mind once more became active, he began to piece together his experiences. While he was putting on that second spur, some one must have crowded in on him through the open door and struck him from behind. Foul play, of course! But by whom? Who could have done it if not some one of the Bernritter and Jacobs outfit? Then Nomad recalled what Bascomb had said to Jacobs regarding the “hotel end” of their plotting. Was he, Nomad, the object of the hotel plot?