“Well!” exclaimed the scout; “it looks as though there had been doings here, too.” “Thar has, Buffler,” answered Nomad. “When ther baron an’ me blew in hyar, McGowan lay in a corner, knocked as senseless as I was, back at ther Phœnix hotel. Bernritter an’ Jacobs put up er fight, an’ ther baron got tickled in ther ribs with er bullet, an’ Jacobs got tickled in ther shoulder.” “Where’s Bernritter?” “He went out by way o’ ther window, and never stopped ter put et up. I couldn’t chase arter him, kase I was ther on’y man left ter purtect ther gold. I hopes some ’un lays ther pizen whelp by ther heels.” “So do I!” came from McGowan. “The infernal scoundrel!” “You think he’s a scoundrel now, do you, McGowan?” queried the scout, turning on the mine-owner. McGowan brought his fist down on the table with all the strength he could muster. “I know it!” he declared. “What happened to you in here?” “Why, I came with Bernritter to superintend the retorting, and the running of the gold into bars. I was ahead of Bernritter when we came into the room, and I had barely got inside the door when he jumped me from behind. “The impetus of his body carried me down. I gave out a yell--just one--and then the scoundrel hit me with the butt of his revolver. That’s all, so far as I’m concerned. When I came to, matters were just as you see them now! And to think,” cried McGowan, “that that was the man I have trusted for all these years! The man who is engaged to marry my girl, Annie! I wish we could hang him!” From this it will appear that the mine-owner’s eyes had been thoroughly opened. “What was the matter with that revolver you gave me, McGowan?” went on the scout. “Matter with it?” demanded McGowan. “Why, nothing. It was one of my own weapons--an arm that I have depended on a dozen times, and it has never failed me. That was the reason I gave it to you.” “Well, it failed _me_. Look at it.” The mine-owner took the revolver from the scout, “broke” it, and looked at the cartridges. There were six of them, all apparently ready for use. “Fire it,” said the scout. McGowan pointed it at the ceiling and pulled the trigger. Only the _click_ of the hammer sounded. He tried five times more; then, with an imprecation, “broke” the piece again, took out one of the cartridges, and twisted out its lead cap. There was no powder in the shell! “Tampered with!” growled McGowan. “That’s the size of it,” returned the scout. McGowan drew the mate to the firearm from his pocket and tried to fire that. The result was the same as in the case of the other revolver. “Bernritter must have done this!” declared McGowan. “Did you leave the weapons where he could get at them?” “They usually hung from a belt on a nail in my room. As my room is off the office, it was easy for Bernritter to get at the guns and fix ’em. Oh, the depth of that villain’s trickery! He laid his wires well, and he would have won out against me, Buffalo Bill, if it hadn’t been for you and your pards.”