“He was worthy of it; for he was a good man, and I’m sure his last thoughts were of you.” The brown eyes dimmed again with tears. She placed the emeralds in the buckskin bag, stowed it in the bosom of her dress, and walked to the door. Standing there, she glanced longingly up the trail and out across the river, to the side of the cañon she had scaled, and then let her eyes wander on to the smoking pines that stood in blackened ranks still higher. “I’m expecting every minute that Bruce will come,” she said. “Something is keeping him.” She sat down again by the table. “Let me get you some breakfast,” she urged; “and pardon me for not thinking of it before.” “I’ve been too busy to think of anything to eat, my dear girl. Does Bruce know you are here?” “Yes; I left word for him that I was going to see my uncle, and told him how to get here. But I’m neglecting you! I have been too much excited. I’ll get you something. And that will help to pass the time away, too.” She was soon busy in the little kitchen. Buffalo Bill was thinking of the man he had seen under the tree. “I wonder if he could have been nearer the house than that?” he began now to question, as he left the house again and walked out to the tree. He began to scan the ground between the house and the tree. The color rose in his face as he did so, for he saw that the man had been at the door and close by the windows; also he saw the hole under the house, which looked as if something had lately passed through it. “Have you a dog?” he asked, returning to the house. “No,” she said. “Uncle never kept a dog, though often I’ve though he ought to have one, and a good, savage one, too, living out here alone so much. But no one ever really troubled him. Several months ago a drunken man came along the trail, and at another time an Indian tried to get into the house to steal something; but that’s all.” “That was enough!” She was bustling about the kitchen, and soon she had the breakfast ready, and they sat down to it. “You’re expecting some one, too?” she said. “Pawnee Bill, and who was the other?” “Nick Nomad.” “Oh, yes; such an odd name I couldn’t remember it. And you say he is an odd character?” “But with a heart of gold. Old Nick Nomad is as true and good a friend as I ever could wish to have.” “And all three of you are here looking for Blackfeet Indians and road agents?” “Yes.” “I should think that would be dangerous?” “It has its drawbacks--a hunter of road agents may get a bullet from one of them at any time.” He said it lightly, yet he meant it; the calling was peculiarly dangerous. He preferred other work, and even scouting for Indians in a hostile Indian country he considered far less perilous. When the breakfast was ended, she went to the door again and looked up and down the trail. “Your friends are coming!” she announced. Buffalo Bill stepped quickly to the door.