In the morning Buffalo Bill shot a jack rabbit, and they breakfasted on that. Bones of wolves on the opposite shore gave evidence of the terrible night battle with those creatures. To the woman it seemed almost a horrible dream, and not a reality, with the sun now shining brightly, and not a wolf or other harmful beast in sight. “I feel as good as new,” she said, in her queer way; “only a bit stiff in the j’ints.” She walked along the river for exercise. “Now what ye goin’ to do?” she asked, coming back, while the scout watered his horse at the stream. “I’m going first to the point where those shots sounded in the night.” “D’ye reckon ye can find it?” “I hope so. I located the direction pretty accurately.” “But you couldn’t tell how fur they was off.” “No; but if we get the direction and keep going we’ll come to the place, by and by.” “Yes; that’s so, too. I s’pose you’re wishin’ I’d go back to the town this mornin’?” “Not since you said you didn’t intend to.” He smiled at her. She interested him, and he was still studying her, trying to determine her character and what she really meant by thus clinging to him. “Well, I’m goin’ to hang to ye; and if you should say I couldn’t, I’d go anyhow. I think I’m takin’ a fancy to yer. If I was a younger woman now----” “What?” “I think I’d try to marry ye, if I found out you was what ye pretend to be, and honest.” “You flatter me,” he said, with a smile. “Do I? Well, I don’t mean it.” He helped her to the back of his horse, though she said she needed no assistance; and they rode on again, going now in the direction of those mysterious shots. They had progressed a mile before Buffalo Bill found what he was looking for--indications of the presence of men. Hoofprints of horses showed, and the tracks of men, a considerable body of them. But the tracks were nearly a day old, and could none of them have been made by the man who fired the shots. There was, too, the ashes of an old camp fire. Buffalo Bill inspected that with considerable interest. “Ah!” he said, as he looked about. “Some one came along after these men had left; and, finding this old camp and the ashes, he built a new fire here; and that was last night; and, whoever he was, he did the shooting.” “At wolves?” “Yes, I think so; that seems the most likely guess. Some of the wolves troubled him, and he shot at them.” He began to search beyond the limits of the camp, hoping to find wolf tracks which would prove his theory. He stopped this search on observing a soil-stained letter which had been stepped on by a horse, whose hoofs had driven it into the earth, half-covering it. He took it up and looked at it. To his astonishment, the address side of the envelope bore the name of Nick Nomad. “Nomad!” he said, staring around as if he half expected to see his old pard of the plains and mountains rise out of the ground there. “Nomad! He was here.”