He looked about; then took from the envelope the letter it held; for the envelope had already been torn open. It was merely a note, on some matter of business of no importance. “Nomad dropped it by chance. No; perhaps he dropped it purposely.” He began to search the ground closely. “What ye found?” called Pizen Jane, who was watching him. “A letter from an old friend.” “Funny kind of a post office to be gittin’ letters out of!” she observed. “What’s it like?--a love letter?” The scout ignored her question and went on with his search. He found wolf tracks out beyond the point where the ground had been torn by the hoofs of horses, thus establishing his belief that the man who had camped alone there during the night had been troubled by the wolves, and had fired upon them. “I wonder if that man could have been Nomad?” was his thought. He dismissed it in a moment. “No; Nomad is too wary to have gone on without inspecting my camp by the river; and, if he had inspected it, he would have discovered me and made himself known.” He searched again at the point where the letter had been trampled into the soil. This examination convinced him that the horse that had stepped on the letter had been of the horses that were there two nights before. “Whoever the man was who did the shooting he was not Nomad.” After a while he returned to where the woman had stood watching him. “What ye found?” she demanded. He showed her the letter. “Nick Nomad is an old friend of mine. We have hunted and trailed together more times than I can tell you; and he’s true as steel. I thought at first he did that shooting. But I’m convinced he did not. A body of men camped here two nights ago; and at that time, or before that time, Nomad was here, and dropped this letter.” “Some other man might have had it and dropped it,” she said. “Yes, that is so. Some other man might have dropped it.” “Road agents, mebbe. He might have been robbed, and they may have tuck that letter from him, with other things.” “You’re good at guessing,” the scout admitted. “All of that may be true. I’m of the opinion the large party camping here two nights ago were road agents.” “He might have j’ined ’em?” “Impossible. What I’m afraid of is that he was with them as a prisoner.” “Glory be! Ye don’t mean it?” “He’s shrewd; and if he was their prisoner he probably dropped this letter, to let any one who found it know the fact, or guess it. He doubtless had no chance to write, or to drop anything else.” “Road agents!” she said, looking about. “And now your question of what I am going to do is answered. I’m going to follow the trail of those road agents, even if it is two days old.” “And the man that camped here alone and done that shootin’ last night?” “He may have been a road agent, following on their trail; and, if so, he is now riding on to overtake them. We can tell better about that as we go on.” “Or he may’ve been somebody follerin’ them, same as I am, and you?” “Very true.”