Buffalo Bill could not admit that, puzzled as he was. To make sure that he had not been wholly the victim of some optical delusion, as soon as he ceased talking with Latimer he walked out to the gate, and there scanned the ground, looking for tracks of the mustang. While thus looking he heard his name called by Pizen Kate. A suggestion came to him. “You didn’t see an Indian out here a while ago talking with Latimer?” he asked her. “I wasn’t lookin’,” she said noncommittally. “The only thing I was lookin’ for was that no-’count husband o’ mine, that’s run away from me ag’in. I can’t find hide ner hair of him.” “I wish you could,” said the scout, with much earnestness. “Then you really don’t know what’s become of him?” she queried. “Not in the least.” “You didn’t help him to git away?” “I didn’t.” “Well, I thought ye did, and I was good an’ mad!” “You didn’t see an Indian here?” “I didn’t, for I wasn’t lookin’.” “Nor you didn’t see Latimer come from this gate five minutes or more ago?” “I tell ye, I _wasn’t lookin’_. Somethin’ queer about this place,” she added suspiciously. “I’m beginning to think so, too.” “Well,” she declared, “they can’t fool with me! Aire you goin’ to stay here long?” “Until I discover what has become of Nomad.” “Then I’m with ye! We’ll find him, if we have to tar and feather that Latimer to make him tell what he knows. I reckon I’ll go up to the house and give him a few jabs in the ribs with this old umbreller, to make him talk a bit.” She marched angrily toward the house. The scout began to look for the tracks of the mustang. He found them in the dust close by the gate; and on the other side of the gate he saw the imprint of shoes, which he was sure had been made by John Latimer. “As Kate says, there is something mysterious here,” was his thought, “and it begins to look as if John Latimer were crooked. He lied to me when he said he had not been down here by this gate, and he lied in saying he had not here met an Indian. I think I’ll follow this trail. It may reveal something.” The scout started off on the trail of the mustang; and though, when he got away from the gate, other horse trails interfered, he was yet so skillful that he picked out that of the mustang from among them and continued on, finding that it led toward the hills. The house was out of sight, and he was on a long, grassy level, when, looking up, he saw the Indian riding slowly toward him. Only one look was needed to show that this was the identical Indian who had been at the gate. He seemed to be either returning toward the house, or else, having seen that he was being followed, he had ridden back to ascertain the meaning of it. “A word with you,” shouted Buffalo Bill. The Indian drew rein at a little distance, and sat in silence, regarding the scout with distrust. “You were up there at the gate a little while ago?” The redskin did not answer.