“I don’t know how it chanced that Latimer was out here, but the rest of it is clear enough,” was his thought, as he walked hastily on toward the point where this lively fight and transformation had taken place. “Those people are Latimer’s friends, in spite of his statements that he did not know of their existence. Chancing to be here, they saw his strait and rushed to his aid. That young man is a fighter of the sort I like to see, and that girl is certainly a heroine, as well as a cool rifle shot. I wonder who they are? And I wonder why Latimer should have thought it needful to deny all knowledge of them? Yes, and why did they act so mysteriously at the house?” These questions could not be answered by an inspection of the Indian the girl had brought down; but the scout, nevertheless, went up to the fallen redskin who was dead. An inspection of his clothing, ornaments, and weapons convinced Buffalo Bill that he belonged to the Redskin Rovers, which was proof enough that the Rovers were following the fugitives still, and were near. The dead Indian had a good revolver, and as the scout needed one, he appropriated it, together with the cartridges. The trail left by the two horses Buffalo Bill followed for some distance, until convinced that it was headed in the direction of the house on the mesa. CHAPTER XV. A DESPERATE BATTLE. When Buffalo Bill returned to the camp he found Nomad and Pizen Kate in a state of much excitement. Nomad had made a discovery as important and startling as that of the scout. “Buffler,” he said, in reporting it, “ef thar ain’t high old times round hyar purty soon, then I gives up as a prophet. Ef them Redskin Rovers follers us down ayar they’ll have their hands more’n full; fer thar’s a band of outlaws hidin’ nigh, and they seem ter be waitin’ fer them Rovers, with ther intention of doin’ ’em up.” “If that fight comes off, I’m goin’ to see it!” avowed Pizen Kate. “I ain’t never seen a fust-class fight of no kind.” “But you’ve been mixed up in more’n one!” said Nomad. “Nicholas, don’t interrupt me when I’m talkin’! That’s one o’ the things about ye I never did like; you ain’t got any proper respect fer a lady. As I was sayin’ ter Persimmon Pete----” “Ter Buffler, yer mean!” “As I was sayin’ to him. I ain’t never seen any fust-class fight. When them two prize fighters fit in the op’ry house there in Kansas City last winter, tickets was fifteen dollars apiece, so I couldn’t afford one, and didn’t git to see it.” “’Twouldn’t been no proper place fer ye, nohow!” Nomad sputtered. “So, as I was sayin’ ter Persimmon Pete, if this fight comes off I want to see it. Tell him all about it, Nicholas.”