“Just two hours since Ned left. That means, as he drives, all of twelve miles from this point. I should overtake him about Deep Dell Brook or a little beyond, only I do not wish to get close enough to be seen by them.” Mounting, he put his horse into a swinging canter and held him to it for miles, when he reached the country where the hills grew steep and long. Two hours after leaving the fort he halted for a short rest and said: “The coach is about six miles ahead now, I take it, if Ned is on schedule time.” Again he resumed his way and held on until he descended into Deep Dell Brook. Just as he halted his horse for water, confident that the coach could not be very far from him then, his eyes fell upon the trail beyond. There was something in it which caught his eye. It was a revolver. He spurred toward it, dismounted, and cried: “It’s Frank Powell’s revolver!” He looked about him and saw tracks of horses, blood-stains, footprints, and the evidence of a struggle. Instantly he leaped into his saddle, and his horse was sent flying on up the hill. A mile ahead he caught sight of the coach, and it was driving rapidly. He had no time to lose in overtaking it, so, drawing his revolver, he fired several shots. The sound reached the ears of Horseshoe Ned who glanced back, saw who it was, and, wheeling his team in a broad space of the trail, drove back to meet the scout with all speed. He soon drew rein, and the scout dashed up and leaped from his horse. “Ho, Ned, what is the matter?” called out Buffalo Bill. “Matter enough, Bill, for the doc, the detectives, and the prisoner is gone.” “Gone where?” “Don’t know.” “Why don’t you know?” angrily said the scout. In answer Horseshoe Ned turned the back of his head and said: “See there, Bill.” “It’s a wound.” “It’s something.” “What has happened?” “Durned ef I know, for I’m kinder dazed like.” “Tell me what you can.” “I will.” “You were held up?” “I don’t know,” and the driver passed his hand across his head and said: “It pains me, Bill.” “Come, Ned, get down from your box, for there is a brook here, and let me dress that wound. I have a needle and thread and can stitch it up for you, for it is an ugly-looking gash. Then tell me all you can remember.” The driver obeyed without a word, allowed the scout to take the stitches in the wound without flinching and fixed his handkerchief over it, wet with arnica which Buffalo Bill always carried with him. “It feels better now, Bill, thankee.” “Oh, you’ll come round all right soon,” and the scout said no more, for he did not wish to hurry the driver and perhaps fret him in the condition in which he then was. After a few moments of silence, Ned said: “I think it was a rock, Bill.” “What was?” “That struck me.” “Ah! and it was at Deep Dell Brook?”