But Frank did not lie thus a great while. As he was getting upon his feet, rubbing his arm and shoulder, he saw Iva St. Ives and Stephen Fenton come over the fence. And Fenton jumped his horse almost in the track of the boy who had been in advance, although he must have seen that an accident of some sort had happened. One glimpse of Fenton’s face did Frank obtain, and he knew the man had hoped to maim or kill him. Barely was he able to leap aside and escape from beneath the feet of the horse Fenton bestrode. Iva St. Ives would have reined about, but Frank motioned for her to keep on, shouting: “Don’t stop for me! I’m all right! I’ll be in at the death!” The other hunters cheered him, while Fenton and the girl went on without stopping. Frank knew a shot had been fired. He stooped over Firefoot, and a glance showed him the horse was dead. From a bullet hole in the animal’s head blood was welling. “I knew it!” muttered the boy, his face hard and set. “I saw the puff of smoke even as I fell. It came from those bushes yonder.” Toward the bushes he ran, paying no heed to those who called to him. He was on a fresh scent, and he kept repeating over and over: “I’ll be in at the death—in at the death!” Into the bushes he plunged, regardless of the fact that he did not know but the would-be assassin was still crouching there. He was ready for anything he might meet. The clump of bushes was small; the ground was moist. He looked around, then stooped and examined the ground. Yes, this was the very spot! Here were the footprints of a man, and here he had kneeled upon one knee as he took aim when the shot was fired. Without doubt he had rested the gun in the crotch of a sapling that was just the right height. A slight abrasion in the bark of the sapling told Merriwell he was right. But whither had the wretch gone? Frank looked around, he forced himself through the bushes. There were the tracks. A valley lay below. Away to the west the baying of the hounds sounded, fainter and fainter. Through the valley ran a small stream. There was some timber, and into the thickest of this a horseman was vanishing. Something in his hands looked like a gun. “There’s my game,” cried Frank. “I’d give something for a good horse——Jupiter!” A horse was feeding in a pasture at a distance. It looked like a fairly good animal. A moment later Frank was running back toward the spot where the dead black horse lay under the fence. Two or three of his friends were there. He gave no heed to them, but, with feverish haste, he stripped the bridle from the dead animal. “What’s up, Merry?” asked Rattleton, excitedly. “Who did it, anyway? and what are you——See him go!” But Frank stopped suddenly and wheeled about. “I want that horse, Rattleton!” he cried. “There’s one over yonder you may take, if you want to bother to saddle and bridle him. I can’t spare the time to catch him.”