securely lashed to the wagon box that it would be impossible for him to move around, no matter how much he bridged and wriggled, no matter how much the wagon jolted. It was a job which demanded care, and had received it. Satisfied as to the conditions inside the wagon, he now turned his attention to the outside, which must be proof against telling anything to the observing eyes of the old buffalo hunter. He carefully replaced the tarpaulin as he had found it, even to its folds, and he duplicated the knots he had untied. Pausing a moment to think, he dusted canvas and ropes, cogitated as to his own footprints, which Old Buffalo would not fail to notice, if the light permitted. He got his rope, coiled it, and with this for his tool he effaced the prints and then went to the horse shed. When he reappeared he was leading a horse whose color melted into the darkness like a lump of charcoal in ink. They passed in the dark like the passing of a cloud and it was not until some minutes later that the drumming of hoofs rang out on the trail, bound southward in search of a saddled, but riderless, horse, which should be found in that direction. It would not do for it to be seen by anyone but themselves while it bore the riding gear of Wolf Forbes. A blot on the ground near the horse shed arose. Two-Spot was in pain and the tears were flowing down his unwashed cheeks, while spasm after spasm racked him. Holding a six-gun limply in his hand, he stumbled and staggered away from the buildings, to some place where he could give free vent to the agonizing mirth which threatened to choke him. Coming to a weed-filled gully he sank into it and lay with his face buried in his arms. Minutes passed before he got control of himself and then he rolled over weakly and stared up at the star-filled sky, inert and sore, for he knew not how long.