“To-morrow I'll show you what you've come to see,” said Raymond, as he drew his blankets about him, and stretched himself on the ground preparatory to sleep. Yet the following morning, after they had eaten their breakfast, he still lingered by the camp-fire, and it was only after much urging on the part of Hickman that he took himself off to bring up the horses, but he returned with only two of them. “Where's your horse and the pack-mule?” demanded Hickman angrily. “I shan't need 'em to-day,” answered Raymond. “Why not?” “This is the place, do you see that hill off yonder? I reckon you'll find what you're looking for there.” “We'll go there then—at once,” said Benson, drawing in his breath quickly. Raymond fell back a step at his words. “You and Bill go. I been there before. I'm not going again. You'll see where I buried 'em, where the banks of a wash are heaved in. You and Bill go look.” Hickman exploded in a burst of laughter at this. “Well, now,” he said, and repeated, “well, now—why damn your soul to hell, I got chickens at home with more heart. What are you afraid of, Tom Raymond?” “I ain't saying I'm afraid,” but his face was ghastly. “No, by thunder! you ain't saying it, you don't need to. What do you expect to see anyhow? Ghosts?” “Shut up, Bill.” The hill Raymond had indicated was, perhaps two miles distant from their camp, and in a little less than half an hour they had reached its summit. “It's easy to see what happened here,” said Hickman, glancing about him. He moved away, circling the top of the hill, while Benson examined the charred wood and rusted iron work that littered the ground. He was thus engaged when Hickman called to him. “Come here; I've found the spot,” he said, and the lawyer hastened to his side. He was standing on the edge of a gully the rains had cut in one of the slopes of the hill. “See,” he said, “there's where Tom Raymond heaved in the bank. The Indians are keen to kill, but they're damn slow to bury. I wa'n'. none too sure that Raymond had been back here, but this settles it.” Near-by was a broken and rusted shovel, and a pick with a charred handle. Benson examined the shovel narrowly, and on the iron that secured the wooden handle he found a name stamped on the metal; scraping off the rust with the blade of his knife he was able to decipher the name, “Bendy.” It had been made at the Bendy shops in Benson. Hickman pointed to the ditch. “Are you going to see what Tom's covered up there?” “No, God forbid!” cried Benson. “We'd better ride back to camp then, if you're ready. I wouldn't put it past Tom to quit us.” “Then suppose you go and make sure that he doesn't,” said Benson. “I'm not ready to go yet, but I'll join you there presently.” “What's going to keep you?” asked Hickman curiously.