“What did you bring the dog for?” Jack asked, when he had finished his narrative. “To track the negro, of course,” replied Nick. “Where did you see him last?” The little fellow led the way into the wood where Dick Denton and Skip Brodie had lost sight of Sam Cole. At first the bloodhound was puzzled and seemed to have several false scents before, with a deep bay, he rushed away through a part of the forest thickly grown with brush. It was with difficulty that Nick Carter and his friend made their way through the undergrowth. The dog was lost sight of, but they were guided by his cries. Suddenly they ceased and Nick knew the hound had reached the end of the trail. At a clearing on the side of a steep hill they came face to face with a gigantic negro. “That’s him,” whispered Jack. The colored man was bleeding at the throat, where the dog had sunk his fangs, and at his feet lay the brute, dead. “Was that your dog?” Sam Cole angrily asked, approaching the pair with a large, wooden stake in his hand. “Yes,” replied Nick Carter, drawing his pistol; “it was.” Sam saw the weapon glitter in the moonlight and advanced no further. “He had like to kill me,” the negro said, “and I was obliged to kill him; I am sorry, gentlemen.” “Look out for him,” whispered Tambourine, “he is a bad one.” “Are you Sam Cole?” The detective drew near the fellow as he spoke. “That’s what they call me hereabouts,” was the answer. “Is there anything I can do for you?” “Yes; show me where you have hid the old gentleman you carried away from your cabin,” said Nick. “Guess you have struck the wrong party, mister. I don’t know what you are talking about.” “Come, now, none of that, if you wish to save yourself from going to prison,” remarked the detective; “I am Nick Carter, of New York, and I know you have this man I am in search of.” With the hand that held the pistol, the officer threw back his coat to exhibit his badge. As he did so, Sam Cole threw the stake with unerring aim at him. It struck Nick full in the breast, keeling him over. Cole was upon him, and bearing him to the ground, the giant said: “The police officer has not yet been born who could take me.” Nick’s pistol fell from his hand when the negro attacked him; Tambourine saw its silver mounting shining in the grass and soon possessed himself of it. There was a pistol shot; the negro’s grasp relaxed and he rolled over, dead. For the second time had Tambourine Jack saved his friend’s life. “See!” cried the little fellow, when the detective arose to his feet, “there is a light yonder.” The detective saw the light, but before going to it he caught Jack’s hand in his own, saying: “I hope some day to square accounts as near as possible with you.” They found that the light came from a fire built in a small cave. Taking the revolver from Tambourine, the detective entered. “I tell you, negro, I will pay you well.” It was Hilton Field’s voice, and Nick Carter instantly recognized it.