Joe’s voice ended in a long-drawn snore. Bright Wing nodded a few times and rolled over upon the damp ground, his head wrapped in his blanket. Douglas threw some dry wood upon the fire and continued his vigil. An hour passed. Utter silence reigned around him. Presently the bloodhound growled ominously and sprang to his feet. Ross laid a restraining hand upon him and commanded him to lie down. But Duke refused to obey. Instead he broke from his master’s grasp and disappeared in the darkness. “What does it mean?” Ross muttered as he hastily arose and set off in pursuit of the animal. He caught a glimpse of the shadowy form of the bloodhound flitting past one of the dying camp-fires—going in the direction of the river. Silently but swiftly he followed. On reaching the bank of the stream, he stopped in the black shadows of the trees and strained his eyes and ears, in a vain effort to catch sight or sound of the dog. But all was silent blackness. He was on the point of calling the animal, when a faint, buzzing hum greeted his sense of hearing. The sound was a series of whispered syllables. Dropping upon hands and knees, he crept toward the river’s edge. Suddenly he dropped flat upon his face and lay motionless. The sharp snap of a breaking twig, a few feet ahead of him, had warned him that he was close upon the speakers. Then he distinctly heard these words: “Negro’s all right—fix him in the morning—no failure—be off.” Immediately following this came the sound of rippling water. Some small object was stealthily pushing away from the shore. Douglas hastily arose and swiftly but silently retraced his steps to the edge of the timber. There he met Bright Wing and Farley. “What’s up—what’re you nosin’ ’round out here fer?” inquired the latter in a strident whisper. “Sh!” cautioned Ross, laying his hand upon Joe’s arm. At that moment a man stepped from the edge of the wood and started across the area, toward the barricade of wagons. He had taken but a few steps in the open, when a black body rose in front of him; and Duke’s low, threatening growl broke the oppressive stillness. “Good fellow, good fellow!” the man said wheedlingly. But Duke refused to be moved from his path or his purpose. The man attempted to go around him, but the sagacious animal headed him off and growled more threateningly. “Curse the brute!” the man muttered fiercely. “I don’t dare to shoot him—the report of a pistol would bring a dozen soldiers to the spot. What am I to do?” Douglas stepped forward, remarking placidly: “I wouldn’t think of shooting the dog, if I were you. His owner might raise objections. Perhaps I can help you out of your dilemma.”—Then to the dog:—“Here, Duke! Come here and lie down.” Reluctantly the bloodhound obeyed, still growling. Farley and Bright Wing kept their distance. The man had recoiled a step. Now he recovered himself and mumbled surlily: “What’s you an’ y’r infernal cur out here stoppin’ honest people fer?”