“I can’t help that,” the man replied doggedly. “I can only report what I’ve seen an’ heard. Anyhow, none o’ the others had the grit to go into the town.” This last he said with a toss of his head and a defiant look at the other scouts. “I don’t think your comrades lack courage,” the governor replied coolly. “Their reception was different from yours. On the march to-day I want you to remain within call. As you speak several of the Indian tongues, I may want to use you as an interpreter. Your comrades have already received their orders. You may go.” Was Ross mistaken, or was there a look of malignant triumph on Bradford’s scarred face, as with the others he left the tent? The young scout now stepped forward and saluted the commander. “Ah! You are here, Douglas,” was Harrison’s pleasant greeting. “You have come for your orders?” “I have, governor.” “Very well. To-day you and the Wyandot are to remain near me. I’ll use you as interpreters.” Ross bowed and withdrew. As he sauntered away from the tent, he felt that he ought to return and inform the commander of his experience of the night. Yet what had he to tell? Perhaps his imagination was magnifying a molehill into a mountain. He halted—half turned about—then proceeded upon his way. Just as he was passing a point midway between the governor’s quarters and his own mess-fire, he discovered Bradford in earnest conversation with a burly negro—an ox-driver, named Ben. The scar-faced scout and the black man were standing between two of the covered wagons. The darkey’s brutal visage was alight with pleasure, as he jingled a number of silver coins that Bradford had just dropped into his outstretched palm. Ross heard the white man say: “Now, Ben, if you don’t do what you’ve promised—well, you’ll hear from _me_. Git away from here now—we mustn’t be seen together.” Douglas screened himself behind a wagon. Now he knew why Bradford’s husky tones had sounded so familiar in the governor’s tent. It was the same voice he had heard at the river-side. The scar-faced scout was the mysterious personage he had met the night before. The negro slyly slipped away from the spot. A half minute passed. Then Bradford boldly stepped from his place of concealment. As he did so, he swept a hurried glance around him—and fastened his keen eyes upon Douglas. “What the devil ’re you doin’ there?” was his expressive question. His disfigured countenance was aflame with rage; and drawing his tall form to its full height he nervously fingered the trigger of his rifle. “Attending to my own business,” Ross answered with provoking coolness, as he strode forth and faced his questioner. “Meddlin’ with mine, more likely,” was the growling rejoinder. “No,” Douglas replied laughingly, “but if the negro ever sues for his wages, I can be a witness to the fact that you’ve paid him.” “What do you mean?” blustered Bradford, his face purple.