"He's been right-handed, too," continued the old man, "for the ball went in on the right side an' come out on the left. You see, the little hole is clean-cut on the right side but bigger an' ragged on the left where it come out. That tells where it went in an' where it come out. When he wrote that note on the old shoulder-blade he's been getting nervous, or maybe weak from loss of blood. It's a pity, though, that he didn't set down his name an' the town where he come from a little plainer so's we could write to his folks an' let 'em know what become of him. But, like many another poor devil that's been wiped out by Injuns, his people'll never know where, when, or how he died. "Well," continued the old man after a pause, "I b'lieve I'll ride over to the fort to-morrow; an' get our mail an' come back next day, an' I guess I'll just take them things along," pointing to the bones, "an' maybe some o' the folks over there can tell me somethin' more about this affair. If anybody knows anything about it French Dave'll know, for he's been among the Injuns a good deal an' would be likely to have heard something about it." CHAPTER XIV SATANTA'S STORY Next day, mounted on Black Prince, Tom started for Fort Larned. He had stowed the skull of the supposed deceased wolf hunter in a gunny sack tied to his saddle, but the buffalo shoulder-blade he wrapped carefully in the fur of a fox skin, to make sure that no chafing should further obliterate the already obscure record. These relics he intended to submit to the best sign readers to be found about the fort, to ascertain if any light could be thrown on the supposed tragedy. As I was writing a letter to send in by Tom, Jack remarked: "We ought to have a name for our camp, a place to date letters from, something more than just 'Camp on Walnut Creek.'" "That wouldn't be a bad idea," I replied, "but what shall we call it? The only things we see here are buffaloes, coyotes, and antelopes, with a few prairie-dogs and rattlesnakes. How would it do to call our place 'Camp Antelope'?" "I think it would be more to the point," said Jack, "to call it 'Camp Coyote.'" "Well," said Tom, "why not compromise and call it 'Camp Coyotelope'?" "Let it be so," said I, and I so dated my letter, and from that time on we spoke of our winter home as Camp Coyotelope. Nothing unusual happened while Tom was gone. Jack tended his traps, while I did the wolf baiting and skinning. On the second evening, just in time for supper, Tom returned from Fort Larned, bringing our mail, and as we gathered around the table we asked him anxiously what he had learned about the dead man.