"I don't know yet, but I will," Ted answered. "Come on, two or three of you fellows. The rest of you ride back to the camp. You may be needed there. We can't guard things too closely these days."
The party separated, and Ted, with Bud, Ben, and Kit, rode away, but they had gone only a little ways when they heard a noise behind them. It was Stella galloping toward them.
"I'm going, too," she said, and go she did.
Riding about half a mile west they came to a deep coulee, into which they descended and followed its course for a short distance, when suddenly Ted held up his hand as a signal to halt.
"I smell burning paper," he said, and, getting down from his saddle, went forward alone on foot, as silently as an Indian.
Suddenly he bent forward, examining something on the ground, and motioned the others forward. They rode to his side, and saw him looking at a small, dead camp fire.
"Some one camped here last night," he said, thrusting his hand into the warm ashes. "And whoever it was burned papers in it before he went away this morning; the smell of them is still in the air." But no nose in the party was keen-scented enough to detect it except Ted's.
Ted was still pawing among the ashes, when a change in expression swept over his face, and soon he pulled out several small pieces of charred paper. They were only burned on their curled-up edges, and Ted saw that they were covered with writing, evidently part of a letter.
"What's this?" he exclaimed, after he had spread them out, and studied them attentively. "Here are some words. There is not very much sense in them, though."
"What do they read?" asked Stella.