"What rascal, father?"
"The man with the red mask—the fellow who struck me down?"
"I do not know. So you were struck down? Where?"
"Just outside of the boomers' camp. Somebody brought me word that Pawnee Brown wanted to see me privately. I went, and a rascal rushed on me and demanded my private papers. I resisted and he struck me down. I know no more than that," and Mr. Arbuckle gave another gasp. His eyes were open, but in them was that uncertain look which Dick had seen before, and which the lad so much dreaded.
"Why, you were struck down last night, father, and several miles from here. You must have come down to the river at a spot above here. Don't you remember that?"
Mortimer Arbuckle tried to think, then shook his head sadly.
"It's all a blur, Dick. You know my head is not as strong as it might be."
"Yes, yes; and you must not try to think too far. So he got your private papers?"
"Yes."
"The ones referring to that silver mine in Colorado?"