“She is a prisoner in the hands of the Navahos,” said the king of scouts sadly.
“I know it, but”—his eyes flashing determinedly—“she shall not be long a prisoner.”
“I reckon there are three persons in this room who will back you up in that statement,” spoke Buffalo Bill.
“That’s whatever,” responded Bart Angell quickly.
Wild Bill stroked his long, silky mustache. He nodded, but did not speak.
“Thank you, gentlemen,” said Henson warmly. “I knew I could count on you. But to my story. I was in New York when Miss Wilton left for the West. She did not depart without informing me of the letter she had from a lawyer, who represented that he was the attorney for her uncle, Matt Holmes. I am myself a lawyer, and it struck me when I considered the matter that the letter was not genuine. I had heard of Matt Holmes as an intelligent, shrewd, upright man. It would not be likely for such a man to request the presence of a young and inexperienced girl at his home in the country of savage Indians, no matter what the urgency.
“I determined to follow her. I quickly arranged my business, and arrived in Denver two weeks after she had left her home. There I stumbled upon an important piece of news. In the office of a lawyer friend of mine, upon whom I had called for information concerning my intended trip to these hills, I learned about the death of Jared Holmes in Taos, and of the murder of his brother, the miner, in the mountains of Colorado. The lawyer was the attorney of the miner’s estate, and he told me that there were two joint heirs, the plainsman, Matt, and the Taos merchant, Jared. In the event of the death of both, the estate was to go to the next of kin, a nephew, Rixton, and a niece, Myra.
“Instantly I became alarmed. The letter received by Myra was a lure; her death, as well as the death of her Uncle Matt, had been plotted. There had already been two murders, and the murderer and plotter must be the nephew. I asked my friend if he knew Rixton Holmes, and the reply was that he had met the nephew once at the mine. ‘I did not like his looks,’ said he, ‘and I believe, with you, that he is scheming to get the whole of the property, which is very valuable.’
“The next day, when I was preparing to set out for the New Mexican Mountains, my lawyer friend came in. He was greatly excited. ‘It’s a cinch,’ said he, as he dropped into a seat, ‘that Rixton Holmes is all we have put him up to be. Last night a document came to me by mail from New Mexico. It is the will of Matt Holmes. I am named as executor, and he leaves his property to Rixton Holmes and Myra Wilton, nephew and niece. But there is a proviso. In the event of the death of either, the share of the deceased becomes the property of the Territory, and when converted into cash is to be used in hunting down the murderer of the testator. A letter was inclosed with the will. It explained the meaning of the last clause of the document. Matt Holmes has or had, for he is dead, a bitter, relentless enemy, one Tom Darke.’”
“Stop a minute,” said Buffalo Bill, as he passed a thoughtful hand over his brow. “I want to straighten something out. Rixton Holmes gave to Myra Wilton a letter purporting to have been written by her uncle. The letter refers to this will, and contains the same explanation as your letter. I thought when the letter was read to me that it was a forgery.”