The guide thus chosen was Red Hand, for he was well known along the frontier as one of the most daring men on the border, and his skill in wood and prairie craft, and ability to outwit Indian cunning, had gained him a widespread reputation among the bold bordermen and the soldiers of the outposts.
Of Red Hand little, if anything, was known regarding his real name, whence he came, or why he, a man of superior education and ability, had banished himself from civilization and become an Indian fighter and hunter upon the Western border.
Five years before his solitary pilgrimage into the Black Hills he had appeared upon the frontier, well armed and mounted, and possessed of considerable money, and his polite manner and ready generosity soon won for him many admirers, though no man among his companions could boast of being his intimate friend, or of any knowledge regarding him.
His blood-red right hand attracted attention. But only one man had dared to make jest regarding it, and he never repeated the offense, for he found the stranger not the one to trifle with.
At first, the life on the plains seemed strange to Red Hand, for by that name he now became known, and, as if to encourage it, or to hide his real name, he adorned his hat with the red coral hand.
However, he quickly learned the crafty ways of the Indian, could soon strike a trail and follow it across the prairies, became a dead shot with rifle and revolver, and a desperate fighter with the knife. Hence, before two years’ stay on the border, he was noted as a scout and hunter of superior ability, and a man of undaunted courage.
After long days of travel the hill country was reached by the exploring party. Remembering a number of advantageous localities for a safe camp, Red Hand conducted the men to one of the most favorable positions.
After a short rest he set out alone to visit the gorge, several miles above the encampment, for an irresistible attraction lured him once more to the place which held the grave of Ben Talbot. For a long time after his arrival there Red Hand stood in silent bitterness at the grave, his eyes cast down and his hands resting upon the muzzle of his rifle.
On his stern face was a shadow of mingled sorrow and pain, as some haunting memory was recalled from the long-buried past. At length, with a deep-drawn sigh, he slung his rifle across his shoulder and strode away, his eyes carefully scanning the ground, for around the grave were traces that showed that other feet than his had lately been there.
Steadily following the trail, it led him, after a tramp of a mile, into a narrow gulch, where his ears were suddenly startled by the unexpected and ringing report of a rifle, followed by a series of yells, which he well knew to be the war cry of the wild Sioux of the northern tribes.