They had thrown the earth out of the grave, expecting to find the body of Buffalo Bill, but with glad hearts they saw that it was not the face of the scout. What they saw was a painted face and a form clad in Indian costume. But the paint was a disguise—beneath it was the fair skin of a white man.
Farther upon the prairie, as they followed the trail of over a score of horses, they found a dead mustang, a bullet in his head.
“Ther gerloot in ther hole had a wound in his head, an’ this mustang died suddint like o’ ther same disease, an’ I’m thinking thet Buffier Bill were the one as did ther shootin’.”
Such had been the comment of Seven-foot Harry, and so had all agreed. They followed on the trail to the hills, where they lost it, and, with their small force dare not go farther, and gave the scout up as dead. Suddenly a hoof fall caught the ear of Mary Hale, as she thought of these things, and, glancing up, she saw a horseman approaching the cabin.
Then, as she gazed, she recognized the rider, and her face flushed crimson. A moment after he dismounted, and met her upon the piazza.
“Why, Captain Dash, who would have expected to see you here?” she said, in the innocent way a woman can assume in deceiving a lover, while she well knew she had expected and hoped for his coming for months.
“You said I might come, Mary,” answered the captain of the Revolver Riders, in his sincere way.
“Did I?” she asked archly.
“Yes; have you forgotten the time when I struck your train with my Revolver Riders, and captured Kent King, the Gambler Guide?”