“White man er ’Pache?” spoke up Nomad.
“I couldn’t see. Come back this way, Buffalo Bill, and strike another match.”
The scout followed the suggestion. What was found, a moment later, startled all of them.
A man was, indeed, lying on the floor, just as Dell had said, and he was a white man. His rough clothing was ragged and torn, and there was a clotted smear on the breast of his faded blue shirt. His head was thrown back, his arms were flung out stiffly from his shoulders, and there was a glassy stare—the stare of death—in his eyes.
“Bascomb!” muttered Nomad.
“Yes,” said the scout, “it is Bascomb, and he has paid the penalty of his misdeeds with his life. The wound he received in that ambush was mortal. Once more, pards, Geronimo has overplayed his hand. It may be that the chief collected his renegades and left the reservation for the sole purpose of laying that ambush and taking Bascomb away from the soldiers; but, in the attempt, Bascomb stopped a bullet. Instead of rescuing the deserter, Geronimo killed him.”
“Justice reaches an evil-doer in many ways,” remarked Dell.
“Right you are, Dell. And it is just as well, I take it, that Bascomb should fall by the guns of his red allies as to spring a trap in some Federal prison. He shot a guard when he escaped from Fort Apache, but the guard was not killed. Bascomb could not have been hung for that; but, unless I am far wide of my trail, he could have been swung up for this last bit of treachery. Undoubtedly he had knowledge of Geronimo’s plans, and, having that, was virtually a confederate and jointly responsible with Geronimo for the lives of the escort.”
The scout turned to his trapper pard.
“Search through the fellow’s pockets, Nick,” said he. “There may be something of importance there that the military will be glad to get hold of.”