Then he lighted his pipe and began to smoke with a strange calmness of mien, when it is remembered that there, within a few yards of him, at the base of the quaking aspen whose white trunk looked ghostly in the moonlight, was the grave of the man he had killed, the man who had been his boyhood friend, and afterward his bitterest foe.
Laying aside his pipe, he spread his blankets in the wickiup, and then walked quietly toward the quaking aspen.
There was the mound that marked the last resting-place of Hugh Mayhew, whose deeds of wickedness had won for him the name of Black-heart Bill.
What thoughts crowded upon him as he stood there gazing upon the little mound of earth, knowing that only a few feet below the surface the dead face of his one-time friend was upturned toward him, who can tell?
For some time he stood there, his arms folded upon his broad breast, and his head bowed. At last, a sigh found its way between his set teeth, and he turned away.
Reaching the wickiup, he paused, and mused aloud:
"Well, I am making a bold venture to dare go to the fort from which I fled on the day appointed for my execution, fled to live on here in the wilderness, believed to be dead, yet living, my own name cast aside, and living under that of one I never knew in life.
"How strange this life is, its bitterness, sorrows, realities, and romance, and how strange, indeed, has been my career. Well, what will the end be, I wonder?
"I am taking my life in my hands to venture to the fort, but I must save that poor girl, run down those outlaws, and I can only do it through Buffalo Bill. Now to turn in, for I must get some rest, and will, even in this weird spot."