“You’ve got ter do some tall riding, Buffalo Bill.”
“All right, I’ll do it, for remember, my best pard, Frank Powell, is either dead or a prisoner.”
“That’s so. Take the roan mare, Bill. She’s an all-day animal, fast and willing.”
Buffalo Bill hastily threw the harness off of the roan mare, put his saddle and bridle on her, and, bidding Horseshoe Ned good-by, led his own horse down to a secluded spot upon Deep Dell Brook. There he staked him out, and, leaping into the saddle, sent the roan mare off like an arrow.
He had just twenty-five miles to go to reach the fort, and in two hours and a half he dashed through the stockade gate, and up to the colonel’s quarters, the gallant roan staggering under him, and with a groan dropping dead as the scout sprang from his saddle.
The colonel heard of his rapid coming, and met him on the piazza, where there were a number of officers and ladies, among the latter Clarice Carr and Nina de Sutro.
“Colonel Dunwoody, I have to report overtaking the coach a mile beyond Deep Dell Brook, sir, and found Horseshoe Ned half-dazed from a wound in his head, made, I believe, by a rock, and inside the stage the dead body of Detective Raymond, shot through the heart.
“He had been robbed, as also was the coach of the mail and the luggage it carried, while Surgeon Powell, the prisoner, and the other two detectives were missing.
“There was evidence of a severe struggle, sir, and so I took one of Ned’s horses and rode back, leaving mine to rest, while, as I came through the gate I ordered another horse which I will return on at once so as to take the trail before night.
“With your permission, sir, I would like to take a dozen of my men, and ask for Captain Caruth with a score of his troopers to follow me, for I will mark my trail well, sir.”