His home was situated upon a spur around the base of which wound a trail, and his claim was an eighth of a mile distant from his cabin.
Generous to all, peaceful in his nature, but a dangerous man to arouse, he had won his name of Deadshot Dean by defending himself against half a dozen desperadoes on one occasion, and since then had shown himself to be a man of courage and determination which no peril could daunt.
Leaving the Devil’s Den, the miner had gone directly to the Frying Pan, and Bonnie Belle met him at the office, and said:
“I have ordered your supper brought to my dining-room, Deadshot Dean, so come in here, for I know that you have news for me.”
“I have, indeed, Bonnie Belle,” was the answer.
“When did you get back?”
“To-night. I came by my cabin, but would not stop to get supper, for I was anxious to see you.”
“You went to the fort?”
“I did, but following the trail of that map, found in the room of the gambler whom I was forced to kill, I met Buffalo Bill and Surgeon Powell on the war-path, and guided them, with a party of soldiers, to the retreat of the outlaws.”
“And captured them?”