CHAPTER XVIII.

RETURN OF THE SCOUTS.

Buffalo Bill and Surgeon Powell were riding slowly upon the trail back to the fort. They had left Pocket City early that morning, after passing another night there, and had ridden slowly along homeward, for the fort is the home of the soldier and the scout.

After the burial of Shuffles they had returned to the Frying Pan, where they were entertained by Bonnie Belle.

The Devil’s Den had been kept closed out of respect for the dead manager, and a Sabbath-day stillness rested upon the camp.

The Vigilante opened his store to turn an honest penny, and the gambling-dens, for the Devil’s Den did not have a monopoly by any means, had opened wide their doors, to catch those miners and loafers who would drop in.

The Frying Pan had fed an enormous crowd at supper, and then settled down to rest.

One of the rules of Bonnie Belle, and which was religiously respected, was that the Devil’s Den should never open on Sundays, and the miners seemed really glad of this respite from the noisy bustle of the place and the gambling and drinking which was sure to come.

The more Surgeon Powell and Buffalo Bill saw of the strange woman who seemed to hold the destinies of Pocket City in her little hand, the more they were pleased with her, and mystified.

They knew that there was an unreadable page of her history to which she alone held the key. She talked like one who had seen much of the world, young as she was, and conversed with Surgeon Powell with much knowledge upon the military strength of the different powers of Europe, and launched off into the fine arts with equal fluency.

She did not appear anxious to show her learning, yet understood well the political history of the country, and the faults and virtues of the different national parties.

Her reading had been varied and instructive, and she seemed glad of a chance to discuss something else than hotel fare, gambling, and mining.

When the officer and scout bade her good night and good-by, for they said they were to leave at an early hour the next morning, she asked, with a smile:

“And is this to swing around the circle, Buffalo Bill, and still play the detective upon me?”

“Indeed it is not,” answered the scout, flushing like a girl at the insinuation.

“I am glad of it, for we must be friends, you know.”

“We certainly shall be, if I am to have my way,” said the scout warmly.

“And we are also to be friends, Doctor Powell, for candidly, I will not do aught to cause either of you any trouble, and if I fight you, should anything turn up to cause me to do so, it shall be by strategy, not force.”

“Then we may as well acknowledge ourselves beaten when we are to measure strength in strategy with a woman,” said Surgeon Powell.

“For shame, to acknowledge defeat before the combat. It is not like you, Doctor Powell.”

“I am dealing with a woman now, Bonnie Belle, not a man.”

“Well, do not you or Buffalo Bill track me, for it will do no good, I assure you. I know that you wish to thwart me in setting my brother free, and from your standpoint you are right. But all that I could do in the matter I have done.”

“And failed?” said Buffalo Bill, with a smile.

“I leave that for you to decide, gentlemen. But, good night.”

She grasped the hand of each in her frank way, and they left her.

When they went to pay their score, the clerk told them that there was no charge against them, as they were the guests of the fair mistress of the Frying Pan. They could but accept the courtesy, and the clerk said that an early breakfast had been ordered for them.

And so the next morning they turned their backs upon Pocket City, and took the trail for Pioneer Post.

Their way led by the Hangman’s Gulch, and they turned in there to have a look at the numerous graves of the victims who had suffered there, dying at the end of a rope. The two freshly made graves of Tom and Jerry were there, and, as he looked at them, Buffalo Bill said:

“Twice have I come very near being placed here, Frank.”

“You have indeed, Bill.”

“Once Deadshot Dean saved me from Powder Face Pete and his gang, and you saved me the next time by your timely arrival, for those fellows intended hanging me.”

“And Bonnie Belle saved us both, Bill,” was the answer.

As they neared the fort they came in sight of the stage-trail, and upon reaching it heard the rumbling of the coach behind them.

A few moments after the coach came in sight, and by the side of Horeshoe Ned a stranger sat upon the box.

“Ho, Surgeon Powell, how is yer, and you, too, Bill?” cried Horseshoe Ned, as the coach drew up to the two pards just as they came within sight of the fort.

“All right, thank you, Ned.”

“Have you seen any road-agents this trip?” asked the Surgeon Scout.

“You bet I ain’t on the run back, doctor, but I has a pilgrim inside who held me up when I was going east, as I guess Buffalo Bill told yer.”

“Yes, he told me what a dead shot your lady passenger proved to be.”

“Dead shot? Now I should remark but she is ther deadest of ther dead shots and no mistake. She’s one among a thousand, and no harm said agin’ t’others; but I guesses yer’ll hev ter doctor him up, sir, for he’s been in the hands o’ that old Pills at ther station, and maybe he don’t know much about doctorin’.”

“All right, Horseshoe Ned, I’ll do all I can for him; but you appear to have several passengers along on this run?”

“You bet I has, sir, three passengers besides ther outlaw who is crippled in both arms. This gent ridin’ with me I don’t know by name, or I’d interdooce yer.”

Thus urged, the man riding on the box with Horseshoe Ned said:

“My name is Raymond, sir, Henry Raymond.”

“Ah! yes, I remembers hearing your pards call yer by thet name now. These gents, Mr. Raymond, is Surgeon Powell, o’ ther cavalry, and Buffalo Bill, chief of scouts, and they is among ther best men thet ever is seen in these parts.”

All bowed at the introduction, and the scouts kept up with the coach until it reached the fort.

The man who had given his name as Raymond was one who possessed the look of one to be depended on in a time of need. He was well built, quick of action, and had a dark, piercing eye that was most penetrating.

The other two passengers were heavily bearded men, such as might be found anywhere on the frontier.

As Henry Raymond dismounted from the box he turned to Surgeon Powell, who had just gotten off of his horse and said:

“You are an officer at the fort, I believe, sir?”

“Yes, the surgeon of the post.”

“I would like to see the commandant, sir, Colonel Dunwoody?”

“I will conduct you to him, if you wish.”

“I thank you, sir,” and the stranger joined the surgeon and the scout, who were going to headquarters to report their return.

Colonel Dunwoody was seated upon the piazza of his headquarters smoking an after-dinner cigar and was alone when the party arrived, for the two other passengers had come along also, Henry Raymond remarking that they were friends of his.

“Ah! Powell, glad to see you back, and you, too, Cody, for after getting word that you had gone off on the trail of a dream I began to fear that after all the redskins might have gotten hold of Buffalo Bill.”

“No, sir, the redskins did not catch him, for we have not seen an Indian; but, strange to say, colonel, my dream was not all a dream, after all, for I found him in a very tight place. But I’ll explain later, as this gentleman, whom Horseshoe Ned introduced as Mr. Henry Raymond, for he and his comrades came in on the coach, desires to see you, sir.”

The colonel turned at once to the strangers, and said, addressing the leader of the three:

“How can I serve you, Mr. Raymond?”

“I desire, sir, to present my card and this letter,” said Raymond, and he handed over a card and letter. The former had on it:

“Henry Raymond, “Pinkerton’s Detective Agency, “Chicago, Ill.”

The letter bore the official stamp of the military headquarters at Chicago, and was as follows:

“SIR: A question having arisen between the civil and military authorities, regarding the right for you to hold and try the prisoner now in your keeping, known as Silk Lasso Sam, the outlaw chief, and now under sentence of death, I have consulted the attorney-general through the secretary of war, and the result is that you are hereby ordered to turn over the said prisoner to Detective Henry Raymond, upon his presenting to you the requisition from the governor of the State of Illinois for his body, through the authorized officer of the law.”

This letter was signed by the assistant adjutant-general, and the colonel read it over with an expression upon his face which was hard to fathom.

“You have the requisition, Detective Raymond, referred to in this letter?” asked the colonel quietly.

“I have, sir. Here it is, Colonel Dunwoody,” and the detective at once presented an official-looking document which read as follows:

“Whereas Austin Arden, alias Silk Lasso Sam, having broken the laws of the State of Illinois, by the crimes of murder and robbery, I hereby make requisition of the military commander holding the said Austin Arden a prisoner, and under sentence of death by military court, to deliver to my authorized agent, Henry Raymond, detective, the body of the said Austin Arden, alias Silk Lasso Sam, for trial in the civil court of the State of Illinois.

“Signed,” etc.

“The stage does not return for several days, Detective Raymond, and before its departure you shall receive my answer,” said Colonel Dunwoody, after reading the papers handed to him by the officer.