ng in that shallow
grave near the Cimmaron Crossing, and for whose death he had been
arrested. 'T was a strange world, and a small one. What a miserable
ending to a life like his--a division commander of the Army of Northern
Virginia, a Lieutenant-Governor of his State. What strange combination
of circumstances could ever have brought such a man to this place,
and sent him forth across those Indian-scouted plains? Surely nothing
ordinary. And why should those border desperadoes have followed, through
sixty miles of desolation, to trike him down? It was not robbery,
at least in the ordinary sense. What then? And how was "Black Bart"
involved? Why should he be sufficiently interested to swear out a
warrant, and then assist in his arrest? There must be something to all
this not apparent upon the surface--some object, some purpose shrouded
in mystery. No mere quarrel, no ordinary feud, no accident of meeting,
no theory of commonplace robbery, would account for the deed, or for the
desperate efforts now being made to conceal it.

Some way, these questions, thus surging upon him, became a call to live,
to fight, to unravel their mystery. The memory of that sweet-faced woman
who had bent above him when the fever began its mastery, appealed to
him now with the opportunity of service. He might be able to clear this,
bring to her the truth, save her from despair, and hand over to justice
the murderers of her husband. It was up to him alone to accomplish
this--no one else knew what he knew, suspected what he suspected. And
there was but one way--through escape. To remain there in weak surrender
to fate could have but one ending, and that swift and sudden. He had no
doubt as to "Black Bart's" purpose, or of his ability to use the "Red
Light" outfit as desired. The whole plan was clearly evident, and there
would be no delay in execution--all they were waiting for was night, and
a lax guard. He glanced about at the walls of the room, his eyes grown
hard, his teeth clenched.

"Neb," he said shortly, "I guess that was your outfit all right, but
they were not killed by Indians. They were run down by a gang from this
town--the same fellows who have put you and me in here. I don't know
what they were after--that's to be found out later,--but the fight you
put up at the camp spoiled their game for once, and led to your arrest.
They failed to get what was wanted in Carson, and so they trailed the
party to the Cimmaron Crossing. Then I got