be seen from their
top."

To the south, a stratum of yellow vapor stretched for forty degrees
along the horizon. There were no buffaloes there, but there had been,
and it was the evidence of their passage. To the north, the view was
broken by ridges, patches of wood, and curious irregularities of
surface, but there was no sign of life among all, nor could it be
detected except by peering over the edge of Hurricane Hill down upon the
assembled besiegers below. He noticed that Tom Hardynge, shading his
eyes with his hand, was gazing off with a fixed intensity in the
direction of the mountains which intervened between them and Fort
Havens. He said nothing, but there was a significance in his persistency
which aroused the curiosity of the lad in no small degree. Could it be
that his keen vision detected something tangible toward the setting sun,
which was hidden from view by the mountain range? Or was it the mere
searching for something upon which to hang his hopes?

Dick Morris was very differently occupied, acting, indeed, as if unaware
that anyone else was upon the hill-top besides himself. Crawling to the
edge, he was stretched out flat upon his face, his hat removed, while he
peered stealthily downward upon the crowd below. Probably, he, too, was
searching for something or somebody. There was so much meaning in his
actions that the interest of the lad centered upon him, and he watched
every motion.

The hunter fidgeted around for a few minutes, as if his posture was not
exactly comfortable, and then hastily projecting his gun over the
margin, he took a quick aim and fired, and then flinging the weapon
aside, looked down again to see the result. All at once, he sprang to
his feet, and stamped back toward the center of the plateau, in a
terrific rage.

"Ain't it awful!" he exclaimed, adding a forcible expletive. "Did I ever
make a bigger mistake?"

"What do you mean, Dick?"

"Hit the wrong skunk."

"How is that?" asked Tom, turning toward him.

"I've been figuring around for half an hour so as to draw a bead on Lone
Wolf, and just as I pulled the trigger, I found I'd hit the wrong one.
It's trying to one's feelings to be disappointed that way."

"I don't b'leve you'll get a chance at him," said Tom, as he seated
himself and resumed his patient scrutiny of the western horizon.

However the scout was not quite in despair, and, reloading his piece, he
returned to his position and resumed his watch. But the mist