observed Buck Tom at that moment, he would have seen that
the outlaw started and rose almost up on one elbow, while a deep flush
suffused his bronzed countenance. The action and the flush were only
momentary, however he sank down again and turned his face to the wall.

Charlie also started and looked at Shank when the name of May was
mentioned, and the eye of Hunky Ben was on him at the moment. But Hunky
of course could not interpret the start. He knew little of our hero's
past history--nothing whatever about May. Being a western scout, no
line of his mahogany-looking face indicated that the start aroused a
thought of any kind.

While the recipients of the letters were busily perusing their missives,
Dick Darvall gave the scout a brief outline of his expedition to the
ranch, reserving the graphic narration of incidents to a more fitting
occasion, when all the party could listen.

"Dick, you're a trump," said the scout.

"I'm a lucky fellow, anyhow," returned Dick.

"In very truth ye are, lad, to escape from such a big bunch o' Redskins
without a scratch; why--"

"Pooh!" interrupted the sailor, "that's not the luck I'm thinkin' of.
Havin' overhauled Roarin' Bull an' his little girl in time to help
rescue them, that's what I call luck--d'ee see?"

"Yes, I see," was Hunky Ben's laconic reply.

Perhaps the scout saw more than was intended, for he probably observed
the glad enthusiasm with which the bold seaman mentioned Roaring Bull's
little girl. We cannot tell. His wooden countenance betrayed no sign,
and he may have seen nothing; but he was a western scout, and accustomed
to take particular note of the smallest signs of the wilderness.

"Capital--first-rate!" exclaimed Charlie, looking up from his letter
when he had finished it.

"Just what I was going to say, or something of the same sort," said
Leather, as he folded his epistle.

"Then there's nothing but good news?" said Charlie.

"Nothing. I suppose it's the same with you, to judge from your looks,"
returned Shank.

"Exactly. Perhaps," said Charlie, "it may interest you all to hear my
letter. There are no secrets in it, and the gentleman who writes it is
a jolly old fellow, Jacob Crossley by name. You know him, Dick, as the
owner of the _Walrus_, though you've never seen him."

"All right. I remember; fire away," said Dick.

"It is dated from his office in London," continued our hero, "and runs
thus:--

"MY DEAR BROOKE,--We were all v