orlange. He
had been the bully of our school, and more than once we had fought, and
twice I had sent him to bed with a head that was nearly broken. He hated
me accordingly, and swore I should not win the prize I coveted."

"Did he try, too?"

"Yes, but he was outclassed from the start, for, although he was sly and
shrewd, book learning was too much for him. The examination came off,
and I got left, through Vorlange, who stole my papers and changed many
of my answers. I didn't learn of this until it was too late. My chance
of going to West Point fell through. There was nothing to do but to
thrash Vorlange, and the day before I left home I gave him a licking
that I'll wager he'll remember to the day of his death. As it was, he
tried to shoot me, but I collared the pistol, and for that dastardly
attack knocked two of his teeth down his throat."

"Served him right, Pawnee. But I don't see whar--"

"Hold on a minute, Jack. I said Vorlange didn't go to West Point; but he
was strong with the politicians, and as soon as he was old enough he got
a position under the government, and now I understand he is somewhere
around the Indian Territory acting as a spy for the land department."

"By gosh! I see. An' ye think Mortimer Arbuckle knows this same chap?"

"It would look so. If I can read faces, the old man is innocent of
wrong-doing, and if that is so and there is the secret of a crime
between him and Louis Vorlange you can wager Vorlange is the guilty
party."

"Pawnee, you hev a head on yer shoulders fit fer a judge, hang me ef ye
ain't," burst out Jack Rasco admiringly. "I wish yer would talk to
Arbuckle the next time he turns up. Mebbe yer kin lift a weight off o'
his shoulders. The poor old fellow--creation! wot's that?"

Jack Rasco stopped short and pulled up his horse. A wild, unearthly
scream rent the air, rising and falling on the wind of the night. The
scream was followed by a burst of laughter which was truly demoniacal.

Pawnee Brown pulled his horse up on his haunches. What was this new
mystery which confronted him?

Again the cry rang out; but now the scout recognized it and a faint
smile shone upon his face.

"It's the dunce," he exclaimed. "Pumpkin! Pumpkin! Come here!"

A moment of silence followed and he called again. Then from the brush
which grew among the rocks emerged the form of the half-witted boy.

"Pumpkin, where is Dick Arbuckle?" questioned Pawnee Brown, leaping to
the ground and catching