of the train, which was then making its laborious way through a series of foothills. He was in one of his moods when he wished to have no companion,—not even his favorite “younker,” Alden Payne. Suddenly from the cliffs on his right rang the sharp report of a rifle. There could be no mistaking the target, for the bowl of his briarwood pipe was shattered and sent flying into space, leaving only a stump of the stem between his lips.
It may be doubted whether any incident in his stormy life had ever thrown the guide into such a rage as this occurrence. He turned his head like a flash and glared at the point from which the shot had come. He detected the faint blue wreath curling upward from behind a huge boulder and was off his horse in a twinkling. His friends saw him dash up the cliff and pass from sight. They did not check the train, but since they were following a well marked trail, were confident he would soon return. When night closed in, however, and they went into camp he was still absent.
The guards were placed with the usual care and every man was on the alert. It was about midnight, when Fleming the leader heard a soft whistle from somewhere among the rocks
