"Nothing of any importance. Merely to say that I was coming back to New
Mexico, and hoped to find you in good health."

"Did it particularise the time you expected to reach Albuquerque?"

"Yes; as far as I could fix that, if I remember rightly, it did."

"And the route you were to take?"

"That too. When I wrote the letter I intended to make trial of a new
trail lately discovered--up the Canadian, and touching the northern end
of the Staked Plain. I did make trial of it, alas! with lamentable
result. But why do you ask these questions, Colonel Miranda?"

The colonel does not make immediate answer. He appears more meditative
than ever, as though some question has come before his mind calling for
deliberate examination.

While he is thus occupied the ex-Ranger enters the room and sits down
beside them. Walt is welcome. Indeed, Don Valerian had already
designed calling him into their counsel. For an idea has occurred to
the Mexican Colonel requiring the joint consideration of all three.
Turning to the other two, he says,--

"I've been thinking a good deal about the attack on your caravan. The
more I reflect on it the more I am led to believe that some of the
Indians who plundered you were painted."

"They were all painted," is the reply of the young prairie merchant.

"True, Don Francisco; but that isn't what I mean."

"I reckon I knows what ye mean," interposes the ex-Ranger, rising
excitedly from his chair on hearing the Mexican's remark. "It's been my
own suspeeshun all along. You know what I tolt ye, Frank?"

Hamersley looks interrogatively at his old comrade.

"Did I not say," continues Wilder, "that I seed two men 'mong the Injuns
wi' ha'r upon thar faces? They wa'n't Injuns; they war whites. A'n't
that what ye mean, Kurnel Meoranda?"

"_Precisamente_!" is the colonel's reply.

The other two wait for him to continue on with the explanation Wilder
has already surmised. Even the young prairie merchant--less experienced
in Mexican ways and wickedness, in infamy so incredible--begins to have
a glimmering of the truth.

Seemingly weighing his words, Miranda proceeds,--

"No doubt it was a band of Comanche Indians that destroyed your caravan
and killed your comrades. But I have as little doubt of there being
white men among them--one at least, and that one he who planned and
instigated the deed."

"Who, Colonel Miranda?" is the quick interrogatory of the Kentuckian,
while with flashing ey