Hunky Ben is Sorely Perplexed.  
It was one of Hunky Ben’s few weaknesses to take pride in being well mounted. When he left the tavern he bestrode one of his best steeds—a black charger of unusual size, which he had purchased while on a trading trip in Texas—and many a time had he ridden it while guiding the United States troops in their frequent expeditions against ill-disposed Indians. Taken both together it would have been hard to equal, and impossible to match, Hunky Ben and his coal-black mare.
 
From the way that Ben rode, on quitting the tavern, it might have been supposed that legions of wild Indians were at his heels. But after going about a few miles at racing speed he reined in, and finally pulled up at a spot where a very slight pathway diverged. Here he sat quite still for a few minutes in meditation. Then he muttered softly to himself—for Ben was often and for long periods alone in the woods and on the plains, and found it somewhat “sociable-like” to mutter his thoughts audibly:
 
“You’ve not cotched him up after all, Ben,” he said. “Black Polly a’most equals a streak o’ lightnin’, but the Britisher got too long a start o’ ye, an’ he’s clearly in a hurry. Now, if I follow on he’ll hear your foot-falls, Polly, an’ p’raps be scared into goin’ faster to his doom. Whereas, if I go off the track here an’ drive ahead so as to git to the Blue Fork before him, I’ll be able to stop the Buck’s little game, an’ save the poor fellow’s life. Buck is sure to stop him at the Blue Fork, for it’s a handy spot for a road-agent, (a highwayman) and there’s no other near.”
 
Hunky Ben was pre-eminently a man of action. As he uttered or thought the last word he gave a little chirp which sent Black Polly along the diverging track at a speed which almost justified the comparison of her to lightning.
 
The Blue Fork was a narrow pass or gorge in the hills, the footpath through which was rendered rugged and dangerous for cattle because of the rocks that had fallen during the course of ages from the cliffs on either side. Seen from a short distance off on the main track the mountains beyond had a brilliantly blue appearance, and a few hundred yards on the other side of the pass the track forked—hence the name. One fork led up to Traitor’s Trap, the other to the fort of Quester Creek, an out-post of United States troops for which Hunky Ben was bound with the warning that the Redskins were contemplating mischief. As Ben had conjectured, this was the spot selected by Buck Tom as the most suitable place for waylaying his intended victim. Doubtless he supposed that no Englishman would travel in such a country without a good deal of money about him, and he resolved to relieve him of it.
 
It was through a thick belt of wood that the scout had to gallop at first, and he soon outstripped the traveller who kept to the main and, at that part, more circuitous road, and who was besides obliged to advance cautiously in several places. On nearing his destination, however, Ben pulled up, dismounted, fastened his mare to a tree, and proceeded the rest of the way on foot at a run, carrying his repeating rifle with him. He had not gone far when he came upon a horse. It was fastened, like his own, to a tree in a hollow.
 
“Ho! ho!” thought Ben, “you prefer to do yer dirty work on foot, Mr Buck! Well, you’re not far wrong in such a place.”
 
Advancing now with great caution, the scout left the track and moved through the woods more like a visible ghost than a man, for he was well versed in all the arts and wiles of the Indian, and his moccasined feet made no sound whatever. Climbing up the pass at some height above the level of the road, so that he might be able to see all that took place below, he at last lay down at full length, and drew himself in snake fashion to the edge of the thicket that concealed him. Pushing aside the bushes gently he looked down, and there, to his satisfaction, beheld the man he was in search of, not thirty yards off.
 
Buck Tom was crouching behind a large mass of rock close to the track, and so lost in the dark shadow of it that no ordinary man could have seen him; but nothing could escape the keen and practised eye of Hunky Ben. He could not indeed make out the highwayman’s form, but he knew that he was there and that was enough. Laying his rifle on a rock before him in a handy position he silently watched the watcher.
 
During all this time the Englishman—whom the reader has doubtless recognised as Charlie Brooke—was pushing on as fast as he could in the hope of overtaking the man who could guide him to Traitor’s Trap.
 
At last he came to the Blue Forks, and rode into the pass with the confidence of one who suspects no evil. He drew rein, however, as he advanced, and picked his way carefully along the encumbered path.
 
He had barely reached the middle of it, where a clear space permitted the moonbeams to fall brightly on the ground, when a stern voice suddenly broke the stillness of the night with the words—
 
“Hands up!”
 
Charlie Brooke seemed either to be ignorant of the ways of the country and of the fact that disobedience to the command involved sudden death, or he had grown unaccountably reckless, for instead of raising his arms and submitting to be searched by the robber who covered him with a revolver, he merely reined up and took off his hat, allowing the moon to shine full on ............