But from one encampment two faces were missing until late—­Banion and Jackson of the Missourians.  Sam Woodhull, erstwhile column captain of the great train, of late more properly to be called unattached, also was absent.  It was supposed by their friends that these men might be out late, superintending the butchering, or that at worst they were benighted far out and would find their way to camp the next morning.

Neither of these guesses was correct.  Any guess, to be correct, must have included in one solution the missing men of both encampments, who had hunted miles apart.

CHAPTER XXI

THE QUICKSANDS

As Banion and Jackson ended their part in the buffalo running and gave instructions to the wagon men who followed to care for the meat, they found themselves at a distance of several miles from their starting point.  They were deep into a high rolling plateau where the going was more difficult than in the level sunken valley of the Platte.  Concluding that it would be easier to ride the two sides of the triangle than the one over which they had come out, they headed for the valley at a sharp angle.  As they rode, the keen eye of Jackson caught sight of a black object apparently struggling on the ground at the bottom of a little swale which made down in a long ribbon of green.

“Look-ee yan!” he exclaimed.  “Some feller’s lost his buffler, I expect.  Let’s ride down an’ put him out’n his misery afore the wolves does.”

They swung off and rode for a time toward the strange object.  Banion pulled up.

“That’s no buffalo!  That’s a man and his horse!  He’s bogged down!”

“You’re right, Will, an’ bogged bad!  I’ve knew that light-green slough grass to cover the wurst sort o’ quicksand.  She runs black sand under the mud, God knows how deep.  Ye kain’t run a buffler inter hit—­he knows.  Come on!”

They spurred down a half mile of gentle slope, hard and firm under foot, and halted at the edge of one of the strange man-traps which sometimes were found in the undrained Plains—­a slough of tall, coarse, waving grass which undoubtedly got its moisture from some lower stratum.

In places a small expanse of glistening black mud appeared, although for the most part the mask of innocent-looking grass covered all signs of danger.  It was, in effect, the dreaded quicksand, the octopus of the Plains, which covered from view more than one victim and left no discoverable trace.

The rider had attempted to cross a narrow neck of the slough.  His mount had begun to sink and flounder, had been urged forward until the danger was obvious.  Then, too late, the rider had flung off and turned back, sinking until his feet and legs were gripped by the layer of deep soft sand below.  It was one of the rarest but most terrible accidents of the savage wilderness.