“Thar ’ll be a camp here soon,” he said, swinging down from the saddle, and studying the ground.  “The wind has ’bout blotted it all out, but you kin see yere back o’ this ridge whar they turned in, an’ they was walkin’ their horses.  Gittin’ pretty tired, I reckon.  We might as well stop yere too, Sergeant, an’ eat some cold grub.  You two men spread her out, an’ rub down the hosses, while Hamlin an’ I poke about a bit.  Better find out all we kin, ‘Brick,’ ’fore it gits dark.”

He started forward on the faint trail, his rifle in the hollow of his arm, and the Sergeant ranged up beside him.  The sand was to their ankles, and off the ridge summit the wind whirled the sharp grit into their faces.

“What’s comin’, Sam; a storm?”

“Snow,” answered the scout shortly, “a blizzard of it, er I lose my guess.  ’Fore midnight yer won’t be able ter see yer hand afore yer face.  I ‘ve ben out yere in them things a fore, an’ they’re sure hell.  If we don’t git sight o’ thet outfit mighty soon, ’t ain’t likely we ever will.  I ‘ve been expectin’ that wind to shift nor’east all day—­then we’ll get it.”  He got down on his knees, endeavoring to decipher some faint marks on the sand.  “Two of ’em dismounted yere, an Injun an’ a white—­a big feller by his hoof prints—­an’ they went on leadin’ their hosses.  Goin’ into camp, I reckon—­sure, here’s the spot now.  Well, I ’ll be damned!”

Both men stood staring—­under protection of a sand ridge was a little blackened space where some mesquite chips had been burned, and all about it freshly trampled sand, and slight impressions where men had outstretched themselves.  Almost at Wasson’s feet fluttered a pink ribbon, and beyond the fire circle lay the body of a man, face up to the sky.  It was Connors, a ghastly bullet hole between his eyes, one cheek caked black with blood.  The Sergeant sprang across, and bent over the motionless form.

“Pockets turned inside out,” he said, glancing back.  “The poor devil!”

“Had quite a row here,” returned the scout.  “That stain over thar is blood, an’ it never come from him, fer he died whar he fell.  Most likely he shot furst, er used a knife.  The girl’s with ’em anyhow; I reckon this yere was her ribbon; that footprint is sure.”

He stirred up the scattered ashes, and then passed over and looked at the dead man.

“What do yer think, Sergeant?”

“They stopped here to eat, maybe five hours ago,” pushing the ashes about with his toe.  “The fire has been out that long.  Then they got into a quarrel—­Connors and Dupont—­for he was shot with a Colt ‘45’; no Indian ever did that.  Then they struck out again with two led horses.  I should say they were three or four hours ahead, travelling slow.”

“Good enough,” and Wasson patted his arm.  “You ’re a plainsman all right, ‘Brick.’  You kin sure read signs.  Thet ’s just ’bout the whole story, as I make it.  Nuthin’ fer us to do but snatch a bite an’ go on.  Our hosses ’re fresher ‘n theirs.  No sense our stoppin’ to bury Connors; he ain’t worth it, an’ the birds ‘ll take care o’ him.  The outfit was still a headin’ south—­see!”