Neale heard the clear, ringing notes of a bugle-call.  He rolled out of his blankets.  “What’s up, Red?” he cried, reaching for his boots.

“Wal, I reckon them Injuns,” drawled Red.

It was just daylight.  They found the camp astir—­troopers running for horses, saddles, guns.

“Red, you get our horses and I’ll see what’s up,” cried Neale.

The cowboy strode off, hitching at his belt.  Neale ran forward into camp.  He encountered Lieutenant Leslie, whom he knew well, and who told him a scout had come in with news of a threatened raid; Colonel Dillon had ordered out a detachment of troopers.

“I’m going,” shouted Neale.  “Where’s that scout?”

Neale soon descried a buckskin-clad figure, and he made toward it.  The man, evidently a trapper or hunter, carried a long, brown rifle, and he had a powder-horn and bullet-pouch slung over his shoulder.  There was a knife in his belt.  Neale went directly up to the man.

“My name’s Neale,” he said.  “Can I be of any help?”

He encountered a pair of penetrating gray eyes.

“My name’s Slingerland,” replied the other, as he offered his hand.  “Are you an officer?”

“No.  I’m a surveyor.  But I can ride and shoot.  I’ve a cowboy with me—­a Texan.  He’ll go.  What’s happened?”

“Wal, I ain’t sure yet.  But I fear the wust.  I got wind of some Sioux thet was trailin’ some prairie-schooners up in the hills.  I warned the boss—­told him to break camp an’ run.  Then I come fer the troops.  But the troops had changed camp an’ I jest found them.  Reckon we’ll be too late.”

“Was it a caravan?” inquired Neale, intensely interested.

“Six wagons.  Only a few men.  Two wimmen.  An’ one girl.”

“Girl!” exclaimed Neale.

“Yes.  I reckon she was about sixteen.  A pretty girl with big, soft eyes.  I offered to take her up behind me on my hoss.  An’ they all wanted her to come.  But she wouldn’t....  I hate to think—­”

Slingerland did not finish his thought aloud.  Just then Larry rode up, leading Neale’s horse.  Slingerland eyed the lithe cowboy.

“Howdy!” drawled Larry.  He did not seem curious or eager, and his cool, easy, reckless air was in sharp contrast to Neale’s fiery daring.

“Red, you got the rifles, I see,” said Neale.

“Sure, an’ I rustled some biscuits.”

In a few moments the troops were mounted and ready.  Slingerland led them up the valley at a rapid trot and soon started to climb.  When he reached the top he worked up for a mile, and then, crossing over, went down into another valley.  Up and down he led, over ridge after ridge, until a point was reached where the St. Vrain and Laramie Trail could be seen in the valley below.  From there he led them along the top of the ridge, and just as the sun rose over the hills he pointed down to a spot where the caravan had been encamped.  They descended into this valley.  There in the trail were fresh tracks of unshod horses.