“We ain’t fur behind, but I reckon fur enough to be too late,” said Slingerland.  And he clenched a big fist.

On this level trail he led at a gallop, with the troops behind in the clattering roar.  They made short work of that valley.  Then rougher ground hindered speedy advance.

Presently Slingerland sighted something that made him start.  It proved to be the charred skeleton of a prairie-schooner.  The oxen were nowhere to be seen.

Then they saw that a little beyond blankets and camp utensils littered the trail.  Still farther on the broad wheel-tracks sheered off the road, where the hurried drivers had missed the way in the dark.  This was open, undulating ground, rock-strewn and overgrown with brush.  A ledge of rock, a few scraggy trees, and more black, charred remains of wagons marked the final scene of the massacre.

Neale was the first man who dismounted, and Larry King was the second.  They had outstripped the more cautious troopers.

“My Gawd!” breathed Larry.

Neale gripped his rifle with fierce hands and strode forward between two of the burned wagons.  Naked, mutilated bodies, bloody and ghastly, lay in horrible positions.  All had been scalped.

Slingerland rode up with the troops, and all dismounted, cursing and muttering.

Colonel Dillon ordered a search for anything to identify the dead.  There was nothing.  All had been burned or taken away.  Of the camp implements, mostly destroyed, there were two shovels left, one with a burnt handle.  These were used by the troopers to dig graves.

Neale had at first been sickened by the ghastly spectacle.  He walked aside a little way and sat down upon a rock.  His face was wet with clammy sweat.  A gnawing rage seemed to affect him in the pit of the stomach.  This was his first experience with the fiendish work of the savages.  A whirl of thoughts filled his mind.

Suddenly he fancied he heard a low moan.  He started violently.  “Well, I’m hearing things,” he muttered, soberly.

It made him so nervous that he got up and walked back to where the troopers were digging.  He saw the body of a woman being lowered into a grave and the sight reminded him of what Slingerland had said.  He saw the scout searching around and he went over to him.

“Have you found the girl?” he asked.

“Not yet.  I reckon the devils made off with her.  They’d take her, if she happened to be alive.”

“God!  I hope she’s dead.”

“Wal, son, so does Al Slingerland.”

More searching failed to find the body of the girl.  She was given up as lost.

“I’ll find out if she was took captive,” said Slingerland.  “This Sioux band has been friendly with me.”

“Man, they’re on the war-path,” rejoined Dillon.

“Wal, I’ve traded with them same Sioux when they was on the war-path....  This massacre sure is awful, an’ the Sioux will hev to be extarminated.  But they hev their wrongs.  An’ Injuns is Injuns.”