Slabs of rock were laid upon the graves.  Then the troopers rode away.

Neale and Slingerland and Larry King were the last to mount.  And it was at this moment that Neale either remembered the strange, low moan or heard it again.  He reined in his horse.

“I’m going back,” he called.

“What fer?” Slingerland rejoined.

Larry King wheeled his mount and trotted back to Neale.

“Red, I’m not satisfied,” said Neale, and told his friend what he thought he had heard.

“Boy, you’re oot of yur haid!” expostulated Red.

“Maybe I am.  But I’m going back.  Are you coming?”

“Shore,” replied Red, with his easy good nature.

Slingerland sat his horse and watched while he waited.  The dust-cloud that marked the troops drew farther away.

Neale dismounted, threw his bridle, and looked searchingly around.  But Larry, always more comfortable on horseback than on land, kept his saddle.  Suddenly Neale felt inexplicably drawn in a certain direction—­toward a rocky ledge.  Still he heard nothing except the wind in the few scraggy trees.  All the ground in and around the scene of the massacre had been gone over; there was no need to examine it again.  Neale had nothing tangible upon which to base his strange feeling.  Yet absurd or not, he refused to admit it was fancy or emotion.  Some voice had called him.  He swore it.  If he did not make sure he would always be haunted.  So with clear, deliberate eyes he surveyed the scene.  Then he strode for the ledge of rock.

Tufts of sage grew close at its base.  He advanced among them.  The surface of the rock was uneven—­and low down a crack showed.  At that instant a slow, sobbing, gasping intake of breath electrified Neale.

“Red—­come here!” he yelled, in a voice that made the cowboy jump.

Neale dropped to his knees and parted the tufts of sage.  Lower down the crack opened up.  On the ground, just inside that crack he saw the gleam of a mass of chestnut hair.  His first flashing thought was that here was a scalp the red devils did not get.

Then Red King was kneeling beside him—­bending forward.  “It’s a girl!” he ejaculated.

“Yes—­the one Slingerland told me about—­the girl with big eyes,” replied Neale.  He put a hand softly on her head.  It was warm.  Her hair felt silky, and the touch sent a quiver over him.  Probably she was dying.

Slingerland came riding up.  “Wal, boys, what hev you found?” he asked, curiously.

“That girl,” replied Neale.

The reply brought Slingerland sliding out of his saddle.

Neale hesitated a moment, then reaching into the aperture, he got his hands under the girl’s arms and carefully drew her out upon the grass.  She lay face down, her hair a tumbled mass, her body inert.  Neale’s quick eye searched for bloodstains, but found none.

“I remember thet hair,” said Slingerland.  “Turn her over.”