“I’ve got to go,” replied Neale, with emotion.  “It’s nearly a year since I saw Allie.  Not a word between us in all that time! ...  Red, I can’t stand it longer.”

“Shore, I know,” replied King, hastily.  “You ain’t reckonin’ I wanted to crawfish?  I’ll go.  We’ll pack light, hit the trail at night, an’ hide up in the daytime.”

Neale had arrived in North Platte before noon, and before sunset he and King were far out on the swelling slopes of plainland, riding toward the west.

Traveling by night, camping by day, they soon left behind them the monotonous plains of Nebraska.  The Sioux had been active for two summers along the southern trails of Wyoming.  The Texan’s long training on the ranges stood them in good stead here.  His keen eye for tracks and smoke and distant objects, his care in hiding trails and selecting camps, and his skill and judgment in all pertaining to the horses—­these things made the journey possible.  For they saw Indian signs more than once before the Wyoming hills loomed up in the distance.  More than one flickering camp-fire they avoided by a wide detour.

Slingerland’s valley showed all the signs of early summer.  The familiar trail, however, bore no tracks of horses or man or beast.  A heavy rain had fallen recently and it would have obliterated tracks.

Neale’s suspense sustained the added burden of dread.  In the oppressive silence of the valley he read some nameless reason for fear.  The trail seemed the same, the brook flowed and murmured as of old, the trees shone soft and green, but Neale sensed a difference.  He dared not look at Larry for confirmation of his fears.  The valley had not of late been lived in!

Neale rode hard up the trail under the pines.  A blackened heap lay where once the cabin had stood.  Neale’s heart gave a terrible leap and then seemed to cease beating.  He could not breathe nor speak nor move.  His eyes were fixed on the black remains of Slingerland’s cabin.

“Gawd Almighty!” gasped Larry, and he put out a shaking hand to clutch Neale.  “The Injuns!  I always feared this—­spite of Slingerland’s talk.”

The feel of Larry’s fierce fingers, like hot, stinging arrows in his flesh, pierced Neale’s mind and made him realize what his stunned faculties had failed to grasp.  It seemed to loosen the vise-like hold upon his muscles, to liberate his tongue.

He fell off his horse.

“Red!  Look—­look around!”

Allie was gone!  The disappointment at not seeing her was crushing, and the fear of utter loss was terrible.  Neale lay on the ground, blind, sick, full of agony, with his fingers tearing at the grass.  The evil presentiments that had haunted him for months had not been groundless fancies.  Perhaps Allie had called to him again, in another hour of calamity, and this time he had not responded.  She was gone!  That idea struck him cold.  It meant the most dreadful of all happenings.  For a while he lay there, prostrate under the shock.  He was dimly aware of Larry’s coming and sitting down beside him.