“No sign of any one,” he said, huskily.  “Not even a track! ...  Thet fire must hev been about two weeks ago.  Mebbe more, but not much.  There’s been a big rain an’ the ground’s all washed clean an’ smooth ...  Not a track!”

It was the cowboy’s habit to calculate the past movements of people and horses by the nature of the tracks they left.

Then Neale awoke to violence.  He sprang up and rushed to the ruins of the cabin, frantically tore and dug around the burnt embers, and did not leave off until he had overhauled the whole pile.  There was nothing but ashes and embers.  Whereupon he ran to the empty corrals, to the sheds, to the wood-pile, to the spring, and all around the space once so habitable.  There was nothing to reward his fierce energy—­nothing to scrutinize.  Already grass was springing in the trails and upon spots that had once been bare.

Neale halted, sweating, hot, wild, before his friend.  Larry avoided his gaze.

“She’s gone! ...  She’s gone!” Neale panted.

“Wal, mebbe Slingerland moved camp an’ burned this place,” suggested Larry.  “He was sore after them four road-agents rustled in heah.”

“No—­no.  He’d have left the cabin.  In case he moved—­Allie was to write me a note—­telling me how to find them.  I remember—­we picked out the place to hide the note ...  Oh! she’s gone!  She’s gone!”

“Wal, then, mebbe Slingerland got away an’ the cabin was burned after.”

“I can’t hope that ...  I tell you—­it means hell’s opened up before me.”

“Wal, it’s tough, I know, Neale, but mebbe—­”

Neale wheeled fiercely upon him.  “You’re only saying those things!  You don’t believe them!  Tell me what you do really think.”

“Lord, pard, it couldn’t be no wuss,” replied Larry, his lean face working.  “I figger only one way.  This heah.  Slingerland had left Allie alone ...  Then—­she was made away with an’ the cabin burned.”

“Indians?”

“Mebbe.  But I lean more to the idee of an outfit like thet one what was heah.”

Neale groaned in his torture.  “Not that, Reddy—­not that! ...  The Indians would kill her—­scalp her—­or take her captive into their tribe ...  But a gang of cutthroat ruffians like these ...  My God! if I knew that had happened it’d kill me.”

Larry swore at his friend.  “It can’t do no good to go to pieces,” he expostulated.  “Let’s do somethin’.”

“What—­in Heaven’s name!” cried Neale, in despair.

“Wal, we can rustle up every trail in these heah Black Hills.  Mebbe we can find Slingerland.”

Then began a search—­frantic, desperate, and forlorn on the part of Neale; faithful and dogged and keen on the part of King.  Neale was like a wild man.  He heeded no advice or caution.  Only the cowboy’s iron arm saved Neale and his horse.  It was imperative to find water and grass, and to eat, necessary things which Neale seemed to have forgotten.  He seldom slept or rested or ate.  They risked meeting the Sioux in every valley and on every ridge.  Neale would have welcomed the sight of Indians; he would have rushed into peril in the madness of his grief.  Still, there was hope!  He lived all the hours in utter agony of mind, but his heart did not give up.