When a year passed after the departure of Neale and Larry King it seemed to Slingerland that they would never return.  There was peril on the trails these days.  He grew more and more convinced of some fatality, but he did not confide his fears to Allie.  She was happy and full of trust; every day, almost every hour, she looked for Neale.  The long wait did not drag her down; she was as fresh and hopeful as ever and the rich bloom mantled her cheek.  Slingerland had not the heart to cast a doubt into her happiness.  He let her live her dreams.

There came a day that spring when it was imperative for him to visit a distant valley, where he had left traps he now needed, and as the distance was long and time short he decided to go alone.  Allie laughed at the idea of being unsafe at the cabin.

“I can take care of myself,” she said.  “I’m not afraid.”  Slingerland scarcely doubted her.  She had nerve, courage; she knew how to use a gun; and underneath her softness and tenderness was a spirit that would not flinch at anything.  Still he did not feel satisfied with the idea of leaving her alone, and it was with a wrench that he did it now.

Moreover, he was longer at the journey than he had anticipated.  The moment he turned his face homeward, a desire to hurry, an anxiety, a dread fastened upon him.  A presentiment of evil gathered.  But, encumbered as he was with heavy traps, he could not travel swiftly.  It was late afternoon when he topped the last ridge between him and home.

What Slingerland saw caused him to drop his traps and gaze aghast.  A heavy column of smoke rose above the valley.  His first thought was of Sioux.  But he doubted if the Indians would betray his friendship.  The cabin had caught on fire by accident or else a band of wandering desperadoes had happened along to ruin him.  He ran down the slope, stole down round to the group of pines, and under cover, cautiously, approached the spot where his cabin had stood.

It was a heap of smoking logs and probably had burned for hours.  There was no sign of Allie or of any one.  Then he ran into the glade.  Almost at once he saw boot-tracks and hoof-tracks, while pelts and hides and furs lay scattered around, as if they had been discarded for choicer ones.

“Robbers!” muttered Slingerland.  “An’ they’ve got the lass!”

He shook under the roughest blow he had ever been dealt; his conscience flayed him; his distress over Allie’s fate was so keen and unfamiliar that, used as he was to prompt decision and action, he remained stock-still, staring at the ruins of his home.

Presently he roused himself.  He had no hopes.  He knew the nature of men who had done this deed.  But it was possible that he might overtake them.  In the dust he found four sizes of boot-tracks and he took the trail down the valley.

Then he became aware that a storm was imminent and that the air had become cold and raw.  Rain began to fall, and darkness came quickly.  Slingerland sought the shelter of a near-by ledge, and there, hungry, cold, wet, and unhappy, he waited for sleep that would not come.