Whatever might be the nature of the tragedy it would be over with longbefore this, and those moving black spots away yonder to the west, thathe had discerned from the bluff, were undoubtedly the departing raiders.There was nothing left for Keith to do except determine the fate of theunfortunates, and give their bodies decent burial. That any had escaped,or yet lived, was altogether unlikely, unless, perchance, women had beenin the party, in which case they would have been borne away prisoners.
Confident that no hostiles would be left behind to observe hismovements, Keith pressed steadily forward, leading his horse. He hadthus traversed fully half a mile before coming upon any evidence of afight--here the pursuers had apparently come up with the wagons, andcircled out upon either side. From their ponies' tracks there must havebeen a dozen in the band. Perhaps a hundred yards further along laytwo dead ponies. Keith examined them closely--both had been ridden withsaddles, the marks of the cinches plainly visible. Evidently one of thewagon mules had also dropped in the traces here, and had been draggedalong by his mates. Just beyond came a sudden depression in the prairiedown which the wagons had plunged so heavily as to break one of theaxles; the wheel lay a few yards away, and, somewhat to the right, therelay the wreck of the wagon itself, two dead mules still in the traces,the vehicle stripped of contents and charred by fire. A hundred feetfarther along was the other wagon, its tongue broken, the canvas topripped open, while between the two were scattered odds and ends ofwearing apparel and provisions, with a pile of boxes smoking grimly. Theremaining mules were gone, and no semblance of life remained anywhere.Keith dropped his reins over his horse's head, and, with Winchestercocked and ready, advanced cautiously.
Death from violence had long since become almost a commonplaceoccurrence to Keith, yet now he shrank for an instant as his eyesperceived the figure of a man lying motionless across the broken wagontongue. The grizzled hair and beard were streaked with blood, the facealmost unrecognizable, while the hands yet grasped a bent and shatteredrifle. Evidently the man had died fighting, beaten down by overwhelmingnumbers after expending his last shot. Then those fiends had scalpedand left him where he fell. Fifty feet beyond, shot in the back, lay ayounger man, doubled up in a heap, also scalped and dead. That was all;Keith scouted over a wide circle, even scanning the stretch of gravelunder the river bank, before he could fully satisfy himself there wereno others in the party. It seemed impossible that these two travellingalone would have ventured upon such a trip in the face of known Indianhostility. Yet they must have done so, and once again his lips muttered:
"Of all the blame fools!"
Suddenly he halted, staring about over the prairie, obsessed by a newthought, an aroused suspicion. There had appeared merely the hoof-printsof the one horse alongside of the fleeing wagons when they first turnedout from the trail, and that horse had been newly shod. But there weretwo dead ponies lying back yonder; neither shod, yet both had bornesaddles. More than this, they had been spurred, the blood marks stillplainly visible, and one of them was branded; he remembered it now, astar and arrow. What could all this portend? Was it possible this attackwas no Indian affair after all? Was the disfiguring of bodies, thescalping, merely done to make it appear the act of savages? Drivento investigation by this suspicion, he passed again over the trampledground, marking this time every separate indentation, every faintestimprint of hoof or foot. There was no impression of a moccasin anywhere;every mark remaining was of booted feet. The inference was sufficientlyplain--this had been the deed of white men, not of red; foul murder, andnot savage war.
The knowledge seemed to seer Keith's brain with fire, and he sprang tohis feet, hands clinched and eyes blazing. He could have believed thisof Indians, it was according to their nature, their method of warfare;but the cowardliness of it, the atrocity of the act, as perpetratedby men of his own race, instantly aroused within him a desire forvengeance. He wanted to run the fellows down, to discover theiridentity. Without thinking of personal danger, he ran forward on theirtrail, which led directly westward, along the line of cottonwoods. Theseserved to conceal his own movements, yet for the moment, burning withpassion, he was utterly without caution, without slightest sense ofperil. He must know who was guilty of such a crime; he felt capable ofkilling them even as he would venomous snakes. It was a perfectly plaintrail to follow, for the fugitives, apparently convinced of safety, andconfident their cowardly deed would be charged to Indian raiders, hadmade no particular effort at concealment, but had ridden away at agallop, their horses' hoofs digging deeply into the soft turf. On thisretreat they had followed closely along the river bank, aiming for theford, and almost before he realized it Keith was himself at the water'sedge where the trail abruptly ended, staring vaguely across towardthe opposite shore. Even as he stood there, realizing the futility offurther pursuit amid the maze of sand dunes opposite, the sharp reportsof two rifles reached him, spurts of smoke rose from the farther bank,and a bullet chugged into the ground at his feet, while another sangshrilly overhead.
These shots, although neither came sufficiently near to be alarming,served to send Keith to cover. Cool-headed and alert now, his firstmad rage dissipated, he scanned the opposite bank cautiously, but couldnowhere discover any evidence of life. Little by little he comprehendedthe situation, and decided upon his own action. The fugitives were awareof his presence, and would prevent his crossing the stream, yet theywere not at all liable to return to this side and thus reveal theiridentity. To attempt any further advance would be madness, but he feltperfectly secure from molestation so long as he remained quietly on thenorth shore. Those shots were merely a warning to keep back; the veryfact that the men firing kept concealed was proof positive that theysimply wished to be left alone. They were not afraid of what he knewnow, only desirous of not being seen. Confident as to this, he retreatedopenly, without making the slightest effort to conceal his movements,until he had regained the scene of murder. In evidence of the truth ofhis theory no further shots were fired, and although he watched thatopposite sand bank carefully, not the slightest movement revealed thepresence of others. That every motion he made was being observed by keeneyes he had no doubt, but this knowledge did not disconcert him, nowthat he felt convinced fear of revealment would keep his watchers at asafe distance. Whoever they might be they were evidently more anxious toescape discovery than he was fearful of attack, and possessed no desireto take his life, unless it became necessary to prevent recognition.They still had every reason to believe their attack on the wagons wouldbe credited to hostile Indians, and would consider it far safer toremain concealed, and thus harbor this supposition. They could notsuspect that Keith had already stumbled upon the truth, and wasdetermined to verify it.
Secure in this conception of the situation, yet still keeping a wary eyeabout to guard against any treachery, the plainsman, discovering a spadein the nearest wagon, hastily dug a hole in the sand, wrapped the deadbodies in blankets, and deposited them therein, piling above the moundthe charred remains of boxes as some slight protection against prowlingwolves. He searched the clothing of the men, but found little to rewardthe effort, a few letters which were slipped into his pockets to be readlater, some ordinary trinkets hardly worth preserving except that theymight assist in identifying the victims, and, about the neck of theelder man, a rather peculiar locket, containing a portrait paintedon ivory. Keith was a long time opening this, the spring being veryingeniously concealed, but upon finally succeeding, he looked uponthe features of a woman of middle age, a strong mature face of markedrefinement, exceedingly attractive still, with smiling dark eyes, anda perfect wealth of reddish brown hair. He held the locket open in hishands for several minutes, wondering who she could be, and what possibleconnection she could have held with the dead. Something about that facesmiling up into his own held peculiar fascination for him, gripping himwith a strange feeling of familiarity, touching some dim memory whichfailed to respond. Surely he had never seen the original, for she wasnot one to be easily forgotten, and yet eyes, hair, expressi
on,combined to remind him of some one whom he had seen but could not bringdefinitely to mind. There were no names on the locket, no marks ofidentification of any kind, yet realizing the sacredness of it, Keithslipped the fragile gold chain about his neck, and securely hid thetrinket beneath his shirt.
It was noon by this time, the sun high overhead, and his horse, withdangling rein, still nibbling daintily at the short grass. There wasno reason for his lingering longer. He swept his gaze the length andbreadth of the desolate valley, and across the river over the sandhills. All alike appeared deserted, not a moving thing being visiblebetween the bluffs and the stream. Still he had the unpleasant feelingof being watched, and it made him restless and eager to be away. Theearlier gust of anger, the spirit of revenge, had left him, but it hadmerely changed into a dogged resolution to discover the perpetrators ofthis outrage and bring them to justice for the crime. The face in thelocket seemed to ask it of him, and his nature urged response. But hecould hope to accomplish nothing more here, and the plainsman swunghimself into the saddle. He turned his horse's head eastward, and rodeaway. From the deeply rutted trail he looked back to where the firestill smoked in the midst of that desolate silence.
Chapter III. An Arrest