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Slingerland rode up with the troops, and all dismounted, cursing and muttering. Colonel Dillon ordered a search for anything to identify the dead. There was nothing. All had been burned or taken away. Of the camp implements, mostly destroyed, there were two shovels left, one with a burnt handle. These were used by the troopers to dig graves.

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.

Neale's bronze cheek had paled a little. "Well, if that's all, that's easy," he replied, with a cool, bright smile which showed the latent spirit in him. "If it's only that why she can have me.... Slingerland, I've no ties now. The last one was broken when my mother died not long ago.

"Red, let's wade through camp and see what we can get to take over." "Man, you mean jest steal?" queried King, in mild surprise. "No. We'll ask for things. But if we can't get what we want that way why, we'll have to do the other thing," replied Neale, thoughtfully. "Slingerland did not have even a towel over there. Think of that girl! She's been used to comfort, if not luxury.

On this level trail he led at a gallop, with the troops behind in the clattering roar. They made short work of that valley. Then rougher ground hindered speedy advance. Presently Slingerland sighted something that made him start. It proved to be the charred skeleton of a prairie-schooner. The oxen were nowhere to be seen.

"Was it a caravan?" inquired Neale, intensely interested. "Six wagons. Only a few men. Two wimmen. An' one girl." "Girl!" exclaimed Neale. "Yes. I reckon she was about sixteen. A pretty girl with big, soft eyes. I offered to take her up behind me on my hoss. An' they all wanted her to come. But she wouldn't.... I hate to think " Slingerland did not finish his thought aloud.

He sank upon a box and bowed his head. There Larry and Slingerland found him. The cowboy looked down with helpless pain. "Aw, pard don't take it so hard," he implored. But he knew and Slingerland knew that sympathy could do no good here. There was no hope, no help. Neale was stricken.

Now, Slingerland, take care of her as best you can. Shut her in when you leave camp. I'll ride over as often as possible. If she gets so she will talk, then we can find out if she has any relatives, and if so I'll take her to them. If not I'll do whatever else I can for her." "Wal, son, I like the way you're makin' yourself responsible fer thet kid," replied the trapper.

They'd take her, if she happened to be alive." "God! I hope she's dead." "Wal, son, so does Al Slingerland." More searching failed to find the body of the girl. She was given up as lost. "I'll find out if she was took captive," said Slingerland. "This Sioux band has been friendly with me." "Man, they're on the war-path," rejoined Dillon.

But then, he reflected, a trapper would not profit by the advance of civilization. With the wind in their backs Neale and Slingerland were practically blown home. They made it up between them to keep knowledge of the tragedy from Allie. So ended the coldest and hardest and grimmest day Neale had ever known. The winter passed, the snows melted, the winds quieted, and spring came.