"There's nothing there," said Peyton; "we've searched it." But the boy,
without replying, continued his way, and the crowd followed him.

The deserted wagon, more rude, disorderly, and slovenly than it had
ever seemed to him before, was now heaped and tumbled with broken bones,
cans, scattered provisions, pots, pans, blankets, and clothing in the
foul confusion of a dust-heap. But in this heterogeneous mingling the
boy's quick eye caught sight of a draggled edge of calico.

"That's Mrs. Silsbee's dress!" he cried, and leapt into the wagon.

At first the men stared at each other, but an instant later a dozen
hands were helping him, nervously digging and clearing away the rubbish.
Then one man uttered a sudden cry, and fell back with frantic but
furious eyes uplifted against the pitiless, smiling sky above him.

"Great God! look here!"

It was the yellowish, waxen face of Mrs. Silsbee that had been
uncovered. But to the fancy of the boy it had changed; the old familiar
lines of worry, care, and querulousness had given way to a look of
remote peace and statue-like repose. He had often vexed her in her
aggressive life; he was touched with remorse at her cold, passionless
apathy now, and pressed timidly forward. Even as he did so, the man,
with a quick but warning gesture, hurriedly threw his handkerchief
over the matted locks, as if to shut out something awful from his view.
Clarence felt himself drawn back; but not before the white lips of a
bystander had whispered a single word--

"Scalped, too! by God!"