Confident that no hostiles would be left behind to observe his movements,
Keith pressed steadily forward, leading his horse. He had thus traversed
fully half a mile before coming upon any evidence of a fight--here the
pursuers had apparently come up with the wagons, and circled out upon
either side. From their ponies' tracks there must have been a dozen in the
band. Perhaps a hundred yards further along lay two dead ponies. Keith
examined them closely--both had been ridden with saddles, the marks of the
cinches plainly visible. Evidently one of the wagon mules had also dropped
in the traces here, and had been dragged along by his mates. Just beyond
came a sudden depression in the prairie down which the wagons had plunged
so heavily as to break one of the axles; the wheel lay a few yards away,
and, somewhat to the right, there lay the wreck of the wagon itself, two
dead mules still in the traces, the vehicle stripped of contents and
charred by fire. A hundred feet farther along was the other wagon, its
tongue broken, the canvas top ripped open, while between the two were
scattered odds and ends of wearing apparel and provisions, with a pile of
boxes smoking grimly. The remaining mules were gone, and no semblance of
life remained anywhere. Keith dropped his reins over his horse's head,
and, with Winchester cocked and ready, advanced cautiously.

Death from violence had long since become almost a commonplace occurrence
to Keith, yet now he shrank for an instant as his eyes perceived the
figure of a man lying motionless across the broken wagon tongue. The
grizzled hair and beard were streaked with blood, the face almost
unrecognizable, while the hands yet grasped a bent and shattered rifle.
Evidently the man had died fighting, beaten down by overwhelming numbers
after expending his last shot. Then those fiends had scalped and left him
where he fell. Fifty feet beyond, shot in the back, lay a younger man,
doubled up in a heap, also scalped and dead. That was all; Keith scouted