Nor was there attempt at rescue. Mounting his four captives on their horses, their feet lashed to the stirrups, their hands bound, all the abandoned arms, ammunition and provisions destroyed and the camp burned, Loring led promptly away up the range toward the north until clear of the timber, then down the westward slope toward the Laramie valley once more, searching for a secure place to bivouac. Far to the north the grand old peak loomed against the blue gray of the Wyoming skies. Off to their left front, uplifting a shaggy crest from its surrounding hills, a bold butte towered full twenty miles away, and toward that jagged landmark Loring saw his sergeant peering time and again, with hand-shaded eyes. "What do you see?" he presently asked. "Smoke, sir, I think. Will the lieutenant look with his glass?" Silently Loring unslung his binocular and gazed. His eyes were keen, but untrained. "Take it yourself, sergeant," he said; and the veteran trooper reined out to one side and peered long and steadily, then came trotting up to the head of the column, doubt and suppressed excitement mingling on his weather-beaten face. "I couldn't be sure, sir, but it looked for a minute like smoke." "And that means----" "Indian signals, sir. That's Eagle Butte, only a couple of miles from Hal Folsom's ranch." Loring pondered. It was long since, in any force, the Sioux had ventured south of the Platte; but now, after their victory at Warrior Gap and the tremendous reinforcement they had received from all the turbulent tribes, what was to prevent? John Folsom himself had told him it might be expected any moment. John Folsom himself had gone to that very spot, consumed with anxiety about the safety of his son, but confident of the safety of himself and those he loved when once he could reach the ranch. "No Sioux," said he, "would raise hand to harm me."