When they reached the place, they found it to be a complete ruin. From the foundations, and what Bill Brown knew of the place, it could be determined that there had been several structures,--house, barn, shed and three other outbuildings. Nothing now remained but a few fragments of charred walls, and a portion of roof on the low shed. “Yep,” repeated Bill solemnly, “torch an’ tomahawk did this deviltry.” “I wonder what was the fate of those who lived here,” mused Ben sadly. “Sliced to ribbons by the Injun knives, lad. Mebbe the kids an’ women-folk was carried off to captivity.” “Ugh, ugh!” interjected Bright Star, pointing suddenly to the rear of the ruined barn. “What’s got into that confounded redskin now?” said Van Alstyne peevishly. “That ’ugh, ugh’ fol-de-rol of his is beginning to get on my nerves.” “What is it, chief?” asked Brown quickly, ignoring the Captain’s complaint. “Mounds of earth, behind barn. Maybe burial place.” “These are graves, that’s a certainty,” nodded Lieutenant Clark, when the group had moved over to the place pointed out by the Pottawattomee. “Four of them, and newly made,” Ben said soberly. “No doubt the graves of the Indian victims,” commented Van Alstyne acidly. “Evidently Black Hawk and his painted braves are unique among the savages. They murder the settlers and then give them civilized burial.” “Yer right on one score, Cap’n, fer a change,” answered Bill Brown calmly. “The mounds cover the bodies o’ the pore folk kilt by the Injuns. But these Christian graves are the work o’ white men, who must’ve come along arter the massacre an’ found the corpses.” “White men?” returned the Captain. “But who?” “Guess you didn’t notice that trail we crossed, when we rode in here?” “How should I? I’m no blinkin’ blood-hound.” “It was ther, plain as the nose on yer face. Come on, let’s go over an’ take a close squint at it. It may tell us a lot.” Moving away from the river, and out onto the prairie, perhaps a hundred yards, they looked down on the broad trail of many unshod horses and marks of wagon wheels. There it was, clearly imprinted on the soft, prairie earth. The trail could not speak, but still it was like a living thing. It lay silently before them, yet standing out on the brown soil, wide, vivid, and full of significance. It told the keen-eyed Bright Star and Bill Brown, the veteran scout, that here a white army had passed, many men, hundreds of them, heading hurriedly northward, up the river. This was the story the trail told. “Gad, you are right, Brown,” admitted Van Alstyne, as his eyes beheld the tell-tale evidence. “A large force of men has gone this way.” “And not long ago,” Tom Gordon declared. “The prints look fresh.” “Mighty fresh,” nodded Brown. “I’d say that they was made this very mornin’.” “I think I can offer a solution, Captain,” averred Lieutenant Clark, “as to who these men were.”