On the next morning, we started again, Tom, the boy, and myself. Little trouble was anticipated by me from the red-skins, in spite of what Bear had heard. The road from the Humboldt was so constantly travelled over, and lay so much out of the usual line of their depredations, that I was almost disinclined to put full faith in the account which he had so implicitly accepted. Mud Spring Station had, however, been apparently abandoned, and we were compelled to push on to Smoke Creek without resting there. Next day, we rose early, and made the best speed we could, in the hope of reaching Deep Hole on the same night. This was, however, in consequence of the depth of the snow in many places, impossible. We were forced to stop at Wall Springs. This was at six miles' distance from the point to which our steps were directed. When, on the succeeding day, shortly after dawn, we arrived at the Station, we found that the travellers had told Tom nothing but the truth. Nevertheless, on a thorough examination, I found that none of the provisions or blankets had been taken. Nothing but the guns and ammunition had been made away with. But for the marks of blood on the floor and in the doorway, it is more than probable Bear's suspicions might have been equally divided between the man he had left in charge of the Station and the red-skins. As yet, nothing had been found inside the premises to indisputably settle the fact of the man's murder, or if he had been murdered, to prove how or by whom the outrage had been committed. The snow in front of the house might possibly have offered some proof; but the feet of the party who had brought the news to Honey Lake, had effaced all such evidence, which might have been left on it. Some days had, to a certainty, elapsed. My life in the last few years had, however, taught me the two great Indian virtues, patience and persistence. Only half of our search was yet over. I began to examine the grounds round the Station, and found, leading to one of the largest and deepest of the springs from which it has taken its name, the track of moccasins. Getting a long _lariat_, which lame Tom had procured for me, I extemporized a hook from the hoop of an old keg, and with the line to which I had attached it, began fishing in the spring, for anything I might find in it. Nor, was my search long unrewarded. Shortly after, in dragging the bottom, my hook caught hold of something heavy. When we had raised it to the surface of the water, it proved to be a body. As I glanced at Bear, he said, with almost a groan: "Sure enough, it's poor Dave." The head of the murdered man had been split with a hatchet, and afterwards scalped. A fragment of rock had been tied to the body by the Pah-utes for the purpose of sinking it.