Scout Comstock and the Delawares examined the carcass, and the ground around-about, for token of arrow or cartridge-shells or pony tracks; but they could find nothing. The horse had been shot and stripped; that was all. “Then there’s the chance, isn’t there,” proposed Major Elliot, “that the animal may have dropped out, and that they shot him and took his saddle and bridle to prevent the Indians making use of him?” “We must hope so,” answered the general. Yes, they all hoped so; but presently, on the march, Comstock spoke, from where he was skirting the wagon-trail. “There’s somethin’ wrong, sure, gen’ral. Now we’re diskivverin’ signs that talk. This here party we’re follerin’ has quickened up an’ spread out more irregular, so they’re on both sides the trail, as well as in it.” “And there’s another dead horse, isn’t it?” directed Major Elliot. Yes, a second dead white horse awaited, just ahead; shot in the trail, and stripped, like the first. “Pony tracks, too, gentle-_men_,” announced Comstock, the moment that he scanned the ground about. “It’s Injuns. I knowed it. An’ the very wust place for attack, too. Nothin’ but level ground, whar they kin circle an’ shoot an’ t’other party can’t find shelter, to make a stand. Shod hosses are movin’ at a full gallop, now; so are ponies. This lootenint an’ his men are ridin’ hard for kivver. That’s plain.” “Would they make it, do you think?” “Wall,” said Comstock, again dubious, “it’s doubtful. Tryin’ to run away from a big party of Injuns, in open country, is dangerous matter—specially if you depend on speed alone. I take it this lootenint was ridin’ an’ not fightin’; an’ fust thing he’ll know he’ll be surrounded, with his hosses all tuckered out.” The pony tracks extended far on either side of the trail, showing that the Indians had been in large numbers. However, no more dead horses were found, nor any other sign of damage; and Ned began to hope, again, that the lieutenant and his men had escaped, after all. Nevertheless, it was still forty miles to Fort Wallace; a long, long way in a ride for life. Suddenly the level country dropped away into a wide valley, through which flowed a creek marked by a border of willows and high weeds. No doubt this sight had cheered the fleeing lieutenant and his party; for in the willows they might make a stand. “That’s Beaver Creek, gentle-_men_,” informed Comstock. “Whar the trail crosses we’re liable to find out a good deal of what we don’t yit know. But there’s no fightin’ goin’ on down there now; that’s sartin.” No; no sound of battle rose to the valley’s rim; and neither did any smoke of camp or of signal upwell. All was silence; utter silence. As they rode down the slope, and the stream itself was yet a mile away, General Custer pointed, without speaking. Off to the left, and ahead, several black buzzards were circling lazily and low. “Whew!” exclaimed Comstock. “Smell it? I reckon, gentle-_men_, that tells the story. Let’s go over there.”