It was some hours later when the afternoon was wearing to a close, that the Missourian called his friend's attention to a low hill which rose from the perfectly level plain. As they neared it, two buzzards rose lazily from the summit of this hill; and a grey object, the size of a mongrel dog, fled down its nearest slope and skurried away toward the timber. The Missourian noticed this; nothing escaped his mild, incurious eyes. “I wonder what's up yonder. Hello! Right smart of a crowd's been heah. How old do you reckon them signs is, Jim?” and he drew in his mule. Jim scrutinized the ground before he answered. “Horses this time; ain't it? Maybe they are a week old,” but he unslung the long rifle he carried attached to his saddle; seeing which the Missourian laughed. “Now, what do you allow to use that on, Jim? Don't you see it ain't Indians? Most of these hosses had their forefeet shod. Emigrants, don't you reckon?” He pushed back his hat, and leaned languidly forward in his saddle. “They seem to have been doing right smart cavorting about heah, don't they? Some pretty aimless riding for folks who was going anywhere in particular—no—” slowly, “they certainly seemed pushed for time—these hosses was on the jump. Say, Jim, why do you reckon they was on the jump?” He moved forward a step or two, with his mild eyes still fixed on the ground. “Fact is, they seem to have been riding in a sort of a circle about this heah hill—” A dark shadow slipped across the sandy plain, and the Missourian glanced up quickly. It was another buzzard; but it was winging its way toward the hill. His glance followed it—it flew straight, with large lazy flappings. “That bird certainly knows where it's going, and it ain't wasting no time in getting there; what do you reckon's on that hill, Jim?” Jim moved uneasily in his saddle, but he managed to say with tolerable composure. “If you're so blame curious, why don't you go see?” “Well, I'm doggone certain if I left it to you we'd never know.” “We wouldn't,” the other said positively. “Well, you hold my mule; I'm going up.” He swung himself out of the saddle, and strode off up the hill. He gained the summit, and paused there, a tall dark figure against the red of the sunset. “Oh, Jim! Come heah!” he presently called. “What in blazes do you expect me to do with my mule and yours?” Jim answered angrily. “Turn them loose, they'll make for the water, it ain't more than a mile or two from heah,” advised the Missourian, with placid good nature. “Bring your gun,” he added, and then he stepped forward a pace, and Jim saw only the top of his battered hat bobbing about. When Jim joined him he was digging in a great pile of ashes with the charred spoke of a wagon-wheel. At a little distance from him were the remains of numerous mules. The Missourian looked up from his work as Jim approached.