No one answered, and they rode on in silence. The true born and raised Westerner, is naturally superstitious. It seems inherent with them. Though some may deny this, I _know_ it to be truth. “Wal, I don’t know as Colton’s dogs kin trail a _sperit_, but I know that truer varmints don’t live. Ef _they_ cain’t find Fred, then he _is_ gone—shore!” “Ha! listen—you hear that?” Campbell’s voice trembled with excitement. Two muffled reports came roaring over the prairie, unmistakably that of firearms. All heard them, and for a moment, believed that it was Hawksley signaling to them. But then Ruel—the keenest ear, by far, among them—cried: “Ef it’s Fred, he’s at Colton’s. Them shots kem from thar.” “He’d hardly have gone there—and if he did, why would he fire?” “He wouldn’t—’tain’t him. Boys—you hear _me_; thar’s trouble thar!” muttered Ruel, as several more reports—sounding confused as though fired in an irregular volley—came faintly to their ears. “That’s so—ride now, boys; never mind the horses. There’s more at stake than their lives!” gritted Campbell, for the moment forgetting the strange disappearance of his friend, in the knowledge that others were threatened. But there is a limit to animal endurance, and though better horses were never bestrode than those of the young hunters, they galloped heavily and laboriously. That day and night had been too much for them. Though loving their noble beasts, the young rangers now plied their spurs mercilessly. As Ruel had said, there was trouble ahead. With voice and rowel they urged the failing animals on, their hearts beating rapidly with the fear of being too late. And the horses, true to the core, plunged on, less and less rapidly. “Ha—look!” Campbell it was that spoke, but the gesture of his outstretched hand was unheeded. All eyes beheld the same object, and easily interpreted its meaning. Sweeping round a timber island, a thrilling sight burst upon their gaze. A bright glare was rapidly ascending to the heavens, spreading and growing more and more vivid with each moment. One glance told them the meaning of this. A house was burning—the house of their friend and neighbor, Henry Colton! That this was result of no accident, was equally plain, for again there broke forth the significant crash of firearms. It meant murder and rapine. “We must make it, boys, whether it kills the horses or not!” gritted Campbell. “One more dash, and we’ll do—_now_!” With the words, spurs were plunged rowel deep into the already deeply scored sides of the tortured beasts, and with wild snorts of pain and terror, they dashed madly toward the brilliant light. Holding their breaths, the young hunters handled their weapons and prepared for the result. The half-mile was lessened to one-half that—a third, and still the animals thunder on.