Hawksley remained thus, bowed down in mute agony, until the quickly repeating thud of horses’ hoofs approaching in rapid gallop roused him. Then he clutched his rifle and glared around, his bloodshot eyes blazing with vengeance. “Hold! Hawksley—don’t fire—we’re friends,” cried a loud, clear voice that he recognized through the blind passion that possessed him. Slowly he lowered his rifle, passing a hand across his eyes, as though something obstructed his vision. He did not return the salutation, nor speak a word as the two young men rode up, but silently pointed a finger toward the ghastly relics that strewed the sward. “My God! what is this?” gasped Ned Campbell, reeling in his saddle, shrinking back as a horrible fear struck to his heart. Zeb Ruel—his companion—did not speak, but dismounted and slowly approached the spot. Leaning upon his rifle Hawksley closely watched his movements, a convulsive tremor agitating his frame as Ruel coolly picked up one of the gnawed and disfigured skulls, turning it about and viewing it from different sides. With a grunt he tossed the fragment aside, then looked around for the other—as one glance was enough to decide that at least two persons had met their death at this point. His actions were vastly different here, for this skull was smaller and more delicately shaped, such as one would naturally supposed a woman’s to be. Tremblingly the two men watched their companion. Upon him their hopes depended. He was by far the most acute and experienced of the trio, and besides was not so deeply interested as they. Hence his judgment was the more apt to be reliable. Zeb Ruel did not touch this skull. The two watchers thought he seemed afraid to, and their hearts sunk still lower. Whistling softly he strode slowly around the stained and trampled spot. He examined the blanket, then the fragment of Fannie’s dress. There were other pieces of cloth, evidently from garments worn by a man. Several large buttons, and the texture of the cloth proved that. Abruptly pausing he poked at some object with the butt of his rifle. Whatever it was seemed wound round a fragment of bone. Stooping, he gingerly freed it with his fingers, then held it aloft, critically eying it. Campbell and Hawksley both uttered little cries. They could see that it was a mass of hair, though the dust that covered it, disguised the color. Shaking it gently, Ruel examined it closely. A long whistle, expressive of surprise, broke from his lips. “What is it, Ruel?” faltered Hawksley. “See! a skelp—no, by thunder! it’s a false b’ard!” was the astonished reply. “Let me see,” and Hawksley snatched the article from Zeb’s hands. “Yes—it is his! He—Mark Haley wore this, and I—cursed fool that I am!—I thought it natural! Then it is true, as I feared—they are both dead! Fannie, my darling child—oh God!” and sinking to the ground, the stricken father burst into tears.