roopers swore grimly, but the
Sergeant and scout rode in silence, bent low over their pommels, eyes
strained into the mist ahead. It was not yet dark when they rode in
between the first sand-dunes, and Wasson, pulling his horse up short,
checked the others with uplifted hand.

"Thar 'll be a camp here soon," he said, swinging down from the saddle,
and studying the ground. "The wind has 'bout blotted it all out, but
you kin see yere back o' this ridge whar they turned in, an' they was
walkin' their horses. Gittin' pretty tired, I reckon. We might as
well stop yere too, Sergeant, an' eat some cold grub. You two men
spread her out, an' rub down the hosses, while Hamlin an' I poke about
a bit. Better find out all we kin, 'Brick,' 'fore it gits dark."

He started forward on the faint trail, his rifle in the hollow of his
arm, and the Sergeant ranged up beside him. The sand was to their
ankles, and off the ridge summit the wind whirled the sharp grit into
their faces.

"What's comin', Sam; a storm?"

"Snow," answered the scout shortly, "a blizzard of it, er I lose my
guess. 'Fore midnight yer won't be able ter see yer hand afore yer
face. I 've ben out yere in them things a fore, an' they're sure hell.
If we don't git sight o' thet outfit mighty soon, 't ain't likely we
ever will. I 've been expectin' that wind to shift nor'east all
day--then we'll get it." He got down on his knees, endeavoring to
decipher some faint marks on the sand. "Two of 'em dismounted yere, an
Injun an' a white--a big feller by his hoof prints--an' they went on
leadin' their hosses. Goin' into camp, I reckon--sure, here's the spot
now. Well, I 'll be damned!"

Both men stood staring--under protection of a sand ridge was a little
blackened space where some mesquite chips had been burned, and all
about it freshly trampled sand, and slight impressions where men had
outstretched themselves. Almost at Wasson's feet fluttered a pink
ribbon, and beyond the fire circle lay the body of a man, face up to
the sky. It was Connors, a ghastly bullet hole between his eyes, one
cheek caked black with blood. The Sergeant sprang across, and bent
over the motionless form.

"Pockets turned inside out," he said, glancing back. "The poor devil!"

"Had quite a row here," returned the scout. "That stain over thar is
blood, an' it never come from him, fer he died whar he fell. Most
likely he shot furst, er used a knife. The girl's with 'em anyhow;