Half the troopers were travelling the farther brink, half the near. The two caught up with the latter detachment.
Progress was slow. The men were tired from the fire-fighting. The horses were all but blown.
Nevertheless, not a moment's halt was taken until, after six wearisome miles, the troopers came opposite the cottonwoods where the Indian dead were lashed.
By now the darkness had lifted considerably, and a scout, who was riding the southern side, advised a hunt for tracks.
No tracks were found on the near brink. The horses moved forward again, Oliver and Fraser waiting behind to hear from the opposite side.
"Anything over there?" called the captain, and they fell silent for the reply.
All at once, as they waited, Fraser began peering down into the coulée. "What's that?" he whispered. "What's that? Hark!"
"What?"
Just then came a shout: "No tracks, Captain."
Oliver kicked his boots into his horse's side. "Come on, come on," he said, and went hurrying after his men.