A score or more dark, slowly-circling forms were hovering over the prairie directly before him, in close proximity to where the trail must lead, unless it swerved abruptly to one side or the other. The shadowy shapes were those of vultures, buzzards, crows—those filthy yet useful scavengers of the prairies.
They told the experienced settler a significant tale. They told him that death was before him, along the trail. That they were collecting round a horrible feast that had been prepared for them.
In his agony of fear, Hawksley believed that he was about to behold the dead and mangled remains of his child. Fearing this, with mad shouts he dashed forward, brandishing his arms wildly.
The filthy birds heard him and in silence widened their circles, rising higher and higher, joined by others that rose heavily from the ground seemingly loth to quit the spot. A brace of coyotes slunk away, howling lugubriously, with drooping tail and snarling teeth.
A heart-sickening sight lay before him, as he mechanically wrenched his horse to a standstill. A groan of agonized apprehension broke from his pallid lips as he reeled rather than sprung from his saddle.
One glance was all that he could give—then he sunk to the ground, bowing his head upon his knees, shuddering convulsively, like one suddenly stricken with a chill. The horrible truth seemed plain to him—he believed that before him lay strewn the remains of Fannie, his child.
The greensward was trampled and torn, stained here and there with crimson blotches that showed where veins had been drained of their life-blood. Around were scattered white and gleaming bones, already dismembered and clean-picked by the teeth of coyotes and beaks of birds. Tattered and torn, he saw a bright, particolored patchwork quilt that he knew had covered his daughter’s bed. Further to one side was a fragment of her dress, also blood-stained.
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.