“Poor young fellur!” is his half-spoken reflection; “he’s wrote somethin’ to tell how he died—mayhap somethin’ for me to carry back to the dear ’uns he’s left behind in ole Kaintuck. Wall, that thing shall sartinly be done ef ever this chile gets to the States agin. Darnashin! only to think how near I war to savin’ him; a whole doe deer, an’ water enough to a drownded him! It’ll be useless venison now, I shan’t care no more to put tooth into it myself. Frank Hamersley gone dead—the man o’ all others I’d ’a died to keep alive. I’d jest as soon lie down an’ stop breathin’ by the side o’ him.”
While speaking he moves on towards the palmilla. A few strides bring him so near the tree that he can see the ground surface about its base. There is something black among the stems of the sage-bushes. It is not the dead body of a man, but a buzzard, which he knows to be that he had shot before starting off. The sight of it causes him again to make stop. It looks draggled and torn, as if partially dismembered.
“Kin he hev been eatin’ it? Or war it themselves, the cussed kannybals? Poor Frank, I reck’n I’ll find him on t’other side, his body mangled in the same way. Darn it, ’t air kewrous, too. ’Twar on this side he laid down to git shade from the sun. I seed him squat whiles I war walkin’ away. The sun ain’t hot enuf yit to a druv him to westward o’ the bush, though thar for sartin he must be. What’s the use o’ my stannin’ shilly-shally hyar? I may as well face the sight at oncest, ugly as I know it’ll prove. Hyar goes.”
Steeling himself for the terrible spectacle, which he believes to be certainly awaiting him, he once more advances towards the tree.
A dozen strides bring him up, and less than half a dozen more carry him around it.
No body, living or dead—no remains of man, mutilated or otherwise!
For some time Wilder stands in speechless surprise, his glances going all around. But no human figure is seen, either by the palmilla or among the sage-bushes beside it. Can the wounded man have crawled away? But no; why should he? Still, to make sure, the ex-Ranger shouts out, calling Hamersley by name.
He gets no response. Alone he hears the echo of his own voice, mingling with the hoarse croaking of the vultures, scared by his shouts.
His hunter habits now counsel him to a different course of action. His comrade cannot be dead, else the corpse would be there. The vultures could not have eaten up both body and bones. There is no skeleton, no remains. His fellow fugitive has gone off or been taken. Whither? While asking the question Wilder sets about the right way to answer it. As a skilled tracker he begins by examining the signs that should put him on the trace of his missing companion. At a glance he perceives the prints of a horse’s hoof, and sees they are those of one unshod. This bodes ill, for the naked-hoofed horse betokens a savage rider—an Indian. Still, it may not be; and he proceeds to a more careful scrutiny of the tracks. In a short time he is able to tell that but one horse has been there, and presumably but one rider, which promises better. And while shaping conjectures as to who it could have been his eye ascends to the piece of paper impaled upon the spike, which he has for a time forgotten. This promises still better. It may clear up everything.
Hoping it will, he strides towards and takes hold of it. Lifting it carefully from the leaf, he spreads it out. He sees some writing in pencil, which he prepares to read.