“I’m going back,” he called.
“What fer?” Slingerland rejoined.
Larry King wheeled his mount and trotted back to Neale.
“Red, I’m not satisfied,” said Neale, and told his friend what he thought he had heard.
“Boy, you’re oot of yur haid!” expostulated Red.
“Maybe I am. But I’m going back. Are you coming?”
“Shore,” replied Red, with his easy good nature.
Slingerland sat his horse and watched while he waited. The dust-cloud that marked the troops drew farther away.
Neale dismounted, threw his bridle, and looked searchingly around. But Larry, always more comfortable on horseback than on land, kept his saddle. Suddenly Neale felt inexplicably drawn in a certain direction—toward a rocky ledge. Still he heard nothing except the wind in the few scraggy trees. All the ground in and around the scene of the massacre had been gone over; there was no need to examine it again. Neale had nothing tangible upon which to base his strange feeling. Yet absurd or not, he refused to admit it was fancy or emotion. Some voice had called him. He swore it. If he did not make sure he would always be haunted. So with clear, deliberate eyes he surveyed the scene. Then he strode for the ledge of rock.
Tufts of sage grew close at its base. He advanced among them. The surface of the rock was uneven—and low down a crack showed. At that instant a slow, sobbing, gasping intake of breath electrified Neale.