Out to the northwest Jondo and Bill Banney rode long on the trail of the fleeing Kiowas.  A picture for an artist of the West, these two rough men in the garb and mount and trappings of the plainsman, with eyes alert and strong faces, riding only as men can ride who go to save a life more eagerly than they would save their own.  Not in rash haste, but with unchecked speed, losing no mark along the trail that should guide them more quickly to their goal, so they passed side by side, and neither said a word for hours along the way.  Night came, and the needs of their ponies made them pause briefly.  The trail, too, was harder to follow now.  They might lose it in the darkness and so lose time.  And those two men were going forth to victory.  Not for one single heart-beat did they doubt their power to win, and the stead-fast assurance made them calm.

Daylight again, and a fresher trail made them hurry on.  They drank at every stream and ate a snatch of food as they rode.  They reached the hurriedly quitted Kiowa camp, and searched for the sign of vengeance on a captive there.  Jondo knew those signs, and his heart beat high with hope.

“They haven’t done it yet,” he said to his companion.  “They want to get away first.  We are safe for a day.”

And they rode swiftly on again.

“There’s trouble here,” Bill Banney declared as he watched the ground.  “Too many feet.  Could it be here?”

His voice was hardly audible.  The two men halted and read the ground with piercing eyes.  Something had happened, for there had been a circling and chasing in and out, and the sod was cut deep with hoofprints.

“No council nor ceremony, no open space for anything.”  Jondo would not even speak the word he was bound not to know.

“They’ve divided, Jondo.  Here goes the big crowd, and there a smaller one,” Bill declared.

“There were a lot of Dog Indians along for thieving.  They’ve split here.  Seem to have fussed a bit over it, too.  And yonder runs the Kiowa trail to the north.  Here go the Dogs east.”  Jondo replied.  “We’ll follow the Kiowas a spell,” he added, after a thoughtful pause.

And again they were off.  It was nearing noon now, and the trail was fresher every minute.  At last the plainsmen climbed a low swell, halting out of sight on the hither side.  Then creeping to the crest, they looked down on the Indian camp lying in a little dry valley of a lost stream whose course ran underground beneath them.

Lying flat on the ground, each with his head behind a low bush on the top of the swell, the men read the valley with searching eyes.  Then Jondo, with Bill at his heels, slid swiftly down the slope.

“Gail Clarenden isn’t there.  We must take the trail east, and ride hard,” he said, in a hoarse voice.

And they rode hard until they were beyond the range of the Kiowa outposts.

“What’s your game, Jondo?” Bill asked, at length.