Within fifty yards of the smoke, he still heard no sounds that would indicate the presence of anyone. Another ten yards took him to the edge of a low bank of berry bushes where he got his first glimpse of the source of the dirty yellow smoke. In a small clearing near the water’s edge, a typical farm wagon was still smoldering, the wagon box and its contents having been mostly consumed by the flames beneath it. He paused for a few moments, scanning the campsite carefully, then looked back at the burning wagon. To set it on fire, the Indians had simply pulled the wagon over their victims’ campfire and parked it there. He scanned the campsite again to make sure, but it was obvious that no one was left in the camp, at least no one alive. Cole shifted his gaze back closer to the edge of the river when the dark shape of a body caught his eye. Someone, he thought, prospector or settler, has rolled the dice and lost. It was a shame, but it was not that rare an occurrence at a time when Sioux war parties were raiding all along the Yellowstone and its tributaries. Satisfied that there was no longer any danger, he stood up and whistled for Harley to bring the horses.

Cole walked out of the cottonwoods and went straight to the body lying near the water, paying close attention to the tracks in the light snow on the ground. By the time he reached the body, he knew it was not Indians who had attacked the unfortunate victim. There were no tracks left by unshod ponies, as there would have been had the man been killed by Indians. And there were footprints left by men in boots, not moccasins. The men who did this rode shod horses. And from what he could see, there were no more than two or three men. He turned the body over and stared down at the victim, a youngish man, possibly no more than twenty-five or thirty. Dressed in the simple garb of a farmer or prospector, his scalp had not been taken, a further indication that the evil business was conducted by white men. There were two bullet holes in his chest and a more obvious one in his forehead, that one evidently to make sure he was dead.

Cole was looking around at what remains he could find near the smoldering wagon when Harley entered the clearing, leading the horses.

“I swear . . .” Harley muttered when he saw the corpse, “some bad business here.” He looked over at Cole, still close by the wagon. “Whaddaya figure?”

“Well, it wasn’t Indians,” Cole replied, concerned more than he had been because of the pieces of woman’s clothes he’d found that had not been completely consumed by the flames. He held a scorched skirt up for Harley to see, all that was left of a gingham dress.