“I see it, Mr. Tucket. Spot Johnnie’s, unless I miss my guess or took a wrong turn somewhere. Only …”

“Only what?”

“Only there seems to be a bit more smoke than there should. Let’s see if we can get a run out of these ponies.”

He kicked Footloose in the ribs and upped his stride. Francis kneed his mare into a following gallop and the pack horses kept up.

There had been something different in the mountain man’s voice—a hardness that wasn’t usually there, not even when the Crows had jumped them. Francis wasn’t sure, but he thought it was the first time he’d ever heard Mr. Grimes sound even a little alarmed.

And the smoke got thicker as they neared.

—— Chapter Twenty-one ——

ON THE RIDGE overlooking Spot Johnnie’s Mr. Grimes pulled to a stop. Francis reined in beside him a second later. What met their eyes was total carnage.

Down below, all the buildings were on fire—including the storage sheds—and they were burning so fiercely that the snow around them was melted for more than a hundred feet.

Around the house area could be seen small humps, like gray rocks, scattered here and there. There were perhaps twenty of these humps, and with sudden shock, Francis realized that they were bodies. They rode down toward the house.

“Pawnees,” Mr. Grimes said, examining several bodies. “Braid and his boys.”

Above the burning trading post, toward the east about two miles, they now saw a wagon train of twenty or more wagons. These were not arranged in a circle, but scattered this way and that, and two of the wagons were burning. They looked like small torches in the snow.

Mr. Grimes heeled Footloose and started at a walk toward the house. His rifle was balanced across his lap, and his back was slouched in a way Francis had never seen.

Francis followed. The pack horses automatically followed and slowly the procession approached the trading post.

There were bodies of Pawnee Indians everywhere. They lay as they had fallen, some running, some stretched out as though sleeping.

“I count twenty-three,” Mr. Grimes said. His voice was hollow. “Old Spot put up one whale of a fight.”

They dismounted and searched the ground around the post, but could not find the bodies of Spot or his family.

“Maybe they got away,” Francis offered, “and made it over to the wagon train.”

“No-ah, Mr. Tucket. That’s a nice thought, but there are too many dead braves around here. They wouldn’t have let Spot get away.”

“But they aren’t out here …” Francis’s voice trailed off as his eyes went to the still-burning house. The fire was roaring now, as the pitch in the log walls started to burn.

“In—in there?” Francis asked, pointing to the flames. “Spot …?”