The whining dog, the bloody water, the motionless figures lying in a last embrace, told the sad story.
"Joe an' Winds," he muttered.
Only a moment did he remain lost in sad reflection.

A familiar moccasin-print in the sand on the bank pointed westward.

He examined it carefully.
"Two hours gone," he muttered.

"I might overtake him." Then his motions became swift.

With two blows of his tomahawk he secured a long piece of grapevine.