When he had progressed half the distance, however, he paused, convinced that his labor was utterly useless.

He called to Fred, repeated their familiar signals and fired several charges in air, with no more response than at first.
"He has been either killed or carried off by a party of Indians," was the conclusion that forced itself upon him.
And with this conviction came the certainty that it was out of the power of Jack Dudley to do anything for his friend.

He might tramp back and forth for nights and days, but with no success, for Fred Greenwood was gone--whither?
Had Jack been skilled in woodcraft, possibly he might have discovered some signs along the valley that would have enlightened him, but he was untrained in the ways of red men and was not equal to the task.

A dog that knew how to track a person would have been of immeasurable value, but such a canine was not to be had.
One memory clung tormentingly to the searcher.

It was the demoniac face of Motoza, the Sioux, when Fred Greenwood compelled him to return the Winchester of Jack.