"It can't do no good to go to pieces," he
expostulated. "Let's do somethin'."
"What--in Heaven's name!" cried Neale, in despair.
"Wal, we can rustle up every trail in these heah Black Hills. Mebbe
we can find Slingerland."
Then began a search--frantic, desperate, and forlorn on the part of
Neale; faithful and dogged and keen on the part of King. Neale was
like a wild man. He heeded no advice or caution. Only the cowboy's
iron arm saved Neale and his horse. It was imperative to find water
and grass, and to eat, necessary things which Neale seemed to have
forgotten. He seldom slept or rested or ate. They risked meeting the
Sioux in every valley and on every ridge. Neale would have welcomed
the sight of Indians; he would have rushed into peril in the madness
of his grief. Still, there was hope! He lived all the hours in utter
agony of mind, but his heart did not give up.
They coursed far and near, always keeping to the stream beds, for if
Slingerland had made another camp it would be near water. More than
one trail led nowhere; more than one horse track roused hopes that
were futile. The Wyoming hills country was surely a lonely and a
wild one, singularly baffling to the searchers, for in two weeks of
wide travel it did not yield a sign or track of man.
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