“Nothing?” I half-shrieked at the dog. “How could he have found nothing? The mountains, the trees, the stones, the shrubbery, the very earth itself: did it all just – poof! – disappear?”

“Fine,” he said, clearly annoyed at my exactness. “Of course, he found all those things you just mentioned and more, no doubt. But he didn’t find three horses. He didn’t find two people. He didn’t find Lucy.”

“So, what?” Puppy #4 said dumbly. “Did they go poof?”

“Of course not!” said the dog. “Listen, and you shall learn!”

Could he not see, we were listening?

“As I said,” the dog said, “Jefferson Hope did not find any traces of his own party. But he did find traces.”

“Of?” I prompted.

“Many other horses’ hoof prints, perhaps too many to count, not to mention many different men’s footprints. They were leading up to the campsite from the direction of the Group and there were clearly just as many traveling in the direction from whence they had just come – back toward where the Group had settled.”

“So, many people from the Group had been there?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said, “but that was nowhere near the worst part.”

I’m not going to ask, I’m not going to ask, I told myself. But then, I couldn’t help it.

“And what was the worst part?” I demanded to know, on my behalf, on all our behalves.

“Searching the area more closely, poor Jefferson Hope came across a mound of freshly turned earth – a grave, if you will.”

Oh, this was bad. Still:

“Poor Jefferson Hope?” True, even I’d been pulled along by the tale of young Jefferson Hope in love, but: “Should we really be feeling bad for the man we know to be a double murderer?”

“But he wasn’t that then, was he?” Bones said. “Imagine him, finding the grave, wondering if the woman he loved lay beneath it. Of course, as it turned out, she didn’t, but it was nearly as bad.”

“How nearly?” I asked warily.

“No sooner had he found the grave, than Jefferson Hope spied a piece of paper on a stick, sticking out of the ground as sticks stuck in the ground are wont to do. On that flimsy piece of paper was the name Joe Fur accompanied by that day’s date, the day of his death.”

“The Group killed Joe Fur?” I said, shocked.

“Someone did,” Bones said. “With Lucy gone and all the evidence before him, Jefferson Hope could only conclude that the Group, having killed her father, had then seized Lucy Fur, with the intent to bring her back to wed either the Secretary or, er, John Smith.”

“The scoundrels!” I said, clenching my paws tightly.

“I must agree with you there,” Bones said. “No doubt, Jefferson Hope shared that sentiment, which is why – right then and there – he vowed to take his revenge.”