“But I must go,” Agnes returned wistfully. “If you should find him, I would know that much sooner by being with you. I’m not afraid, and I am a good walker. I’ve travelled many a mile a-foot when father and I were coming here.”
Jimmy looked at Mr. M’Clean, who nodded as if in agreement, and said: “Weel, if ye grow weary, we can send you back with Archie, so we’ll let you go, lass, and may God direct us,” he added piously.
Through the dim, deep forest they took their way, following such trails as they could find, and noticing the turn of a leaf, a broken twig, and those clews which only a woodsman would look for. The two men stalked on ahead, rifles on shoulder. Agnes and Archie followed, their moccasined feet treading the shining leaves pressed down by the footsteps of the Indian raiders. The summer was over and the settlers had thought themselves safe from Indian raids, but when the warm hazy weather which November so often brings had come upon them, it was a favorable time for the Indians to sally forth again, bent upon plunder. For this reason this late mild weather was called “Indian summer.” They followed the trail for some time, Agnes’s eyes alert as any to discover anything which might suggest a possibility of her father’s near presence.
Suddenly she gave a quick exclamation. Sticking to a bramble by the side of the way was a bit of fur. The men came to an immediate halt at the sound of her voice. “See!” she cried. “It is a bit of some one’s coonskin cap.” She examined the edges as she plucked it from the thorny bush.
“It has been shot away,” said Archie, as intent as she upon the clew.
“You’re sure it is not the skin of some creature shot by some one?” Agnes asked anxiously.
“No, it is dressed skin, not freshly killed,” said Archie.
They glanced around. A little farther on was a shallow brook, on the borders of which there were trampled weeds, as if some large body had passed through. Agnes looked with imploring, questioning eyes at Jimmy O’Neill as he raised himself up after an examination of the spot. “It’s worth following,” he said in reply. “We’ll go up-stream a ways.”
Agnes at the word dashed on ahead, unheeding the brambles or the sharp boughs which lashed her face at every step. Archie, with long strides, kept close behind her, and was by her side when suddenly she swooped down with a cry, in which joy and fear were mingled, and gathered up in her arms the head of a man lying as still as death by the brookside. “Father! Father!” cried the girl. “Speak to me! Oh, he can’t be dead! Archie! Archie! tell me he is not.” She chafed the cold hands, and laid her cheek against the quiet face.
“She’s found him!” cried Archie, as his father came up. “But I think he’s dead,” he said in a low voice. Joseph M’Clean was on his knees by the man’s side in a moment, and was pouring some spirits between the clenched teeth.