“Moose-killer is about to speak,” said Carvil, looking round on the eagerly expectant company. “We will all listen. What he will say will be true.”
“Hear, in my country,” thereupon began Moose-killer, in the abbreviated, broken, and sententious language peculiar to the Red Man,—“hear, in my country, beaver bring more this side the mountains; so come over, and been to Bethel-town to sell ’em. Come over mountains, down piece, the river you call Magalloway,—then strike off down to big lake, Megantic. Then follow shore long way; but stop sudden,—start back! See much blood on the leaves,—trail all along down to the water. Then go back, look again,—find where man fall, bleed much,—die,—lay there till dead quite. Man, because see where hands catch hold of moss, leaves,—feet kick in ground. All dead, because feet limber and no catch in brush dragging to shore,—find where canoe hitch to shore,—dead man put in, rowed away, sunk in lake, likely. Look all over ground again, much time,—then come on long way, and find that canoe, hid in bushes,—take it, go sell beaver,—then come here quick to tell story, see who missing.”
We will not undertake to describe the intense excitement which this brief but pregnant story of the Indian produced on the company, who, though hoping to gather something from him that might be of use in the inquiry on hand, were yet little expecting a development so startling as this. They—especially those but little acquainted with the Indian character—could, at first, hardly believe that a story of such horrors, if true, could be told so quietly, and with so little apparent feeling, as the narrator had exhibited during his recital; and they immediately subjected him to a long and close cross-examination. Nothing, however, was elicited to weaken his story, but some things to confirm it. Among these was a faint stain of blood, which Moose-killer pointed out to the company, in the bow of the canoe, and which was evidently but lately made, while the size and height of the man, supposed to be murdered, which the Indian judged of by a similar curious process with that by which he reached his other conclusions, were seen to correspond with the dimensions of the elder Elwood; who was believed to be the man thus indicated, though it left the fate of Claud still shrouded in mystery.
“Poor Mark Elwood!” exclaimed the hunter, with a sigh, as they closed their examination of the Indian. “He is dead; whatever may have become of his son, for whom there is still some hope, he, at least, is dead! murdered in cold blood! and who need doubt the identity of the accursed author of the deed?”
“This is, certainly, something like tangible evidence,” responded Carvil, whose former studies enabled him to speak more understandingly, in the matter of legal evidence, than his companions. “And, though it is still only circumstantial, yet, when taken in connection with Gaut’s false story, and all other of the attending circumstances, it stands out most remarkably significant against the man; and, even without any additional proof, it would, I think, warrant us in arresting him.”
“In God’s name, then, let it be done, before he escapes from the country!” cried the hunter, with startling emphasis. “But we must all keep the discoveries we have made to-day, as well as the movements we may now make, as secret as death, lest he hear of them and take the alarm.”
An earnest consultation was then held, and a plan of operations soon adopted. By this it was arranged that Moose-killer—who, when he had gathered what was known of Gaut Gurley, and obtained a description of his person, entered into the arrangements with an unexpected alacrity—it was arranged that Moose-killer, Carvil, Tomah, and two of the settlers, should start immediately up the lakes, in further search for the body of Mark Elwood (whose fate was now treated as settled), and, also, for a more general search round the two upper lakes for his son, Claud; who, it was hoped, had by some means been separated from his father, and suffered to escape, despite the improbability that he would remain so long absent, if nothing had befallen him. Phillips also concluded to accompany them as far as the next lake above, to see the chief and his daughter, to confide to them the discoveries of the day, and put them on the lookout for further indications. The rest of the company were to return quietly and separately, as far as could conveniently be done, to the village, and there remain till after dark; when two of their number were to ride, as fast as horses could carry them, to Lancaster, for warrants, a sheriff, and his posse, to be on the ground as early as possible the next morning; while others were to proceed up the Magalloway, and lurk round in the woods within sight of the house of Gaut Gurley, as spies on his movements.
The company then separated on their several destinations; and, during the remainder of the afternoon, nothing occurred in the settlement which need here be mentioned, except the secret and cautiously-made preparations for the proposed action of the night, that, though imperceptible to the uninitiated, were yet actively going on at the village. About sunset, however, the hunter returned from his visit to the chief’s; but in a state of no little perplexity and concern, at an event which he unexpectedly found had there occurred. This was the unaccountable absence of Fluella, who, without apprising her father of her intentions, had secretly left home several days before. As the hunter had depended considerably on the girl’s acuteness and means of observation at the commanding point of her residence, he was both disappointed and puzzled at her absence. And, as he had been debating with himself, on his way across the lake, whether he had not better call on Mrs. Elwood, and take the first step towards gradually preparing her mind for the worst, in regard to her husband, he now resolved to do so, with the further object of getting her version of Fluella’s absence at such a juncture. Accordingly, he called at the house; and, seeing the afflicted woman’s entreatingly expectant looks, he at once entered on his painful task by hinting his fears for the fate of her husband; when, somewhat to his surprise, she cut him short by sadly remarking:
“I know it all.”
“How?—what have you heard?” eagerly asked the hunter.