“Oh! Florence! Florence! Florence! I shall die! I shall die! Oh! what will Mr. Brandon say! I wish I was dead! I wish I was dead!”
It was a long time before she could be quieted, and then the dreadful truth became known. Florence Brandon was missing!
With the first shriek of Miss Sillingsby, a suspicion of what had occurred flashed through the minds of Lancaster and Wainwright with the instantaneousness of an electric thrill. They were sleeping together near one of the large camp fires, and they instantly sprang to their feet; but, instead of running to the wagon toward the shrieker, they hurried outside the encampment and the grove, and gazed around in search of some evidence of this excessive fright. It is scarcely necessary to say that they discovered nothing at all.
“Maybe it isn’t as bad as we imagine!” said the young hunter, addressing his elder companion, for the first time since they had risen from their sleep. “It may not be that.”
Lancaster shook his head.
“I’ve been a fool to go to sleep; we’ve been outwitted by that infernal Apache. I feel it in my bones. He has stolen in on her while we were asleep and walked off with that critter.”
“But let us find out the truth from Miss Sillingsby.”
“I ’spose we may as well, ’though I know what it is,” muttered the trapper, as he sullenly complied with the request.
Miss Sillingsby, in answer to the clamorous demands made upon her, finally let the truth ooze out. Near the middle of the night, as she imagined, she dreamed of seeing a terrible Indian crawl into the back part of the wagon and carry off her ward. It was so dark that she could only catch a glimpse of him as he came in and went out.
She woke up with a conviction that her dream was true; and now that she was awake long enough, she was satisfied that it was no dream at all, but an actual occurrence that had taken place before her eyes. Hence her excitement.